In the Ghetto

Sometimes when I walk home from work I call my friend El Huerd. He usually picks up the phone around the time that I've made it to the corner of Bay and Bloor where there is usually a Scottish bag piper playing the bagpipes.

"Where the fuck are you calling me from?" He asks.
"Scotland. I flew over on the concorde." I usually answer and then we laugh before acknowledging how lovely it is to live in Toronto, the city that is THE most multi-cultural city known to man, sans hyperbole. Toronto - a world within a city; Toronto - a city of neighbourhoods; are some cliched Torontoisms that the tourist board likes to sprout.

Most people will lambast Toronto for being a concrete monstrosity. Montrealers decry its lack of soul. Vancouverites decry its lack of natural beauty and Europeans simply laugh at the city's many faults - like our two subway lines. For years I have vehemently warded off such Toronto hatred. Every leafy tree in the Annex, every stone cut mansion in Rosedale has for me - been part of my Toronto love affair. How can you not love its odd built form, quirky markets and navel gazing neuroses. I've made an unsuccesful side-venture of taking friends on walking tours of the city's boho west end, pointing out some of the city's best features, vainly trying to convince prospective residents just how amazing Toronto is.

Now - i'll also admit its a lot easier to love Toronto when you've grown up in the Faux. My Toronto is clean, safe, verdant and the people are generally well put together. Ande even if the people are not quite right, at least you gripe about their Tiffany jewelery.

I have been Toronto's number one fan up until recently - then I looked around and thought: maybe Toronto isn't really New York run by the Swiss, as Peter Ustinov once infamously declared.

My current Torontonian lamaise has sadly nothing to do with being caught in a too-tight pair of Lululemon pants, swishing a frapuchino at the patio - rather - I've spent the past two weeks on an odd cross-city extravaganza. The past two weeks has seen Faux Hillary so far out of his league, I feel like I've been on one of those international contiki tours - fourteen countries in six days.

Last Friday evening Kitty invited me to a white and champagne party in RosedAle. "It's a white party because you're supposed to wear white," she said before adding, "Not white because of the people." I interjected.. "So who there is not going to be white? We're talking RosedAle private schoolies?" As I got drunk off of bottles of Veuve that the underemployed future of this great city stole from their parents (because we all still live at home and get paid around $35-40k a year, a salary which while isn't below the povery line doesn't allow for the disposable income to buy bottles of veuve now does it?) I looked around and thought - perfect - everyone here is white, might as well have shown up naked.

Saturday was an even greater, "Toto we're not in Kansas anymore" moment. Found myself at MP Nav Bains bbq on Saturday - 1500 Liberals from Brampton's Indo canadian community stood in a giant field getting excited by Liberal leader Stephane Dion (at least someone is excited about him) and party saviour, Justin Trudeau. Brampton and parts of Missisaugua make up the burgeoning centure of the city's large Indo-Canadian community. It is a completely different world of strip-malls with Indo-Canadian groceries, Hindu temples and other ethnic establishments.

Just north of Brampton begins the rolling hinterlands of Caledon. Caledon is for white people who raise ponies. I'm serious. Oddly enough there is such a strong demarcation between Bramtpon and Caledeon that as you drive north its almost as if Rutherford Road is the city's Mason Dixon line. The strip malls and Hindu temples end and the Olde Towne's begin. Having been at the Indo-CDN bbq figured, my friend Caitling, we may as well rejoin "our people" so we spent the late afternoon - sunning and swimming myself in a property formerly owned by the Eatons. Yes those Eatons.

Between the swim in Caledon and the white party, I was on wasp overload - so Sunday I ended up deep in the city's north west end attending the viewing of a friends father. It was my first Italian viewing - and uptown, with six of the city's finest politico fags, we schlepped up in a veritable two car pride parade. Roman Catholic church here we come! The drive - through neighbourhoods undoubtedly listed as part of the United Way's "priority neighbourhood" list, were a shock to the downtown elite. "never seen so many Coffee Time's," someone admitted. Welcome to Toronto I thought as I regailed them with my bizarre knowledge of the Village of Weston, Mount Denis and the Jane corridor. I admitted that as a youth I used to drive out to the inner suburbs in an attempt to understand the vast unyielding suburban landscape of Tarawna. Prufrock would, however, have be proud at our excursion.

