Happy Chrismukkah!

There are many things to be said about this photo of Steven Harperstein lighting a menorah... but really I think the picture itself is worth a thousand words. Happy New Year.

Callback Episode

A lot of people are always asking me "FH why are you so goddam funny?"
Well this week I learnt that my hilarity may be found in my jeans - and no I'm not talking about my Seven's or Paper Denim's (ho ho ho on that joke, eh?)...
It appears as if Papa Len may be from whom I've inherited the funny bone.
Last week Papa Len found himself at the Faux Hill Public Library picking up some books and video's (WWSD - Sim Sim Sima doesn't rent from Blockbuster she orders from the library - dahlink it's free.) As he was browsing he noticed two of the Village's finest Faux Hillary's - we'll call them Hilary and Amanda - sitting in the magazine section of the library. What were these two 15 year-olds doing? Why they were playing with each other's hair! And so as Papa Len made his way to the front check-out desk he looked at them, interupted the intense game of Hair Salon that they were playing, and said:
"Excuse me, but I have to tell you that your hair is amazing."
Zing. Go Papa Len go.

Bynnah and the Friday Night Dinner

Friday night - the sabbath - to us yids is family time. And so over the past friday the FH family sat around the dining room table (and yes the rug looked fab) - Bold, Papa Len, Sim Sim Sima, M Poo and our adopted shiksa - Brynnah.
Brynnah, the blond haired, blue eyed temptress that she is, is really a political refugee at the two-fer. Her parents have been admonished to the backwards city of Edmonton. Brynnah has now become the family Shiksa (seeing as I ain't bringing one home); she declared this over Friday night dinner as we celebrated her birthday - until KB suggested that being a shiksa wasn't such a badge of honour. In fact it is sort of a derogatory one. Educated and now simply Brynnah, she admitted that she was just happy to be part of the family.
Now Brynnah is much more of Sima's child then Papa Len's. Although in looks she's clearly adopted, in personality Brynnah and Sima are peas in a pod and have spent many a morning discussing the finer things in life over latte's at the breafast table of the two-fer.
Unlike the rest of the FH family Brynnah can, however, carry a decent tune and so after the cross cultural blessings on bread, wine and candles, the family retreated the living room for a concerto as Brynnah offered to sing for the family a couple of her best opera songs; in fact songs she had just sung at an audition for Opera school in New York City.
"I'm going to sing Handel's Messiah." Brynnah declared.
We all blinked.
"It's a Christmas song." Papa Len nodded, as if knew what she was talking about.
"Ya know hallelujah." She sung.
"I love that song!" We all declared. "Sing that part." I shouted.
"That's a chorus part." Her own confusion mirrored our own confusion.
And sadly I realized that you can move a girl into the Faux Hill, give her a yiddishe name, but she's still the only Brynnah whose going to become an opera singer. I mean really, what do Jews no about Opera? Is Barbara Streisand taking Yentl to Lincoln Centre this year? One can only hope!

"I've Got Soul but I'm not a Soldier"

Today a random thought occured to me as I shuffled quickly out of St Clair West Subway Station's Heath Street Exit - a mere stone's throw away from the Faux Hill Village - what would people do if I suddenly stoped, stood in front of the elevator & started singing the Killer's "All These Things that I've Done"?

What Would Sima Do?

WWSD is a question I've probably asked myself since I was bar-mitzvah'd about ten years ago (fuck I'm getting old). It's hard to encapsulate the antics of my mother in one blog posting, but she really is a special lady... truth be told today's posting is, however, based around a little nugget of motherly wisdom from everyone's favourite anagram.
It so happened that in our effort to keep up with the neighbouring Schwartz's, Cohen's & Goldenblatt's the FH family bought one of those nice black cast iron urns to put on the front porch of the two-fer; Bold got the old clay hand me down. In the summer Sima and I planted a nice arrangement of pink geraniums. Alas as the leaves in the Faux Hill (like, uhm, this is a Forest, right?) have turned into brilliant reds and yellows, and subsequently fallen to the ground [causing quite a traction problem for the neighbourhood SUV's let me tell you], our pink geraniums have begun to wilt; something a bit more seasonal was required for the two-fer. Something that screamed, "we don't celebrate Christmas, but we still need to decorate the front of the house." Something beyond a wreath was deemed appropriate. And so, being the dutiful son that I am, today I found myself schlepping down the garden district to purchase a much needed red berry & winter green arrangement. As Sima and I were arranging $100.00 bucks of cut tree branches in the black urn, she remarked, "this is the problem with possessions. We purcahsed this and now it requires seasonal attention." I suggested that since she was such a luddite hippie that she should return the rug she had just purchased for the dining room and we could live out in a shack in the woods; maybe a real forest? "Don't be stupid." She answered.

Confessions of Bold

Bold, everyone's favourite role model (married long-time sweatheart after 8 year courtship; currently a third year pediatrics resident; home owner), would like her fan club to know that she has returned her birthday gift to Tiffany's.
She is, however, still Bold and Proud. Just an FYI.

For anyone who has a 12inch 'BOLDIE' action figure the limitted edition Tiffany Accessory Kit has been discontinued; the value will be credited to your Visa/Mastercard.

Cheers.

You Give Great Foam

"You give great foam," are not words a gay guy really likes to hear. You give great head on the other hand, is a more marketable commodity. However, while working once at a coffee shop in I swear I was hit on by a guy who told me that I "made the best damn hot chocolate in Dublin." Gay innuendo asside, the Faux Hill Starbucks ain't a place to cruise. When the forty year old woman in Lulu tells you that you give great foam, she ain't insinuating that she wants to dyke it out with you. She's being serious.
So... with foam on the mind, I wound up at Starbucks, around midday, as I had been feeling nauseus and decided to take a sick day from work (& yes this blog will for sure wind its way up as a cautionary tale about people who get fired because of their blogs... but whatever). The day was for my MENTAL HEALTH.

This is what transpired:
I was in line with three ladies, Lulu, Dior and Dior's friend Gucci. Lulu had already ordered and was waiting to pick up her much needed treat, she was post yoga afterall.
"I'd like a soy, one splenda, no foam latte." Said Dior.
"I'd like a lactaid, two splenda, extra foam latte." Said Dior's friend Gucci.
I ordered a plain latte. I'm a simple guy with simple tastes.

As the four of us (which one of us didn't belong? Was it the gay guy without any fancy duds?) waited for our drinks... Lulu began commenting on the barista's technique.
"Joanna," she said, "I just want to say that you give the best foam." And on second thought... I may need another mental health day to recover!

The C List

I used to consider myself a McGill Celebrity... like an A-Lister... alas back in the Faux Hill, I've become a mindless Faux Hillary, or at best a potential candidate for the Surreal Life. Thankfully my celeb status got a little bit of boost this week.
I found myself at Holt's (a place where every Faux Hillary is glad they came and Joe the Doorman knows your name...) wherein I bought myself something ridiculous and expensive because it has an alligator on it. I needed a cashmere hat, right?
Post purchase and riding that wave of euphoria that comes with buying something I was walking along Bloor when a red minivan pulled over, the windows rolled down, and a chorus of about five girls shouted out the window, "Hey did you go to McGill?" I nodded and laughed before telling them how my BA had purchased me a one way ticket to the two-fer and an entry level job at an advertising agency. But I'm not cynical about it because I love the two-fer and my life, really I do.
My four years at McGill and semester of being an on campus celebrity (think Veggierama instead of Mary Kate eating breakfast at the Ivy in LA though)apparently still matter to some however, even though these days I've been relegated to the back pages of US Weekly and I've become just another faceless Faux Hillary with a pair of Uggs*.



*I don't really own Uggs.

Happy New Year?

Papa Len & Sim Sim Sima decided last summer to Christen (watch and wait for the irony) my WASPy friends with Yidishe names (did it hit ya in the groin or were you prepared?); Caitlyn became Channah, Bridget became Brynah, Trevor became Tevye and so on... [To keep pace with Sima and Len antics I suggest you visit their own blog at wespawnedboldsharon.blogspot.com] I suppose however, that their joke was reflective of the fact that for many Faux Hillary's their entire world is a Jewish one. This became apparent over the recent days as the Village was swarmed - no longer by marauding packs of teenagers in their SUV's - but with out of towners visiting the Faux Hill's numerous synagogues to partake in a little bit of Jewish New Year Goodness. The streets have been jam packed with so many luxury SUV's over the past few days that its like SUV Mardi Gras - high gas prices be damned!
This blog began with a simple question: "Why do so many people wear Lululemon?" and to this day I can't figure it out. But, jokes aside, it was part of a much greater problem; the village breeds conformity... [and I ain't just talking about Gucci fanny packs, which are a) ugly and b) pretentious].
Case in point: Family Friend Dan (see previous blog entry) sent out one of those emails annoucning his new cell phone number, it was signed with: "oh and happy New Year to anyone on this list who is Jewish - oh wait, everyone is." Funny, sure; but also sad because if your world consists entirely of Brynnah's and Berol's, we foget that everyone doesn't always wear Lulu. So on this New Year's Resolution is not to ask why everyone wear's Lulu but to realize that not everyone does. Happy New Year to Jews and Shiksa's and Shaygetz's alike...

