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."