Colour me Mr. Toronto right? Faux Hillary spreads his wings, learns how to fly, and realizes there's a big big world west of Bathurst. Sigh. Not really. I spent Monday at lunch sitting on a patio with my friend Sante in yorkville. The news of the day was sad: an 11 year-old child had been gunned down in Jane Shepperd, one of the city's poorest neighbourhoods. And there in white upper class Yorkville we sat amidst a sea of Gucci lamenting increasing violence in the city. Lamenting violence as if it actually effected us. Gun violence and most recent shooting has received major coverage, for obvious reasons. Politico's have been clicking their tongues about the need for gun control, your parents and my parents have shook their heads wandering what is going in their city [wasn't like this when we grew up here], Bill Blair can talk about more police officers on the city streets, but psychologically Jane and Shepperd may as well be Khandahar.

See In Toronto - shootings at Jane and Finch don't really feel like the city's problem. They feel like Jane and Finch's problem. We all care. We really really do. But Torontonian's also care about Israel, France, Russia and India. And sure Faux Hillary can attend the largest indo-Canadian bbq on the weekend, but come Monday - where could I be found? Sitting on a patio in Yorkville (essentially downtown Faux Hill) talking about a problem, not as if it was my own - but as if it was someone else's. I emphatize truly I do. And so as Sante and I sat having lunch amidst the afternoon suits in my very narrow view of Toronto thinking that sadly, the city of Toronto, as a populist macro image actually doesn't exist. Faux Hillary first, Torontonian second.

Toronto - a city of 'ghettoized' neighbourhoods?
Toronto - the world most multi-cultural city and also the most segregated.

Village Nights

I've decided the Village is missing something. A soul. No I kid. The Village is missing perhaps the greatest cultural barometer of the twenty first century; a cultural barometer so huge it signals that indeed a place has arrived in the mass consciousness of society. What is this barometer you may ask? A Laguna Beach reality TV show. However, seeing as that apparently isn't going to happen for a bevy of reasons - I've decided the Village needs its own rock opera and who better then the bard of the Village to pen said rock opera?

I'm figuring the story will be about a girl from East of Spadina macking a boy from West of Spadina. What will the neighbours say? Shunda indeed.

I've been busy at work and have already written the first song. It's to the tune of Summer Loving, from Grease.

[Benji]
Village loving had me a blast

[Jessica]
Village loving happened so fast

[Benji]
I met a JAP mishugenah for me

[Jessica]
Met a boy cute as can be

[Both]
Village days drifting away, to oh oh the Village nights

[YIDS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Did you get very far?

[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Like does he have a starbucks card?

[Benji]
She cruised by me, sipping her latte

[Jessica]
He ran by me, wearing some Louis

[Benji]
I saved her Gucci, it nearly broke

[Jessica]
He showed off, smokin some dope

[Both]
Village sun, something's begun, but oh oh the Village nights

[JAPS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Was it love at her curls?

[YIDS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Like can she bring her girls?

[Benji]
Took her out to the Village Freeze

[Jessica]
We went strolling, life seemed a breeze

[Jessica]
We made out at Davids by Day

[Benji]
We stayed up at the Hope Street Cafe

[Both]
Village fling, don't mean a thing, but oh oh the Village nights

[YIDS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
But you don't gotta brag

[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Cause he sounds like a drag

[Jessica]
He got friendly, bought me a frap

[Benji]
She got friendly with her hand in my lap

[Jessica]
He was sweet just graduated from CHAT

[Benji]
Well she was good, not your typical JAP

[Both]
Villave heat, boy and girl meet, but oh oh the Village nights

[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
How much Gucci did he own?