The Other Hill - Part Deux

The T-Hill, that other outpost of Torontonian Judaism, has reared its head this weekend. Bold is celebrating her birthday along with another friend, Shosh of the Thornhill Shoshana's. Yours truly has been put in charge of decorations. I was thinking a tasteful trip down to Teatro Verde for a nice planter, a stop at the Flower District @ Ave and Dav for some floral inspiration before artfully concocting a display mixed with floating tea lights. Those from the T-Hill, had a different idea. M-Poo called me this morning to warn me about the decoration intervention. It appears as if Shosh's husband was stopping off to get streamers and balloons.
Background noise (courtesy of Bold): "I will not have balloons and streamers at my party."
M-Poo whispered into the phone: "The problem is that you have a mix of two cultures - Thornhill and Faux Hill."
Truer words have never been spoken.

I Just Want a Shaygetz

Awhile ago I, whilst being angry at Starbucks (in general), I asked Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len why we ended up residing in pretentious Faux Hill. "We liked the house", they answered. I suppose what's not to like about the Two-Fer (the name I've bestowed upon the familial compound)? We have four bedrooms, a den, a backyard... It's GT's over here.
But as a part of a cultural minority, Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima settled in Faux Hill for reasons beyond the tudor styling of the Two-Fer. The Faux Hill and its predominantly Jewish residents, provide a nice protectorate where Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len's offspring (Boldy and me) could be raised in a culturally Jewish neighbourhood with the hope of potentially meeting a culturally similar mate. Faux Hill is like sending your kids to Jewish day school or a jewish camp; only unlike those cultural outposts of latent twenty first century Judaism the Faux Hill is 24/7; it is the twentieth century version of J-Date. And that, in its beauty, is the insiduous nature of the Faux Hill, which is nothing more then a self confined breeding ground for potential Cohen-Greenberg nuptuals.
Alas, a trend within these parts is rebellion, as kids will be kids... for most Jewish boys the spectre of rebellion lies within the cold confines of Rosedale, where a blue eyed-blond haired temptress with decent pedigree and OLD MONEY lures a nice Faux Hill mentsch with her shiks-appeal. A Shiksa is the derogatory term used to describe a non jewish girl who marries/dates a Jewish boy. And really whats not to like about a WASPy mate? Instead of the overly emotional hysterics of a Jewish family, our young Faux Hill lad, gets a glass of scotch and stone cold silence at the dinner table, as his mother, sadly geshries (Yiddish for shrieking) at how her beloved Joshua is dating the gentle HaverGal, Taylor Morgan Pratt.
And for the rebellious Gay Jewish boy of Faux Hill? The reality is not so different, Shiks-appeal, or in my case, Gaygetz appeal still rules. A Gaygetz?
To define: a Shaygetz is the male version of a shiksa, and a gaygetz is a term that I've modified to describe the succession of Pretty White Boys With Problems (PWBWP)that I've have dated. And like the nice Jewish boy who brings home a WASPy shiksa for Rosh Hashannah dinner, I've realized that I as well am only attracted to Gaygetz's. All of my PWBWB have been of the non kosher variety. I have been infatuated with my gaygetz's because of their WASPy last names such as Bradshaw & Payne, their small upturned little noses, their goyishe but beautiful blue eyes, the fact that they all offer me a glass of scotch at the door and the fac that they are all shockingly emotionally despondant.
As I jogged through the Faux Hill the other day, however, I realized that my infatuation with gaygetz's is pretty classic Jew-boy mentality, the Gaygetz, much like the Shiksa, still has the appeal of The Other. And I realized, that just because I'm gay, it doesn't make me any less of a neurotic Jew-boy. Portnoy would be so proud.

Life in Slow Motion

Dearest Readers, I have become lost... I dated an actor and got dumped via e-mail only to realize that everyone has baggage - only most people don't carry a Louis Vuitton. And so tonight, I yearn, ne long for a place where everybody knows my name (Cohen, Stern, Golden/Silver-stein, blatt, burg) and where most people's baggage is in fact a newly purchased Louis. Tonight I returned to the Village. Spooky...

*

It was a dark and stormy night in the Faux Hill; or as dark and stormy as it gets in these calm monied parts. An air of pervasive calm has prevailed over Starbucks; the teenage riff raff has come back from various camps in Algonquin Park and have departed for wannabe ivy league schools in Montreal and London; the Village has been reclaimed by its rightful citizens - the tax payers and by its future tax payers - law school students.
My most frequent interaction has become a various nodding routinte with these future home owners, comical only for its repitition:
"You look familiar." I see one girl in Lulu and I know...
"You were in my class." She says.
"McGill?" I ask.
"Jewish Holiday's; or some other Jewish class." And as we update each other on various summer exploints, current life plans, she tells me how she's finished her first few days of law school. She shows me the courseback with pride, as secretly we both count how many Jewish studies classes she took to get were she is. How many classes padded that CV in the quest for the holy grail: 4.0.
And so the cycle continues this fall in Faux Hill... the new generation arises as the old lingers on a patio sipping chai latte's proud of their accomplishments and David Gray laments on the ipod, "life in slow motion, somehow it can't be real."

Think Inside the Box

Bold Sharon is perhaps the oddest member of the Faux Hill family. Besides her ever increasing 'boldosity' [she was christened Boldy McS after numerous arguments over the surprise party that we planned for our parents last year. For an example I will recount the 'party sandwich incident', wherein yours truly made an executive decision and ordered party sandwiches without consulting her. "What do you mean you ordered the party sandwiches? Those people (by 'those people' she was obviously talking about the international party sandwich conspiracy) are always trying to rip us off... you probably ordered too many. Next time, get a price quote, call me back and then order." This was an argument based on $150 of party sandwiches, so we aren't talking big money here... and they all went. Boldy further distinguished herself as Bold by pushing me aside in a display of superhuman strength and shouting, to my friend Brynnah and Brock, "THEY'RE GOING TO RUIN THE SURPRISE.]; anyways... besides her increasing 'boldosity' Bold Sharon has a habbit of not being very Faux Hillary, even though she grew up here her entire life. Sadly Boldy always placed herself on the fringes of FH society wondering why she isn't as fashionable as "those people"; by those people she is referring to those stricken with Faux Hill-iticis. At thirty, however, Boldy has finally gotten so bold as too demand something from Tiffany's from her beloved husband and man who knows tolerance, M-Poo.
Tiffany-bling is the ultimate mark of the Faux Hillary. It's like a cultural touchstone that symbolizes ones origin. But unlike every other Faux Hillary, Boldy shockingly, has nothing from Tiffany's. Nary an Elsa Paretti heart, nor silver dog chain can be found in her jewellery box. This to insider's is shocking:
Kitty: "Your sister doesn't have anything from Tiffany's? Weird."
Matt: "I mean given the socio-economic standing, I find it shocking, unheard of."
Brynnah once declared, "I think it has something to do with the Bat Mitzvah, but every Jewish girl has at least something from Tiffany's." And finally Boldy can meet the mold, as M Poo has taken the plunge and thought inside the box... but true to form, Boldy directed him at a particular piece, much to the sticker shocked eyes of M Poo. And just because she's Sharon has become a bit more Faux Hillary, doesn't mean she's ain't still bold. And that is why we love her.

Your Hair is Amazing

As a guy I don't really 'get' hair. For those who don't know what I look like... my head is actually shaved; and every two weeks I whip out the automatic hair clipper, set it to option three, and shorn my own hair in the bathroom as my mother shrieks, "you have to do this here? Now?" About the most exciting thing to have happen to my hair recently was the purchase of a CORDLESS hair trimmer. I spurged ($60.00) on a fancy Phillips machine, thinking that I save about $25.00 a haircut anyway. The new machine is also, according to the good folks at Phillips, "Lubed for life" and let me tell you something dearest readers; we should all be so lucky.

For girls, however, especially those of the Faux Hill bent, hair is a completely different story. For the Faux Hillary, hair, hair care and conversations about hair are so important that hair will probably be the topic of the next great Faux Hill novel - The Great Hairsby. I realized this insipid obsession with hair while eating lunch with Papa Len at The Restaurant. The Restaurant - aka United Baker's - is rather mediocre dairy restaurant over populated by Jewish grandmothers who live in the surrounding neighrbourhood but who's children have decamped a couple of blocks south to much more affluent Faux Hill. Yet every weekend much of Faux Hill migrates five minutes north for a rather mediocre omelet with Bubbie and Zaidie.

Papa Len and I ended up commiserating about my love life over a bowl of split pea soup as two of the Faux Hill's finest ended up next to us.

The conversation transpired as follows.

"Brad and I were just in Restoration Hardware for three hours. I'm schvitsing."

