So, Toronto is getting a new tallest building. Great. Another glass-and-steel monument to money, piercing the clouds so a few hundred people can have a better view than the rest of us. But don’t you dare call it a condo. According to the people building it, the Pinnacle SkyTower isn’t just a building; it’s a “work of public art” that will “partner up” with the CN Tower.
Give me a break.
Calling this thing a "partner" to the CN Tower is like saying a new soulless, auto-tuned pop star is "partnering" with Bruce Springsteen. One is an icon, a piece of public ambition built with public funds that defined a city’s skyline for 50 years. The other is a luxury product sold to the highest bidder. One represents a shared identity; the other represents a private transaction. They ain’t the same, and pretending they are is the kind of insulting PR-speak that makes my teeth ache.
The architect, David Pontarini, says the juxtaposition of the two towers symbolizes Toronto's transformation into a "24/7 fully activated mixed-use... city." A translation for you: it symbolizes the transformation of downtown from a place for everyone into a playground for the rich. They kept getting approvals to build it higher and higher—95 stories, then 100, then 106—even while it was under construction. It feels less like city planning and more like a developer just kept asking "pretty please?" until the city caved. This isn't urban evolution; it's a corporate ego trip written in concrete. And we’re all supposed to stand on the sidewalk, crane our necks, and applaud?
An Actual Pulse
While suits in conference rooms were patting themselves on the back about "vertical urbanism," something real was happening down on the street. The Blue Jays are one win away from the World Series, and the city has completely lost its mind. This is what a "24/7 fully activated city" actually looks like. It’s not in a glossy brochure; it’s in the buzz on the subway, the jerseys in the office, and the absolutely insane ticket prices. We're talking over a grand just to get in the door. People are selling seats for six figures.
That’s a city's real heartbeat. It’s messy, irrational, and gloriously alive. It’s a rookie pitcher named Trey Yesavage becoming a legend overnight, striking out 12 Dodgers and saying, "Hollywood couldn’t have made it this good." He's right. You can't plan that kind of moment in a "precinct plan." You can't manufacture that collective roar, that shared hope that hangs in the October air. It has to be earned.
The CN Tower gets this. It participates. CN Tower lights up in blue for World Food Day 2025. At night, it’s a silent beacon, a constant presence in the background of millions of lives. It’s the landmark people get tattooed on their bodies, the first thing they look for when they fly home. It’s a symbol. What, exactly, is a 106-story condo building a symbol of, other than the fact that someone had enough cash to build it? Is anyone going to get a tattoo of the Pinnacle SkyTower?
This is a bad look. No, 'bad' doesn't cover it—this is a five-alarm identity crisis. We’re being sold a vision of the city as a collection of luxury commodities, while the real, living culture of the place is happening in spite of it, not because of it. It reminds me of those people with the “Dear Canada We Hate Him Too” hats. National identity is a weird, complicated, grassroots thing. You can’t just build a bigger tower and declare you’ve improved it.
The Digital Ghost in the Machine
As if the line between authentic and artificial wasn’t blurry enough, some genius on Facebook decided to set the CN Tower on fire. Digitally, of course. An AI-generated video of the tower engulfed in flames went viral, racking up over 20 million views. People panicked. The tower’s media team had to issue a statement clarifying that, no, their giant national icon was not, in fact, burning down.
The creator, a guy who calls himself a "creator of viral moments," defended his work as "artistic and experimental." Offcourse he did. He claims he didn’t mean to mislead anyone. This is the modern grift in a nutshell: create chaos, then call it art when you get called out. It’s a perfect metaphor for the whole SkyTower situation. Is a developer calling a private residence for the 1% "public art" really any less of a deepfake than a video of the tower on fire? Both are manufactured realities designed to serve a specific agenda.
One expert said the video’s creator should be arrested for spreading false information to cause panic. Meanwhile, the architects and developers behind the new tower get to stand on a stage at a global conference and get applauded for their "vision." But what is that vision, really? A city where the skyline is no longer a shared symbol but a battleground for private interests? A place where we can’t even agree on what’s real and what’s a rendering, what’s a landmark and what’s an ad?
The problem is, we’re all so busy looking at the fake fire, we’re not noticing the real one—the slow, methodical burning away of a city’s soul, replaced by something shiny, expensive, and utterly empty. And honestly...
The View from the Top Looks Awfully Fake
Let's be real. The CN Tower was a statement of national ambition. The SkyTower is a statement of personal wealth. We're trading a monument for a high-rise, a piece of shared history for a luxury good. They can call it a "partner," they can call it "art," they can call it whatever they want. But all I see is a city selling its skyline to the highest bidder, and telling the rest of us to be grateful for the view.