[YIDS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Was her hair in a messy bun?

[Jessica]
It turned colder - she went to Camp Gesher

[Benji]
So I told her we'd still be Beshert

[Jessica]
Then we made our true love vow

[Benji]
Wonder what she's doing now

[Both]
Village dreams ripped at the seams, but oh those Village nights

[All]
Tell me more, tell me more

The Feminism Star

There's nothing like a gay effete to pronounce feminism dead, but, months ago I declared that 2007 was the year of living dangerously [so dangerous that I spent an afternoon at the Finch Subway Station park and ride on Friday...] so straight from the horses mouth: is feminism still alive? Does anyone still care?

I spent a fair bit of time thinking about feminism over the weekend as I sat entrapped on a "boys-only" bonding trip with my dad and his high school buddies. Let me tell you - my concept of boys only and bonding includes less flatulence, less bleching and more gay sex.

But back onto feminism... for those who have been reading the Globe and Mail, the paper is practically tripping over itself to report on the grusome death of a family from Medicine Hat, purportedly murdered by their 12 year-old daughter and her twenty-something year-old boyfriend. The defense, as is their want, have chosen to portray J.R. (the daughter protected by the young offenders act) as the victim of the persuasive power of her much older boyfriend. No matter that witnesses have stated that J.R. was overheard as saying that she murdered her family for her boyfriend. Shades of Karla Homolka have obviously been drawn. Yet the overarching theme of the defense is quite clear: the woman in question is portrayed as a defenceless victim ruined by her unscrupulous older boyfriend.

Now that, one may argue, is a Medicine Hat murder trial, where an intelligent lawyer is simply trying to get his client, a poor defenceless victim herself, off. And certainly a poor and innocent female is better representation then the press portraying her as evil Eve to a hapless Adam. But wait... can't we be equal opportunists when it comes to serial killer's too?

But back to the Faux, where the bra burning ancestors of yesteryear reside in their "what me worry?" state.

Recently the Globe and Mail featured an unintentionally hilarious story about a missing 16 year-old. The teen supposedly a distant daughter of the city's beloved robber barron Eaton family. There are hundreds of missing people a year in Canada [ I actually looked at the stats can statistics before I almost got fired for not doing work at work...], over 40 missing females were killed by a serial killer in Vancouver, however, they were prostitutes so who the fuck cares, right? But the case of a missing teen and a distant relative of Canadian retail royalty gets a full page story in the Globe and Mail. Hilarious!

Even better were the accompanying quotes. The missing teen's father was quoted as saying about her apparent hideout at Bathurst and Steeles, "That's a long, long way from Forest Hill in more ways than one." He said he and his wife, Mary, were worried that someone might prey on his daughter because of her family's wealth. "Fifteen-year-old girls from this part of town are vulnerable." Once again: poor, innocent defenceless female, bad bad men.

So if teenage girls around the Faux are vulnerable because of their wealth and sex, then what are their mothers like? Well - if the mummies I see lingering round the ravine every morning are any indication - vulnerability isn't a word I'd use to describe them, and I'm not sure Gloria Steinham would be a huge fan either.

To call a spade a spade - woman (and heck a lot of men in the Faux) don't work. This is fine. The old adage being that parenthood is the most important job of your life and blah blah blah. Feminism of course taught us all that women could be just as powerful and important as men in whatever their chosen field.

But what if their chosen field is sitting at Starbucks? Isn't that indicative that Faux Hill Feminism is DOA?

Once I overheard a group of mothers sit on the patio describing their disastisfaction with the lunch served at their children's private school. "You should see the crap they're serving at lunch."

Hmm... here's a thought, actually two suggestions:
1) You make the lunch yourself
2) Your child makes their own lunch

This was the same group that offered this nugget of wisdom: "Judith, hire your nanny before you give birth. It's easier to train them when you're still pregnant. Once the baby comes you won't have to do anything."