"Ew. What did you buy?"

"Nothing we were just looking at linen."

Silence. Then Exclamation!

"OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU HAIR."

"I just got it highlighted and layered."

"Your hair is AMAZING."

And suddenly... I realized why Papa Len started buying the split pea soup in takeout form. Her hair may be amazing, but I had lost my appetite.

The Family Friend

When you come out and then move back to Toronto your old high school friends are generally pretty happy for you. For the most part no one really says anything, they just smile and nod politely when you admit that you hate boys and that you just broke up with your boyfriend in Alberta... This has been my experience, and for the most part it's been pleasurable. It is afterall 2005. Last weekend I had a rather different experience while having dinner at a family friends house. The rents were on the Cape and I was invited out... after dinner I drove their son, Danny, to a friends house. Danny - around my age - just came back from a stint working in New York City and is going to law school this fall has never been a fav of mine, although our parents desperately have wanted us to be friends, we just never clicked. As I drove him around, I realized why.
"So are you seeing anyone?"
"No. I just sorta broke up with someone." I answered.
"I hear when people come out they go through a really slutty phase."
Silence. [Although part of me wanted to say - yes some "gays" do; but then they contract deathly diseases, ya know the "gay" disease.] For once however I had no witty remark, or caustic comment... So silence ensued.
"I always thought you were gay. I just never said anything."
Silence.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Are you not going to respond?"
"I try and keep my life pretty private... so..."
And thankfully by then we had reached our destination and Danny exited the car with promises to keep in touch as I shook my head. Another lawyer I thought... just what the world needs.

What if I fell into a Crater in the Faux Hill Village

Last Sunday I sat reading Freud at Starbucks. This isn't a joke people and yes it was pretty "meta" - as in Josh Schwartz/OC meta... like I'm reading Freud, audience, do you get how fucking smart and self important that reference is?
But really... where have I been? Who knows really... I'm sure if I had blogged over the past couple of months I would have multiple self important stories about my sordid life neatly and wittily catalogued - alas the daily affirmation of my own wit are but distant memories these days; like errant coffee grinds at the bottom of a tall starbucks latte.
In short... I broke up with the Rama; as much as someone can date and subsequently argue over email, got a real job, in advertising - a job description that seemingly no one asks any more questions about... "The FHillary, bubeleh, he's in advertising." Saw the M Brad in Montreal, who ran away like a little rabbit.
*
Actually a really funny story just popped into my mind, one which I will run with and detail to you my loyal readers. To most "the Village" in Toronto is codeword for Forest Hill. However, to some, to those with an affinity for the same sex, rainbow flags, and Diesel t-shirts, "the Village," refers to the Church and Wellesley gaybourhood. It so happened that one night after my Business Law class, my friend Matt and I ventured out for a drink on Church Street. Matt was having a small argument with his boyfriend, and yours truly, permanently single, decided a drink in the Gaybourhood was exactly what Dr Cher, patron saint of all things gay, ordered. As we sat on a patio we eventually struck up a conversation with a lovely professor, who was in town for a conference. By the end of the night enough stollen glances had been exchanged from the much older professor that this young pup realized if he so wanted he had a very interested bite on his rod - which was sadly getting a bit rusty with disuse.
And so we flash forward to the next night, when yours truly meets said professor for drinks... a lovely conversation ensues, we discuss coming out, academia and I realize that although this will clearly end in a one night stand, at least it will be an impressive notch on my belt- a notch that can be hotlinked to ratemyprofessor.com. And so after the good professor swipes the amex card to pay for our drinks, we go back to his hotel room, where I kid you not, he declares that my left toe is bigger then my right one... and soon enough lips locked, clothes in a minor disaray a caveat is presented, "my partner is driving in from Detroit. How do you feel about Philipino's and threesomes?"
As I grab my t-shirt I state with certainty, "I don't mind the first and I've never been in the latter. I gotta go." And with a smug smile on my face I flee the Delta Chelsea and go home to the computer - low and behold, "Professor X - don't waste your time ladies on falling in love with this eye candy, he's gay." "Professor X - gives really hard reading assignments." And I laugh...

But I am Le Tired/ Variant B

In truth I haven't been to the Village in like a week. Quite frankly I've become irrationally scared of the place. If we remeber my Village lifestyle history we happen upon the Pussy Posse - yes that infamous group of fifty year old dot com millionaires and day traders who sit there every night. They scare the crap out of me to be honest and every time I've been down in the Village, either driving though there, or going to the bank, the Pussy Posse is there, drinking coffee and talking about pussy. The last time I went to the Village to do some work I actually sat in the Second Cup patio because I didn't want to run in to anyone.

*

In other late breaking medical news, the CDC has identified a new variant of Faux Hill-iticis. I call it Faux Hill-iticis Variant B. The symptoms of Variant B are similar enough to Faux Hill-iticis, but with one shocking difference: those who suffer from Variant B don't think of themselves as infected at all. To quote the daughter of a family friend at a recent Sangria/BBQ who was gushing about her Birthright trip, "I also really needed to get away from those Toronto Forest Hill Jews." Now one would think that said daughter, who later lamented the fact that it was sunday and Yorkdale closes early, is an easy diagnosis of Faux HIll-iticis... alas with that comment, however, the intrepid doctor can diagnosis her with the much more malicious Variant B stream. It's like SARS people, but less deadly, and with more Coach.

*

Inquiring minds I'm sure at this point are wondering how is Rama? Well I've given him a new nickname - Pot; this after he got all huffy when I told him that - egads - went on a date with someone else. Rama, at home in Calgary, suggested that I shouldn't be so picky or I may wind up alone. To which I responded, "is that the pot calling the kettle black?" Rama, ne Pot, has taken to writing me every day and has also taken to espousing my fabulous characteristics in his emails, (like being cute, charming, witty, etc...) but we're still just best friends forever. BBF SWAK. Lame.

The Roomate

When you date someone, you have to contend with their roomate, and subsequently as a roomate, you have to contend with your roomate's significant other. It's a not always easy dance to be honest. The M Brad's roomate and I always had a decent relationship; we discussed very little beyond pleasantries and generally I tried to stay out of his way while simultaneously laughing at his on line gambling habit with him.
So with a bit of uprehension yesterday I happened to run into the M Brad's roomate, Lipton. Now Lipton and I haven't spoken since January; I believe we saw each other every day at McGill and gave each other awkward looks that I always assumed meant that Lipton wanted me dead... but alas it wasn't so. Lipton saw me, walked over and asked how I was doing, what I was up to, my summer plans, etc... etc... I asked how his roomate was doing (M Brad) he's apparently doing well - although from my perspective he's being self destructive in Montreal, but whatever. Up until this point, this was probably the most reasonable and adult conversation I had with anyone associated with the M Brad, ever. I wished Lipton a safe trip to Europe, before he grabbed my hand, looked me straight in the eye, and said very meaningfully, "take it easy, ok?" And thus another nail in the coffin of closure as Lipton's very adult, very reasonable approach was just another hint that even those associated with the M Brad are aware of his emotional instability.

Perspective

I recently saw a family friend whose daughter passed away. We chatted briefly and eventually got onto the topic of dogs as another family friend was in the process of putting down their dog. I told by this family friend, "from my perspective, these days - it's only a dog."
I suppose that it's been a year of figuring out that perspective; and in our world things can change in an instant, that one second when I met the M-Brad for example, led to a series of catacylsmic events that could have been avoided if I had stuck to studying at the Law Library and not the sixth floor of McLennan.
And so today... as I awoke up and realized that Rama had sent me eight one sentence emails about nothing, there was much too much more important things going on in the world. Word from Sim, Sim, Sima -just decamped to London - had yet to arrive as to whether or not she was ok and dearest KB was live and well if not a bit shaken up from the confines of her residence room in London as well. Papa Len was sitting freaking out in his office, his hear growing whiter by the minute...
And in that one instant as someone's world can come crashing down, someone's perspective changes.

Outbreak

Spoke to my friend J Lo last night. She's recently been struck with a case of "Faux Hill-iticis." She much like many of the neighbourhood girls has applied to law school and is waiting to hear back from her number one choice - Western. What's she been up to since? Well... when we spoke she was in London decorating her boyfriends apartment and playing house. Her words not mine. I suggested she get a job when she opined that if she wanted to she could work for her parents as a medical secretary. J Lo... much like every other girl who has been diagnosed with Faux Hill-iticis has never worked a real job. She has never handed in her resume to a Starbucks, folded a t-shirt at the Gap, scooped icecream as Baskin Robbins, or waited tables on Eglinton. Her resume experience is working for her parents at a medical office, how lame is that?
But to quote Coombs, who was quoting Elizabeth Darko, at a party the other night, "It doesn't really matter, they're just biding time till they squeeze one out." I suppose the alpha male in Coombs was a bit crude, but he didn't mean his comment in offence or in sexism, he meant it in truth. Years after the women's liberation movement,after bra's were burnt, there is still a sick subculture of women who will never work but rely on their husband to be the breadwinner. They will sit, post yoga, in the Faux Hill Village discussing whether or not to go to Yorkdale or Holt's. What's sad of course is that these people are worth more then that... they've just contacted a disease that renders them useless.
Be carefull though Faux Hill-iticis is contagious and it's spreading.

