Bard of the Village - Fifth Times a Charm

Perfect gift for your
ten year old daughter: braces
and a gucci purse.

Fajitas

Things have gone from good to worse over at the Two-Fer.

My parents, god blessim, have long since entertained the idea of moving to Mexico. They have a dream of being served margharita's by someone named Lupita as they ride off into the sunset of their lives. Papa Len has even started taking Spanish lessons; so far, he's mastered "Una Cerveza per favor." As a result of the pending move down Mexico way - Sim Sim Sima has become obsessive about packing. Moving is frightening because leaving Faux Hill is tantamount to suicide. To quote, pre anti-Semitic Mel GIbson, in his Oscar winning movie, Braveheart - "They may take my classic centre-hall mansion, but they may never take my right to sit on the Starbucks patio!"
Sim Sim Sima has subsequently taken it upon herself to get rid of most things in our basement. WWSD right? Well what would Sima do? I can tell you that she'd sell the crap in your basement instead of giving it to charity. That's what she would do and that's what she's currently doing. Profit darling.
Well imagine reading the Saturday Globe and Mail, trying to get angry about Leah Mclaren's narcissism, and having your mother shove a silver serving platter in your face: "do you ever think you'll want this?" Having neither apartment nor home I can't imagine needing sterling silver crockery. Besides... perhaps Liam, my future husband, will come with his own monogrammed set of dishes, right? WASP gentry has shit like that, non? Bottom line: the consistent talk of moving, coupled with people shoving serving platters into my face, has put me a little on edge.
Tensions reached their denoument over dinner - when the family decamped to partake in some supper at the Hope Street Diner - right at the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. [First, dearest readers - a tip - there is a plethora of hot men serving tables at the Hope Street Diner. One looks like Wentworth Miller. Go. Go now.]

So, Sim Sim Sima opens up the menu, takes a glance and says this:
"Oh, Faux Hillary, they' have Fajita's." She said, pronouncing the j, as in Fa-gee-tas.
"Ah yes, Fahitas - the national cuisine of Mexico. Perhaps you've heard of the country, just south of America. Oh wait - I believe you were planning on moving there."

I guess it makes sense though - Faux Hill, is one of the least multi-cultural nabes in the city. Sure the Village may have two Italian Resto's, but that's pretty much it for ethnicity. Other then Sotto Sotto and Banfi it's Mangia Cake city coupled with a sushi place - which doesn't really count; it's the harajuku girl of the intersection. So don't blame Sim Sim Sima for not knowing how to pronounce Fajita's - we don't really do ethnic in the Village. Starbucks anyone?

S.O.S. - Save Our St Clair

I recently had the pleasure of having dinner with our family friends - the Whiterock's. The Whiterock's used to live near the Two-Fer until they moved to the other [ie the wealthier] side of Faux Hill, to the east side of the Village's dividing line - Spadna Road. The Whiterock's are typical Faux Hillary's, so gotta love em. They have an art collection valued at a couple of million dollars (some of it is total crap though... beauty in the eye of the beholder, blah blah blah), and Mr Whiterock drives a vintage 1960's Mercedes 300SL convertable (ya this fag knows about cars). I always enjoy dinner chez Whiterock because a) Mrs. Whiterock is a fine cook, she makes a mean ratatouille, and b) the conversation, which for the most part, borders on the offensive and judgemental. Just my specialty. Also the Whiterock's have 5000 bottles in their wine cellar so I generally I can get blato pretty easily on expensive red wine, and walk home drunk. WHEE!!!

So this time around - we had ten Faux Hillary's gathered around the dining room table, pleasnatly being served by the Maybe Gaybe butler (not that anyone would ever mention cock sucking at the dinner table). At some point conversation veered to something we all had intimate knowledge of. Stocks? Bonds? Racial degradation of Philipino house workers? Nope. Why - Public Transit of course (note my sarcasm). Apparently an elder member of the family had had a rude interaction with a TTC driver and was just completely turned off the not so better way.

"You're quite right," agreed Mr. Whiterock with his great aunt. "I also had a rude bus driver the other day." At this I almost spit up my French Bourdeaux all over the Frette Linen table cloth.
"When was the last time you took the bus?" I asked.
"I take the buss all the time." He answered. This was a bold-faced lie, because Mr Whiterock does not take the bus. Mr Whiterock has probably never taken a bus in his life - Whiterock grew up with my father in Montreal and was given a red sportscar when he was 16. Please. Don't bullshit a bullshitter.

Anyways conversation shifted from the bus, how plebian, to the St Clair Streetcar Reconstruction. The St Clair Streetcar is a construction project on the south end of the Faux, on - St Clair Ave. I won't bore anyone with details but blah blah blah it has caused a lot of construction and discussion amongst neighbourhood residents. The rich people don't like construction because it interferes with their lifestyle. Subsequently no one at the Whiterock's was a fan of the construction project. The noise! The cement harms their SUV's! It interferes with their driving routes! Everyone universally demeaned the project which will eventually provide reliable and faster streetcar service to thousands of communters a day, communters who happen to not live in Faux Hill, but travel through the Village to get to the subway. Not that any of this is of any consequence to those sitting around the table last week. No one at the Whiterock's actually takes the streetcar. I mean - how does one schlep 500 wine bottles on a streetcar? Oh you can't. Right.