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.