David's by Day, Buzz By Night

Remeber when you first had sex? How it was sort of squishy and a tad underwhelming?
David's by Day is a mediocre lunch spot at the centre of the Village. It's sort of the type of mediocre place that Faux Hill 'celebs' go, not because it's good, but because in the US Weekly pages of Faux Hill [gossip] someone can simply say, "Oh guess who I saw at David's? [Insert JAP name here]". It's the Faux HIll version of LA hotspots like The Ivy, where Mary Kate was seen brunching... etc... etc...
David's by Day is like the cool table in the elementary school cafeteria. All the cool kids in Faux Hill go there for lunch and they sith with their besties orin their Channel sunglasses and with copious amounts of Louis on the patio people watching and hollering at their friends as they pass by, "yoo who... Becky! OH my G-d come join us."
I had never before been to David's by Day before last week [a shock I know] and then I finally gave it up and lost my David's V Card.
I've never been, because A) it's lame and B) I never felt cool enough. But as I've become a minor village celebrity this summer I thought I might as well relent and well - give it up. I've now been twice in the last week; actually I was invited a third time, from a group of lady friends who happened to be sitting down for lunch and hollered after me, wondering if I wanted to join them [once you've entered the circle, its tough to get out]. The verdict? Well... my wrap at David's was a bit squishy and a tad underwhelming.

Faux Ho Meet Boho

I've decided that I'm going to turn this summer into the summer of the date. And so with determination I've now gone on two dates in the past week. To quote ER, "You're a DATOR." Admitedly I use such endevours to frustrate lonely Rama who (after beaing told that I went on two dates with one guy) responded passive agressively, "so you're seeing someone?" Well not really Rama, simmer down their kiddo, I'm still sitting in Toronto pining for you and you love it.
Date number two saw yours truly a little out of his league. I met my friend Debo and her friends at Sneaky Dee's on the sketchy side of College (well as sketchy as College gets, but about a block or two east of the martini bars). She wanted to set me up with a fresh off the boat artist (from Halifax; not from France or some European locale, that would have been hotter). Sadly as the table waxed and waned with various writers, film-istes and people variously affiliated with the Gladstone Hotel, I realized that I just wasn't that artsy; or I wasn't THAT type of artsy. Sure I write, a lot, but I have no desire to sing Seasons of Love in a dirty bachelor apartment that reeks of patchouli.
In that realm, I was only a voyeur (shit my jeans could have paid for someone's rent) and there is admittedly a part of me that enjoys the more expensive things that a life if Faux Hill has accustomed me too.
Pretentious, sure? Self admitted, yes; I mean I'm the kid that used to go to Pusateri's with KB for lunch, carrying an empty cake box to pretend that we actually shopped there.

Sadly my week long dating blitz has left me pining for a little bisexual in Alberta who shops at Caban... and who wears expensive jeans only "because I have big thighs" sure buddy, I'm just calling for the return of Seven on Seven Action. K?

Same Shit, Different Patio

If I were to draw a triangle connecting Toronto's three most affluent area's one of the three points would undoubtedly hit Faux Hill, one would be centred somewhere in Rosedale and the third point would probably be at the corner of Cumberland and Belair in the heart of the city's tony [sic] Yorkville.
And so there this intreped Faux Hillary found himself having coffee with a long lost pal debating the merits of bisexuality. One would expect that, being a bit out of my Faux Hill league, a different patio would imply a different set of people to watch. Not so in Toronto - a city of 5 million, but where Yorkville is an extension of Forest Hill, only with a big Holt Renfrew at its centre and not Kitsch Boutique.

Random People I ran into:
The Pussy Posse - not content to sit all night at the Faux Hill Village Starbucks, they spend their day's checking out tail in Yorkville. I suppose its better then the potential underage tail of the Village. Thank god for small miracles.
Bold Sharon - the sister, making an unusual Yorkville run, "but I'm not a DINK [Dual Income No Kids], I swear."
My neighbour, Lisa Golden-blatt, stern, stein [insert jewish name] part of the over forty, "I wear Sevens like its my job because I have no job" set.
And my first year frat boy friend Dave McWaspy Last Name and his brother Pete, he's going to camp (he's 22) and then his father arranged a job for him at a marketing firm (but really my hatred for his ilk is perhaps best reserved for another posting, its really too lovely out to be bitter); however to quote my friend Kitty, after fooling around with him, "he has a pencil-sized dick."

Thank God for small miracles.

Who Wants Another Friend?

When I first met the Rama it was the end of March. My assumption was that because I randomly started talking to him in Veggierama it was clearly evident that I was interested in more then discussing the poor quality of muffins, right?
My reality at the time was, who the fuck wants another friend? I certainly don't. And I don't even mean that in a, "I'm so cool and have SOOOO many friends" type of way. But how many best friends can a guy have? Three/ four? Any more and your beholden to too many late night phone calls about how boys suck, or how when you're fifty you and 'the boys' are going to to go New Mexico, find a shaman and smoke peyote (yes Manty of course).
Alas beyonds the Rama I managed to pick up another best friend late this year. Jessica and I were in a year long history class together (and really from my history[sic] history classes just aren't a great place to meet people - M Brad, case in point). I thought we had developed a nice class friendship; we saw each other in the library, we studied together every now and again and our conversation never veered from German History, ever. We had a purely lovely class relationship that was destined to end with the end of McGill; or so I thought. But alas Jessica seems to want more. A couple of days ago, she added me to her msn, fine... then one afternoon she started talking about some guy who she loved that she was supposed to meet but she somehow mixed up the time; a bit weird, but when she ended the conversation, "thanks, I really needed to talk to a friend..." I got even more weirded out. Friend? Does this mean I have to buy her a birthday gift? An e-card is my limit to be honest.
Yesterday's msn, however, took the cake, "I'm coming back to Toronto, we should hang out this weekend." Not to sound callous, but weekend is a pretty big step for a new friendship, isn't it? Weekday drinks, coffee, maybe a book club, but Saturday night?
And so I ask what to do? There are many books written about how to break up with someone; or how to tell if a guy isn't into you. For example, "He's just not that into you" has a place on my bookshelf but why hasn't someone written, "I'm sure you're a great person but I just don't want another friend." Well... I'm off to research my new summer project, look for it at Indigo, it'll be a Heather's Pick by the end of the summer.

Hidden Agenda

I'm actually incensed at the recent shenanigans of the Canadian Parliament. The Conservative Party has threatened to fillibuster the passge of the Liberal/NDP budget which would prolong the current parliamentary session; however, it appears as if Harper and his crew would cease its planned fillibustering techniques if the Liberal government differed passage of Bill C-38 (the scary gay marriage bill) untill the fall.
Classically Martin has dithered around the situation by refusing to dig in his heels to protect his governments legislation arguing that its up to Harper to decide when the bill will be passed; why is it up to the leader of the opposition, when the Liberal's, NDP and Bloc all support C-38, ask Martin.

But more importantly, I must ask: What is now at the heart of the Conservative Party, social conservatism, or economic conservatism? If the Conservative Party is so willing to sacrifice its economic conservatism (this is the NDP budget that increases social spending by hundreds of millions of dollars) for some pseudo socially conservative vision of Canada, then this Conservative Party will continue reap its own downfall; fine don't support gay marriage, you've already lost my vote, but to placate the religious right above your own economic principles, you've now lost my respect.
Conservatives? Oh right we lost the progressive name a long time ago. Today we might as well call Harper a Republican.

The Pick Up

My dear friend Mandy has been attempting to befriend a Sanjay Gupta look-a-like at her place of work. She's made the requisit eye contact, attempted to befriend and has now decided, "That he's just not that into her." She thinks so because he just doesn't seem to be returning her advances. Being master of the library/veggierama hook up, she's turned to me for advice.

Here's the thing: Everyone is playing some sort of game, most don't acknowledge it, but EVERYONE is playing it. This is complicated of course by the fact that no one knows the rules of anyone else's game. In Mandy's mind, it's Sanjay's turn to initiate conversation. But in Sanjay's mind, well... we don't know what's going on in Sanjay's mind, he could be playing hard to get, or he may not realize that the lovely Mandy wants to jump his bones. When the M Brad and I iniatiated our ill fated library romance, he continued to invite me to drinks with him and his posse at BDP. In his mind this was an invitation, in my mind this was not; "BDP? His friends? Maybe HE doesn't like me?"

