"What is this? The corner of Spadina and Lonsdale?"

I've often tried to paint a portrait of the Village. I hope its been a vivid one. As I've said before the Village it is really constructed of one intersection - the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. Spaddin and Lonsdale, as the centre of the village, is like the Portage and Main of the Faux Hill; it is the place where Philipino nannies would go riot, the place where a spontaneous show of affection for Lululemon may occur, if the men and women of the Faux weren't so concerned about rising house prices. [ "Did you see what that hole sold for on Vesta? 1.2."]

The corner is also where the youts of the neighbourhood go to hang out. On a typical Friday or Saturday night the benches outside of Royal Bank see more action then Paris Hilton (so sue me if that was an easy joke...). The action isn't really relegated to a particular restaurant or bar or even a coffee shop - people simply stand on the corner, clicking away at their cell phones and shouting at friends and foes across the street.

Anyway, I found myself down in Puerto Vallarta for a week trying to escape my life - while reconnecting, in a big, big way, with Sim Sim Sima and Len. Bold stayed home. [Here's a piece of advice: you wanna escape gay men and jews, don't go to Puerto Vallarta.] Luckily a good friend of mine from high school was also there with her parents and we were each other's sanctuary for the week. A couple of nights her younger sister (who was completely schooled in the Village and thus knows everyone) dragged us out to this tiny hole in the wall bar. Shockingly as I looked around, damn near blinded by copious amounts of Tiffany Jewellery, I realized that the place was mobbed with the denizens of the Faux and York Mills. I hadn't seen that many Jews in one place since my bar-mitzvah. It was the type of seen where boys I went to elementary school climbed outta the wood work. After about an hour of watching people stand around and shout across the street at each other I asked if we were actually going to move to a bar; "why would we do that?" Was the reply.
So I looked around, realized I was spending my night on a street corner, and thought, "what is this? The corner of Spadina and Lonsdale?"

Talk of the Town

Amazingly after not posting for a whole month I'm coming back with such a duzie of a tale that it may have entered itself into Faux Hill Folklore.

Imagine - a European scion of society engaged to a local heiress, what more could the Faux ask for before annointing our very own Charles and Diana, or at least are very own TomKat?

The wedding - attended by over 600 hundred of the city's wealthiest at one of the loveliest halls in the city. Dancing ended at 3:00 am, only to be followed by an anulment at 5:00 am, the next day. This, my friends, is the definition of gossip. Such gossip, such a guilty pleasure, has rendered almost every Faux Hillary near speechless. For once - the proverbial cat - does have everyone's tongue. Even those who wouldn't be caught dead speaking about their neighbours have become so fascinated by the demise of this couple that it literaly is the talk of the town. Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima protestant with her work ethic (she's from New England remember) have themselves bought into this rather sordided tale. The type of tale that you feel awful about repeating but at the same time is just too good to not stop talking about.
Here's what we do know: She - a retail heiress and He - of European stock (both in heritage, breeding and finances) have been together for awhile, cohabitating over the past 8 months in a shared condo. The families never got along; while her family isn't exactly counting their shekels their wealth pales in comparison to his.
Apparently both families got into a large-scale tiff the night before the wedding. Some say this led to the split post nuptuals; however, reports at the scene describe the wedding kiss as "one of the longest" they had ever seen. Between the hours of 3:00 am and 5:00 am, something happened. Again speculation seems to think that with the marriage annuled and not consumated any financial renumeration would not be an issue - annulment nulls and voids whatever pre-nup was signed. What we do know is that the morning after brunch was cancelled by the lawyers of both parties who spent hours calling guests advising them to make their own eggs benedict.
At this point plebes are simply left to speculate and speculate is what Lululemon wearers do best. It's the same type of speculation that occures amongst women of a certain age when discussing whose face has been plumped with restalyne, doesn't really matter if they're right or wrong, the fact that the discussion is occuring is of much larger consequence.