Am I being jaded or has privilege killed the Femisinism Star, we can't rewind we've gone to far.

(please direct hate mail to my manager Sarah Gold)

Living Beyond Ones Means

There was a great article in Toronto Life about a year ago entitled "Faking It". Faking It described the scads of RosedAliens and Faux Hillary's whom had big homes, big salaries and great big scads of debt. The accompanying article interviewed desparate housewives crying about having to cut down on fresh flower delivery, moving into "smaller" centre hall houses in their attempting to downsize, running up enormous tabs at Pusateri's, while cutting out a family trip to their favourite five star resort in Jamaica. Cue violins.

Now the residents of the Village aren't exaclty scraping by like the lovely woman who makes latte's in the morning at Starbucks (I've heard her complain about her poor wages during smoke breaks, so I'm not making a snap judgement about how people who work at Starbucks may be financially marginalized - this is a fact, reserve your judgements for when I'm actually being a hypocritical judgemental asshole, k?), but in the minds of the article subjects - they were indeed just scraping by. And really, Faking It, may as well be the license plate inscription, were the Faux to become its own province or state.

The Village of Forest Hill
Motto: Living Life in Luon
Creed: Faking It!

Faking it, is in many ways a class disease. My boss at work, who grew up in a nice suburban housing tract of North York and her husband (from somewhere OOT (outside of Toronto) both probably make as much as my parents do, difference being - she's a WalMart shopper, Sima as you may or may not have guessed has never been to WalMart. Boss's motto - why pay more if you can get it for cheap at Wal Mart? Same distinction found Sima spending the GDP of Lesotho on a hand made leather sofa from a store on King East, when Boss found something similar at Ikea. Now Sima may never have been to Wal Mart, but she has, of course, been to a Target. In fact she loves Target. They do have cashmere at Target if that's a barometer of anything. And really... that's what the Faux is all about. The supposedly 'finer' things in life. I bought really nice beef ribs for my ex at Pusateri's for a BBQ, prompting my boss to ask, "who buys meat at pusateri's?" I do... and so do my neighbours? In Toronto it seems that your postal code determines your shopping habbits.

Family friends the Silverstein's (not their real name) have a huge house a couple of blocks away. They drive two late model Mercedes Benz's, she has a Cartier watch encrusted with diamonds... yet their house, according to one contractor, is "one snowstorm short of falling apart." It's completely empty inside, devoid of furniture - see as long as the flower planter is the biggest on the street no one realizes you can't afford to furnish the place. And certainly - the Silverstein's aren't poor, nor are they close to filing for bankruptcy - in fact should they sell the house, move into a smaller place they'd be laughing all the way to the proverbial bank. But - remember people, life in the Village is all about showing and not telling.

But faking it is not just about class, it's also genetic. Luckily enough though my peers have learned such valuable lessons of show and tell from our rents.

Take Pat who decided to move out of the family house near Summerhill. Fair enough right? Eventually every Alien must leave the nest of roses, but must every Alien run up a monthly tab at Summerhill Market? Claiming poor to their father at the end of the month? No spouse not.

And on to myself... like father, like son indeed. I've recently found myself an apartment to live in (yes I know... I'm moving, another post my friends, another post). The apartment, an overpriced shoe box, happens to reside on a pretty tree-lined street in the city's faux hippie enclave of the Annex. Renovated turn of the century houses, stained glass windows and crown mouldings... where else would a son of the Village find himself? Cityplace? The Bloor West Village? Cabbagetown. Please. Why would I find a cheaper apartment a little bit further away from downtown? Why would my parents buy a house a little bit further north, cutting down on their mortgage? Because that is who, for better or worse, we all are.

Point being? My carpets may be threadbare and I may only be buying myself tulips once every month but my apartment will be located on the right street in the right neighbourhood and I will be overpaying beyond my means for that right, and that my friends, is how its done in the Village (or in the Annex), bitch.