As such I've ruefully realized that the Rama and I have embroiled ourselves in an elaborate game of lord knows what. Inquiring minds I'm sure are wondering, just what is going on with that attractive oil worker? Right well... after some testy emails regaring Gay Paris, the word deluded was lobbed around, the Rama and I have resumed our usual email chats. Recently I received an email which coalesced my realization that the Rama and I are participants in some sort of elaborate dance.
To wit, the Rama, has emailed to declare that although he has little time to respond to my last email, he thought he'd email me just to let me know that he's alive and ok in Northern Alberta. Thanks buddy... I was losing sleep wondering why I hadn't heard from my non boyfriend in Alberta.

Deposed Retail Heiress

Deposed monarch's are sort of sad; I say this without ever having met one, but I'd assume it sort of sucks to have once been Crown Prince of (insert minor Prussion state like Westphalia); yet currently being an unemployed, yet seemingly decadent loaf. The problem of course is that as a former monarch you're used to the finest money can buy and even if you are a deposed monarch you sort of have to pretend that you still have the means [with the hope of marrying back into wealth]; only you don't actually have the means. And sadly you no longer have the peasantry of said minor Prussion state to financially support you.
With a tear, of course, I happened to see the wife of a former retail scion shopping at the GAP (with her family's department store now but a name, she has to buy her khaki's somewhere doesn't she?). Seeing as anyone who has read the Globe and Mail over the past five years knows how her idiot husband and his family squandred the vast family fortune we all know that there isn't as much money behind those manicured nails as she'd like us to think. Yet retail heiresses are about as close to royalty as this country seems to have had and as such, even deposed monarch's, are treated with an air of respect in Midtown Toronto where her family name still consures up memories of Christmas Parade's and Department Store glamour.
Yet one's experience with deposed monarch's highlights the fact that money, even old, depleted resources, can't buy class. Said heiress was partacking in the seemingly disgusting trend of shopping with one's housekeeper who diligently holds piles of clothes at the checkout line as they are asked, "Milly, did YOU see anything for yourself? I'll buy it for you."
Handout for the help - I suppose it's in keeping with her families tradition of philanthropy.

The Other Hill

There comes a time for the Torontonian Jew to accept the fact that North of Steeles (NOS) exists another, predominately Jewish Hill; 905's answer to Faux Hill is of course the rather charmless Thornhill. And so with determination and Sim Sim Sima's car I found myself on the 401 with the intent of sussing out the other Hill and saying bon voyage to my friend El Huerd before he leaves for Israel.
Every time I try and go up there I attempt to check my snobby Faux Hill attitude at 416-905 divide, but Thornhill sucks; it is utterly charmless. First of all its far, maybe not geographically, but if I have to get on the 401 to get somewhere, I may as well be driving to cottage country. It's also ugly. This I don't even think is being snobbish. This is a fact - Thornhill is land of the giant, identically similar houses that are overshadowed by their ginormous two car garages. I get the economic, "not everyone can afford to live in Forest Hill" argument, but the T-Hill ain't cheap, and these people aren't poor - the multiple luxury suv's which crowded Huerd's street are testament to the financial wealth of his neighbours, Thornhill is for some - a choice. A choice to choose poorly built, identical monster homes on winding cul de sacs interspersed with highway like main streets and charmless strip plaza's.
Alas, you can take the boy out of Faux Hill, but you can't take the Faux Hill out of the boy.

The Summer of the Graduate

A while ago I declared to Sim, Sim, Sima that this was my summer of The Graduate. She wanted to know if I was hoping to find an older woman to bed and I of course laughed and said I was hoping to bed an older man. Sima didn't find my hilarity as funny as most would, but she did helpfully declare, that securities are the new plastics.
Yesterday, of course, was quite topical to Graduate shenanigans as the original Mrs. Robinson, Anne Bancroft, died; here's to you Mrs. Robinson, may ye rest in peace. Yesterday I also agreed to be my neighbours pool boy, thus fulfilling a life long dream of being a POOL BOY. As my neighbour walked me through the ins and outs of watering her flowers and skimming the pool, I coulnd't help but feel a bit - appreciated shall we say, by this well preserved older Faux Hill woman of leisure. Sadly, I'm neither interested in her, nor her only child - a daughter; rather I'm hoping for some sort of hot cousin (ala Ryan in the OC) to come live in the poolhouse.

Rediscovering my Love of the Book

In the immortal words of my favourite English teacher, Ms. Carrier who declared to her OAC English students, "Green Grass Running Water may be the last book you will all ever read." She was of course being a bit facetious, but I'd imagine that for some of us in that class, it may have been the last non-school book many of us read. This summer I've decided to rediscover my love of reading, seeing as the last five books I've read were school related and on top of that most were written by Philip Roth.
Today after my morning Starbucks I ventured up to the Faux Hill Library to get out some books and get back on the Reading Rainbow. I sat in the New and Notable section with the intention on finding something relatively new and potentially notable to amuse myself with.
Ha. I've never seen such crap. Most novels are portrayed as a tale of self-discovery as "Alexis - a newly widowed woman, whose path to self discovery leads her from Morocco to religious self discovery in India." Or, if not self-discovery then a tale of stunning hardship and woe, "It was 1920 in Dublin, the year of the great coal strike, and for the Pierce family it was a winter of internal strife, unbridled romance and passionate loss." Ended up with a book about Las Vegas pool sharks. Should be good.

The Law School Disease

Today is LSAT day. This means that most of my friends are stationed somewhere writing the Law Schoot Apptitude Test (this being one of the four test days a year). Law School Here We Come! (to the tune of California, by Phantom Planet)
As a holder of a Bachalaureate Arteum, BA Hon, Law School offers some sort of sick fascination for us political science and history majors - who aren't really qualified for much; no one wants to publish the 102 pages I wrote on the Weimar Republic do they? Most of my BA friends have either written the LSAT's, are writing the LSAT's today, or are studying for the LSAT's. Las summer it was like a thing, "I'm studying for the LSAT's." End conversation. I've even surrounded myself by law school wannabe boyfriends, both the M Brad and the Rama want to go to University of Toronto and study corporate law - I'm hoping they both get in, date and compare notes.

Why is this? Well, as a son of a lawyer, an embittered but lovable dreamer whose inner Holden Caufield just wants to sit in a beachside shack in Maine, I suppose I've realized that law school isn't exactly the ticket to financial freedom that most people think it offers. You wan't to make money as a lawyer - its doable, but there are way too many lawyers and big money often comes at the expense of working for a large soulless firm who will work you to the bone in the hopes that you will one day make partner. Lord knows that Sima would also bludgeon me repeatedly if I donned the altered mantra of New Hampshire, "Law School or Die."

When I first got back from Montreal, upon running into some of "those girls" (the classics) at Starbucks I asked one of them how her first year of law school had gone. "It's hard" she responded and thus ended our conversation. Of course it's hard, sweatie; sadly your four years of McGill Political Science, with a minor in bullshit Jewish Studies Classes, didn't quite prepare you for the rigours of law school. I suspect this isn't an isolated incidence of people going to law school simply because there is nothing else to do and realizing that they HATE law.

Sadly, law school, for most people is Default School. A couple of weeks ago while talking to my friend Papa Smurf I lamented the fac that I have no idea what to do with my life. "You aren't going to like my advice" he replied, "but write your LSAT's and go to law school." Default Option A, thus presented by a little man in red pants from Thornhill. Too many of my friends simply write the LSAT's and go to law school simply because there is nothing else to do; or at least there is no other simple option. The paved road of life that we all go happily along with, ended at McGill Convocatio and the future requires an off road SUV to navigate. Sadly this is what we've created; a society of people who wish to be lawyers because they aren't quite sure of their other options - but the reality is that they don't know their other options. But like most things the Law School Disease is tied to financial security. and I suppose for that fearful Forest HIllary in all of us who wonders how we are going to replicate the Centre Hall plan lifestyle of our parents, law school, seems to offer the only ticket to a future of Starbucks, Muskoka, and Diesel jeans. Securities may be the new plastics, but its all about credit, be it cards or your rating.

There are choices people. Things exist beyond the mainstream; shouldn't we all zest for a career that we are actually going to enjoy and not enter simply because we have no other choices. We deserve better then Default School; of that I am certain.

So Much Village, So Little Time...

The Village has been one spicy meatball of late. I've taken to spending hours sitting at Starbucks while turning my Nightline volunteer experiences into a television show - "Nightline the Series".

I've thus learnt the schedule of who frequents at what time.

10:00 - 11:30 - The Mummies

Early morning sees Starbucks packed with post-Yoga mummies. Today I happened to have breakfast Jody and Casey and their newborns. Jody had Channel sunglasses while Casey had Dior - this is how we differentiate. We chatted briefly about Tom and Katie, classic, before Jody whipped out the phone to book a manicure and pedicure. Other events on their busy schedule included a debate on which shopping was better - Yorkdale or Bloor. I think we all shed a tear when Jody lamented how the shoes she had ordered at Holt's had yet to arrive. Me - I was blinded by the size of their diamond engagement rings.

11:30 - 1:00 - Lunch Hour

Lunch sees Starbucks sadly taken over by packs of marauding youngsters from local schools. Today however, I invented a new phrase - "Village Rage". It's sort of like road rage, but involved me yelling at a group of grade seven students who sat at Starbucks eating meat patties and not buying anything before leaving their mess for the staff to clean up. Being the good samaritan that I am, I hollered back at them and ordered them to clean up their shit. Me - Patron Saint of Starbucks.

4:00 - 7:00 - The Pussy Pack

The Pussy Pack is a group of middle aged men who I've managed to befriend. Stock brokers and mostly retired dot com millionaires these men oscilate between talking about pussy and cars, with a bit of, "back in the eighties we used to do lines of coke at Sassafraz." They seem to like me; yesterday I so impressed Peter that we're going to be collaborating on a screenplay together in the near future. Me - mini movie mogul.

So much village, so little time...

Upon Being "E-Dumped"

So invitations to Paris from Bisexual Albertans don't constitute a relationship, according to Rama.
Wrote this in an email to KB and decided it was most poetic:
"Life after... of course. Tomorrow a job interview, tomorrow maybe
I'll run into someone on the subway who I fall madly and deeply in
love with. Tomorrow holds all of the possibilities of the future.
Tomorrow is a beautiful day. Of that I must be sure of... because the
past... the past... has thankfully past."

Heartwarming tales from Faux Hill

To see the less cynical side of life is a virtue, or so says my horoscope today, so as I write Enricqua Quaroni in a bid to remove a certain failure from my transcript I thought I'd present some less vapid then usual tales from Starbucks. Enjoy.

Today I have caught myself sitting next to a group of widowers. These women are all survivors, however, most have moved from Montreal or Winnipeg to Toronto, post death, in order to start fresh and be closer to their children. But life, is not over, for these well preserved women and today I am overhearing war stories of 45+ dating. My favourite story is this:

The Winnipeg woman, we'll call her Jane, called in a 10 year-old Mac specialist to fix her computer. And as he was leaving, this little tyke, passed on his card and said, "my father is single, would you be interested in meeting him?"
As always there is life after... life beyond Channel glasses, Lululemon and Gucci fanny pac's. As I sit warmed by sun, my heart cannot be left untouched, by these women who have faced the harsh curveballs of life and have persevered.

Aligators VS Polo Players - Celebrity Deathmatch

Trips to the south, generally find the FH family in an outlet mall. After the late afternoon end of the Bar Mitzvah it was off to some outlet mall in Souther Mass. I sort of can't deal with outlet malls to be honest; generally a lot of Americans with blond hair and bangs (think Bold Sharon circa her bat-mitvah in 1987) and piles upon piles of reduced clothes that people are sifting through in an orgy of consumer capitalism. It's almost as if people have never seen a sale or piles of five dollar t-shirts in irregular patterns and cuts - there is a reason people a lot of this stuff is on sale.
Last summer I worked for the Gap and walking into the Gap Outlet this year was like having an acid flashback; everything I folded down last summer has been trotted out and tarted up for this summer's consumption.
There are of course bargains and your truly did not escape the consumption disease; and it is with pleasure that I now own a Lacoste sweater, which is essentially a merino wool jumper that some child slapped an aligator on and subsequently the price was jacked up threefold. The Lacoste aligator is, however, a much required necessity for Village antics, especially this year. To quote Paris Hilton, "that's hot." Lacoste does seem to be the brand of choice these days. However, dear friend, and life partner KB, admonished my purchase wondering if I had questioned my life long loyalty to Polo Players and the Lauren empire. Never! How could I, a good Jewish boy ever, question the illusionary lifestyle machine that Lauren, nee Lipshitz, has created. It's brilliant; it makes me feel like establishment, like I play POLO! But sometimes, a boy just likes to walk into a Lacoste store, spray some cologne on a piece of paper because it reminds him of some latent bisexual, and purchase a sweater with an aligator on it. Ralph Lauren Polo's are a given, but a boys gotta mix it up sometimes.

La Quinta Inn and Suites

So Sim-Sim-Sima with key's to Len's Bimmer and yours truly have decamped for a weekend in Boston for a family Bar Mitzvah. As such we've landed at La Quinta Inn and Suites in Summerdale Massachusates, this being the closest hotel to the Bar Mitzvah. I generally try and defend the good ole U, S of A, but as I attempted this morning to nibble on my bagel I couldn't be more off put by the copious amounts of fat people who were arguing over the line up to the make your own waffle machine at the continental breakfast station. La Quinta is the anti Faux Hill Village and sadly me in my Seven for all Mankind Jeans [apparently not for all mankind] and Sima in her sweater sets from Talbots are used to the botoxed beauty's of Faux Hill. Mom, dad, we aren't in kansas any more.

Making Lemonade + White Earphones - Louis Vuitton of 2005

Am thankfully back from that provincial outpost of Montreal. Amused myself by spending the last $10.00 in my pocket on two magazines, GQ and the recently relaunched Radar, my favourite magazine, please go buy it. Cause heck I may be a failure, broke, unemployed and abandoned by my non sexual, bisexual non boyfriend the Rama, but heck I must learn why Brad Pitt broke up with Jennifer Aniston and find out what type of swimsuit I should be wearing this summer (thanks GQ) while simultaneously laughing about how Paris Hilton has faked her way to being famous, or infamy [Radar Magazine].
In other more profoud news... My white Ipod ear phones broke, and by broke I mean are currently sitting in three pieces awaiting to be carted back to Apple with a nasty letter saying, "when you charge $400.00 for a product I'd expect better earphones." However, this I realized, as the Via Train shuttled out of Dorval [Note Via Announcers have taken to saying our next STATION STOP is... wtf?], is liberating. The white Ipod earphones are like the Louis Vuitton of the summer of 2005. Every 13 year old Branksome Hall girl sitting at Sushi Lovers in the Village has an Ipod, and every one of those girls mummies also has an Ipod, "for when she does her pilates". For that I hand it to Steve Jobs for excellent branding and marketing; kudos. Interestingly, the Ipod is generally hidden, in a pocket or a purse but its the earphones that people proudly use. The earphones (which are crappy) are the status symbol. But I'm off the boat, I still have the Ipod but I've ditched the status symbol earphones and I can actually hear the music better.

Back in Black

Hmm... so I've left the Village (shudder) and have shimmied back to Montreal to sort out some of my academic issues. Summer school, here I come! For those in the know Monty gives me the NAUSEAU, with a capital N.
Seeing as McGill has cut me off from the internet in the Leacock Lab, my former home away from home, I've taken to checking my email from the Architecture Library. Thanks McGill, you'd think after paying $20,000 after the past four years McGill wouldn't be so stingy with the net. In fact I believe I called McGill an unemphathetic institution to Nellie at Dawson Hall.

"I put in twenty hours a week running a service [Nightline] for this community; you'd think McGill would be a tad bit more sympathetic towards my situation."
To which Nellie replied, "Well, it was your decision to run an extra-curricular organization, wasn't it?" Ah yes... if only we could all be more like Nellie!

So... here I reside in what appears to be the Faux Hill Village in library mode.

Note two girls at computer next door, clearly art history majors, "M-A-R-C, CHAGALL... never heard of him... but this painting is called Adam and Eve. Let's use it!"

Nice UGG's ladies. Watch as I suppress my own vomit and realize, same shit different province.

No Regrets...

Learning not to regret the past is an important life skill that I've slowly learnt. My lesbian Jewish hippie yogi, Joan, impassionately argued this way back in January, "You can't live yourlife regretting the past; honesty, especially in a relationship is paramout." When my life careened off its straight and arrow track, sometime around October of last year, there was that initial feeling that the whole thing had been a mistake. Shouldn't have dated the M Brad, shouldn't have applied for joint honours, shouldn't have run two student organizations, shouldn't have worn those pair of jeans on Tuesday, should've gone to classes in March, shouldn't have sat in Veggierama for three months, etc... When the M Brad and I practiced our month long break up dance it ended with him telling me that, "In three months you'll would regret everything." Everything, to him, was perhaps telling him that I loved him. But when I finally left Montreal in May the whole thing was organic. There was no point in regretting the past. At the time I told the M Brad I loved him, I did love him, and it was his idiocy which made me sit in Veggierama for a couple of months, till I happened upon the Rama, whose idiocy currently has me awkwardly waiting for an email; eventually though the Rama will either stay, or he'll go and I'll find another pretty boy to lust after. Regrets? Regret falling in love? It was beautiful at the time, and so, after months of counselling sessions with the emphathetic Thomas, the past was effectively put behind me. 2004-2005 was what it was; an annus horribilus to be sure, perhaps too many tears but there was nothing really worth regretting. A the end of the year I'm still here, knocked down, but never out.

And so I present to you the lyrics from a beautiful song by the Stereophonics, Rewind. A favourite of mine, Irish Andy and of beloved friend the Animal.

"It's your time; It's your day;
It's never too late to change lanes
How's your life? How's your place?
Was it where you wanted your head to lay?

But wait, you can breathe; you can see what I can see;
Don't waste your time; You can't make back

If you could rewind your time; Would you change your life?

Dream and Be; What you feel
Don't you Compromise; What you want to be

'Cause change is okiay
Whats the point in staying the same
Regrets, forget what's dead and gone

Time to take you away
Have you done all you wanted?
Are you happy and warm?
Do you miss someone special
You don't see anymore?

Rewind your time
Would you change your life
Today?"

Volunteer Organizations - My Raison D'Etra

Delving further into the past as I promised we would go I'll admit that over the past year I ran two student organizations. I was President of the McGill HSA (El Presidente) as well as Coordinator of McGill Nightline - a confidential telephone service. Yes I had a secret identity. I have a history of, shall we say, over extending myself for student run volunteer organizations. In October I decided to participate in Save to Shave, raising $700.00 for breast cancer research and in April I promised my good friends at the Poli Sci Students Association that I would run their elections (which turned into a disasterous embrolio - a whole other blog entry). So after the past year of pretty much running McGill I promised myself that I would escape to San Diego and sell samosa's out of the back of a truck and learn how to surf. Well... today I got a letter from the North Toronto Alumni Association, my beloved high school alma matter, they're looking for someone to be a "year captain" for every graduating class of NTCI. Of course I'm applying (After all did I not edit the school newspaper and run North Toronto Buddies when I was at NT?). Much to the chagrin of Sim, Sim, Sima who shrieked: "Haven't you learned anything over the past year?" I think so... but I also like voluneer organizations. And as I have a penchant for emotionally despondant third year pretty boys in history, I have a penchant for volunteer organizations. At least I now recognize my obsessions, step 1, in the 12 step process, right?

Pathetic Rama Email Watch: 2 days.

The Life of the Idle Rich

I just received an email from Sim, Sim, Sima (my mother). I had emailed her telling her that I had run into a family friend, Judy, at Starbucks, her reply, "you're living the life of the idle rich." I suppose that Judy is rich and idle but... what about me? I'm really idle and poor. I know why I sat at Starbucks every day pontificating (unemployed and hoping to collide with a sexually ambiguous, emotionally confused, third year history major pretty boy [M Brad and Rama fit the same bill]). My fellow patio dwellers? Are they really just idle and rich? Are their lives that boring... The next MILF I run into at Starbucks I'm going to suggest that she start a blog. I'd read it. However, I'm going to impart you all some etiquette tip of an idle poor person: 1) Faux Hill Village Etiquette Tip Numero Uno: The milk/sugar bar at Starbucks is NOT, I repeat NOT the place to reconnect with your teenage daughter. Pour the milk, grab the packet of sugar and go people. And now having emailed the Rama I now begin the pathetic wait with that sick realization that I'm probably not going to get an email from him at all. I did, however, locate him on a map of Alberta (he provided me with the coordinates in his infamous 1000 word email and challenged me to find him, so I'm not that crazy people, give me a modicum amount of credit.) Literally the Rama is in buttfuck nowhere. Insert sexual innuendo joke at your own risk.

Bought: Everyone Loves a Jewish Boy

Every Saturday in the Globe and Mail style section is a column by Heather Mallick entitled "Bought". She regales us with her weekly tales of consumption, toile, crystal vases & cast iron flower pots are some of the things that come to mind that the Mallick has bought of late. Generally I'd assume that she spends about as much time at Summerhill and on Eglinton trying to find things to write about. Tis too bad about the "Bought" column because Mallick's "As if..." column in the Focus is actually quite good and so I try not to be swayed by the stupidity of wondering what Heather is going to buy this week and stick mainly to the "As if..." of Mallick's oeuvre.
But I digress into tales of unemployment... when you're unemployed you have no money, yet you spend an innordinate amount of time shopping. Shopping is free until you purchase something, but it isn't a bad distraction from the snoozfest that is Days of Our Lives. Being unemployed also gives you the free time to realize that you need to purchase a picture album and file away all of your pictures, or you really should get those jeans that you purchased last October shortened...
Yesterday after THE JOB INTERVIEW I found myself in the Urban Outfitters sale section, trying to reconnect with my past urban life of Plateau dwelling, Faux Hill represent, yo. Lo and behold, however, those Everyone Loves a Jewish Boy t-shirts were on sale! Sale is like manna to the unemployed. And so after finding a medium I ventured up to the cash smiling imagining myself sporting said t-shirt at the Village Starbucks in an ironic, ha ha, I know this t-shirt is stupid and I got it on sale and yet can see the irony of me wearing this t-shirt on the Starbucks patio in the Village. But as I got lost in the apartment section of Urban Outfitters (crazy coloured martini glasses! must buy!) I dropped the t-shirt. Its stupid, not funny, and any irony I would have gleaned by wearing it would have been lost on "those girls" who frequent the Village. New Column: Not Bought.

In other news to quote a friend whom I told that the Rama is now tanned and hot in Alberta, "J, if you wanted to date a black man you would have dated a black man."

Blog's are masturbatory...

I'm not going to lie and presume that I'm wittier and more introspective then most. This blog began because I was bored and unemployed but as a caveat I find blogs masturbatory and admit that this one certainly is; I mean are people so interested in my life, my mutterings and my musings?
With that in mind, today we venture from beyond the healthy confines of the Faux Hill and wade into the murky waters of Canadian politics. First of all let me admit that I cannot believe that the conservative party has managed to bungle their current situation and seemingly cannot present themselves as a truly national right wing opposition to the liberals without frightening urban gay latte drinkers like myself. Uhm... there is a socially liberal, fiscally conservative constituency out there ask Peggy Wente. To quote everyone's favourite bisexual, the Rama, "I wouldn't let Paul Martin manage my chequebook, but I wouldn't let Stephen Harper into my house [by 'my' he means 'our' and by 'our' he means his house in the Annex with me, just fyi, ok?]."
So the blockbuster news of the day involves former Conservative MP Belinda Stronach's switch from Conservative MP to Liberal MP. I actually had a little bit of a crush on Belinda at some point, she's sort of cute, apparently had an affair with Bill Clinton, and has generally added some much needed pizaz into Canadian politics. Belinda, however, was originally written off as Parliament Hill Barbie. Frank magazine - the much lamented satirical publication that went belly up last year - did a lovely spread of a superimposed picture of Belinda in a Barbie Box to celebrate her inaugeral constituency win. Belinda was sadly written off as nothing more then a pretty face, bringing some much needed Tiffany bling to the tarnished connies.
However, if you've been watching Belinda's manoeverings over the past eights months, it appears as if Belinda isn't as stupid we Canadians, suspicious of this interloper in Manolo Blahniks, originally suspected. The political lead up to now is astounding in hindsight. Everything from B Stro's clothes (her green outfit on St Patrick's Day was declared newsworthy) to her relationship (with Peter McKay made double headlines) and more recently (and thankfully), gasp, her rather intelligent political policies, such as cautioning her party against a snap election and supporting the creation of a conservative youth wing, smack of grand coordinated political ambition. But sadly Canadians are seemingly frightened of politicians who deviate from the white man mold, as Belinda has. She'll never be da Lidle Guy from Shawinigan.
To be honest, however, I refuse to give Belinda all the credit. I'm pretty sure that Belinda is backed by some of the smartest politico's she could find and pay with her magna pockets. In a sense she's sort of the like the Shania Twain of the Canadian Politics. Both are sort of benign pretty girls backed my huge marketing muscle. But don't presume that either of them are stupid nor mindless. Belinda, is if anything, shrewd and calculating and ya know what? Good on her.

L.A.M.B. - Love After...

Around the Village girls and their mommies are all about the purses: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Burberry, the bigger the brandname the better. A hot entry in last years fashion show was Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. - Gwen's fashion line that tied into the name of her new album (cough, cough gross commercialism) Love Angel Music Baby.
For me L.A.M.B. has become my new mantra, although it has a different meeting then Gwen's ubiqutous line of accesories:
I was talking to my dear friend Melissa on msn and she was having a bit of a down day... some asshole had dumped her last year and she had found out that he was seeing someone else recently. Melissa is probably one of the nicest and prettiest single people I know [if you're interested in a nice Jewish girl, who likes jazz and can make awesome deserts, give me a shout]. Most people will probably tell you that when you get dumped the best thing to do is to practice what the Eagle's sang, "get over it." That's Papa Len's mantra. I'm a bit more understanding to Melissa's plight... Because every so often when I walk alone (as I walked through the ravine by my house last night at 2:00 am) I rewind and go through every single date I had with the M Brad. I have to remind myself that he's the crazy asshole and I'm as decently normal as can be. The mantra that I've developed and I share with the world, is Life After M. Brad. L.A.M.B. People hurt us... wounds sometime take years to close up; even if we hold them together with stithces but that is ok folks. Remember that there is a L.A.M.B. There is life after that asshole who treated you like shit.

Torontonian Celebrities - Famous in their own minds...

The funniest part about living in Toronto is the weird cult of made in Toronto celebrities that we've created. As the centre of the countries media universe (and this is a reality people, so don't get all but your being Toronto centric on my ass, ok?) Toronto has numerous self absorbed media types who are celebrities really in their own minds and maybe to a couple of thousand people who pretend to care about Rebecca Eckler's baby or where Ben "nepotism" Mulroney works out [and judging by his preference for unfitted shirts I'm pretty sure he's stopped working out]; thus as soon as a real celebrity is seen lunching at Sassafraz the city is abuzz with "Russell Crowe Watch" a painfully boring endevour that took over Toronto last summer - "look there's Russell smoking a cigarette outside of the Gap." But back to Toronto celebs... I think every Torontonian has had run ins with these self important people... being young however most of my Toronto celebrity encounters revolve around Much Music VJ's. Ya know how City TV is everywhere, so are MM VJ's. Rainbow, pre coke addiction, dated a friend of mine, George Strombolopogous lived about my sister's boyfriend etc... etc... The current VJ I am most familiar with is Leah; she's the pretty blond, for those wondering where on the VJ archetype checklist she fits. Leah has a sister Erin who I worked with at the Gap. So today I happened to see Leah avec Gucci waste purse and mother in tow at Yonge and Eglinton. Not realizing who she was at first I did recognize her companion as Erin's mother, having seen her in the store before. Being the neighbourly kid I am, I asked how Erin was doing (she's in England with her hockey playing boyfriend...) and we briefly chatted about the upcoming nuptuals. Leah of course blabbing into her cell phone was seemingly shocked... he knows my sister and not me? ME? ME?
Celebrities, only in their minds...

Emily - Your Automated Service Representative

Went to go see the new Paul Haggis flick Crash last night with Papa Len. Pretty good flick, dad found it depressing; I suppose in light of the recent events of my life I actually found it sort of uplifting. Perceptions right; it is afer all all about perceptions.
Before the film were the ads and previews. One was for Bell Canada; the music, "the knee bone's connected to the leg bone, the leg bone's connected to the hip bone..." etc insinuated that all of Ma Bell's services: cell phones, long distance plans, high-speed internet and satelite tv are all interconected. The ad ended with the Bell tagline, "Bell - Making it Simple." I'm sorry but is that a joke? Has anyone dealt with Bell Canada and their automated service representative Emily of late?
I have and let me tell you Bell Canada does not make anything simple. First of all... no part of the company has any dealings with anyone else. If you are talking to Bell Sympatico they have no interest in your phone line or your satelite tv. The only thing they are interested in is selling you more crappy Bell products. What is "wire-care" and why should I pay five extra bucks a month for someone to make sure my wires are in good condition. Shouldn't Bell be in charge of the wires that they installed for their exploitative $55.00 hook up charge? I could go on and on about Bell... but my favourite experience involves my attempt at ending our phone line in Montreal while simultaneously ending our Sympatico service... the phone line was under the roomies name, Sympatico my name. I won't go into the confusion that this caused over at Bell - where they were trying to make things simple. Then Ben, the roomie, had the brilliant idea that he would switch our phone line to his new apartment in MOntreal. Cost: $55.00, which yes is the same as the hook up charge. Apparently Bell doesn't reward loyalty as they are too busy trying to make things simple. So we ended our phone line on a Friday, but because of Sympatico's billing period we were still paying for the internet - but waait - the company that was trying to make things simple cannot have the internet working without a phone line. Fair enough if that's how the technology works but if all of Bell's sprawling company's are connected shouldn't someone have clued into this when we cancelled everything and why do I have to pay for a service that Bell can't even provide technology without installing a "dry loop" as Jean at Bell Canada suggested.
Making Life Simple? Hardly...

Say goodbye to your boyfriend and get back in class...

So yesterday I spent the day with my mother who found me a job substitute teaching at Northern Secondary School. Go Rednights... This of course was one day after she emphatically declared that "securities are the new plastics."
So I went back to highschool in a sort of Whoopi Goldberg - Michelle Pfeipher - Michael Vartan and taught grade nine math! The number one burning question from students: "how many bongs did you hit while at McGill?"

Comment of the day, however, went to yours truly, "Caitlyn, say goodbye to your boyfriend and get into class or I'll mark you late." Revenge on the pretty and popular people is now complete and ya know what? Its pretty sweet.

Missing the Rama

Remeber how I said we'd delve into my past? Well today we do. As I walked down to my usual perch on the Starbucks patio I happened to run into two of "those girls" [those girls are the classic Village girls: Lululemon, Louis Vuitton, work for their parents as receptionists] and I immediately wondered why I spend so much time in this godforesaken place when I hate most people in the Village. Actually for all practical purposes I come here because of the free wireless internet... But I also realized I came here because I miss coffee; coffee and sitting in coffee shops had quietly become a giant part of my life at McGill.
I had spent most of last semester sitting in Arts Veggierama, a basement hole of a cafe, in the Arts Building at McGill wallowing in self pity after being unceremoniously dumped by my emotionally frozen and physically unwell boyfriend, whose last comment to me involved a non verbal physical shove in front of Leacock. Thanks M Brad.
So thus began three months of me hanging out in the Rama, which culminated in me actually picking up someone in Veggierama. As a joke I began calling this boy - another third year history major, classic - The Rama. The Rama and I commenced a short relationship involving of two dates and a couple of fools before the Rama - a committed bisexualist - declared that he couldn't emotionally open himself up to me. So me being the idiot in lust that I was [did I mention that The Rama was really smart, funny and hot? and that I freakishly pictued us adopting a dog and living in the Annex together?] befriended the Rama... and so we spent most of April becoming besties and non-sexual boyfriends, which in retrospect I really enjoyed and needed. After the M Brad, the Rama's sexual insecurities were decidedly normal. We did the classic date activities: movies, getting stoned, walks through Parc Lafontaine... which culminated in him admitting to me that he calls his penis El Presidente and then showing up drunk on my door a couple of times, but after I would shove my tongue down his throat, he would argue that "just because I show up on your door drunk doesn't mean I want to fool around." Well... were is the Rama now? The Rama as part of his enigmatic structure is off in Northern Alberta working in an oil transfer station, alone. Hopefully comming to terms with his sexuality and realizing, mid masturbation, that I'm hot and would make an awesome boyfriend. Being a stupid romantic I wrote him a letter as he left for Edmonton stating that, "he made my heart flutter at a time when I didn't think it could flutter again." To contextualize, the Rama did admit that he wanted his heart to flutter before he entered into a relationship, this of course was stated right after he declared that Howie Day's 'Collide' was 'our song'. Yes we were like sixth grade lovers, we had a song and we held hands. I suppose it isn't worth psycho analyzing the Rama... but it is worth stating why I sit here at Starbucks... After last semester I became used to drinking coffee and waiting for that bisexual pretty boy who could do a damn funny impression of LBJ, while drinking a large Veggierama 'Strong'. At Starbucks, I've now got the coffee and I'll admit it is a lot better then dirty dirty Veggierama coffee. But I don't have the Rama... and the Rama was worth the dirty coffee. He was smart, funny and had a stupid lopsided smile that would make my day. I miss the Rama.

The Village/AKA Overheard in the Forest Hill Village

One of the most supposedly frightening films of last summer was M. Night Shymalan's "The Village." I never saw it, partly because I realized the 'twist' ending after seeing the previews and then once I heard that Joaquin Phoenix was bedridden early on in the film, the hot boy factor was thus ruined.
I suggest, however, for a sequal that Shyamal take a field trip to my kneck of the woods, the Forest Hill Village, where truly frightening conversations are overheard.

Some of the gems I've snooped upon in the last couple of days:

1. Boasts one businessman to another: "I grossed 1.4 [million] this year, and I think I'll gross another 1.6 [million] next year. My expenses are only 8 [hundred thousand]."

2. A young girl on rollerblades, potentially anorexis, loudly shouts to another friend, "[Betsy] fucked her English teacher. Everyone knows but no one talks about."

3. One girl to another about her alma matter - McGill, "There really weren't so many Asians, but maybe its because I never took an engineering glass."

That's all for today folks. Barf bags can be found in the seat in front of you.

And then I became a MUMMY

Yesterday's activities:
Doctor, parking altercation at Lawrence Plaze, coffee at Starbucks in the village, bought groceries at Loblaws and made risotto for dinner. Slap me in some Lululemons and hand me a SUV and I'd be hitting up hot mummy territory in no time. Day two and its getting embarassing.

Live From Faux Hill

I guess we could delve into my past a little bit later, but for the here and now, I've returned to the city of my youth, unemployed and potentially friendless, but with a BA! So far I've sat for the past two nights in the neighbourhood Starbucks, smack down in the middle of the Forest Hill Village. Welcome to my life people. Last night it ended with being chased out of town by a maurading pack of 18 year-olds driving their parents' SUV's and listening to rap music. Welcome to the Village. This is how its done in Forest Hill.