"Stars! They're Just Like Us"

My favourite section of celeb magazine juggernaut US Weekly is "Stars! They're Just Like Us". It's the section wherein celebrities are photographed doing everyday things including shopping at Whole Foods, pumping gas and picking they're wedgies! It's all very pedestrian, mass-market Americana, melting pot - GO! America! - type of thing. It's the type of image which, at base, is what America does best, giving hope to the starving, homeless, medicare-less masses: you too can one day be photographed pumping gas (pumping gas into a Bently more like-it).

As I was walking to work (!) through the Faux the other day, I couldn't happen but notice Ted Rogers flitting about his garage. In one hand a litter tray, in the other a garbage bag. As I stealthily watched him dump the litter into the garbage bag I couldn't help but think - "Faux Hillary's! They're Just Like Us!" Rogers is after all, one of the richest men in Canada - yet apparently he has the time to deal with his cats crap.

Of course the bigger question is perhaps examining the cultural differences between scions of American society versus Canadian ones. I would never expect Gloria Vanderbilt to cut an apple let alone clean up after her cat. And don't even get me started on her wayward son Anderson Cooper. Down in America they've got illegal immigrants for that shit. Celebrities may give hope to the American masses, but never assume that celebrities are American Royalty. America is all about the illusion of hope y'all [sic]; and NOT about the actuality of it. J. Lo may be spotted pumping her own gas, but she I'm still fooled by the rocks that she's got if you get my drift.

Anyways I've been invited to a BYOBlow Party [in the Faux] for Halloween, tales from the front next week.

LOL: Love Over Lonsdale

I've said it before and I'll say it again: the Faux is a bubble in which to promote mono-cultural fraternization. Choosing to live here is all about keeping it all in the family - or for the Yiddish inclined: Mishpacha. See my ramblings about wanting a Shaygetz many moons ago...

Picture this:

INT - Beth Jacob Synagogue - Evening

The Engagement Partyof Jordana Shapiro and Mark Shefman

Jordana:
I first saw Mark at the Village Freeze. It was love at first site over a lick of a chocolate/vanilla fat free swirl.

Mark:
I saw her in her uggs and I just knew. Jordana was THE one. She is my MASHIACH.

This occurs amongst the help as well. Witness the EXTREMELY close relationships some of the philipino nannies have with each other. It's a bit odd don't you think? Have you ever seen a male philipino nanny? Where are the men?

I grabbed a drink last night with my Village Informant, Upper Canada Old Boy... and server at Village hot spot David's. As per usual Holt and I discussed the latest in Faux Hill Hillarity. It seems as if the current buzz 'round the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale is love amongst the hired help of the Faux - the Village employees.

So what's the only problem with waiters schtuping other waiters? The Village class system is kept in place - Joshua Greenbaum is left to date Miriam Stern without being tempted by the Shiksa waitresses at EdoKo who are dating the hot stock boys at the kitchen table. However, what happens when one of said waiters works at an established Village mainstay, while the other works at the young upstart around the corner?

In terms of epicurian options the Village is pretty bleak. Think East Germany circa 1962 around the time that JFK declared that he was a donut. You have ten banks, two coffee shops and until recently the only average priced resto was the rather dimunitive David's by Day, whose rather proliterian food fed the masses of Faux Hillary's starved from daily Yoga classes at the Village Yoga Studio.

David's has ruled the neighbourhood with an epicurian iron fist. It's Maginot Line - the David's Salad - is a nicely sized serving of baby greens topped off with pine nuts and craisons. Fancy... but pretty mediocre at the heart of it. Cracks in this First Line of defence, appeared last summer when a new kid on the block arrived: The Hope Street Cafe. The Hope Street Cafe doesn'thave the prime real-estate of David's... (it's down the block on Lonsdale) but it does have evening jazz... and at the end of the day the eggs are just as squishy and the food just as mediocre. Residents seemed to love the jazz concept, leaving David's suddenly yesterday's girl.

Complacency doesn't bread company however and apparently it's all out war between Hope Street and David's.

Imagine of course my surprise when I heard that Holt was caught boning one of the prettiest waitresses at Hope Street. In doing so Holt may have crossed the very fine line of tact in the Faux. This coming from a young lad who is well-versed in transgression; he's infamous for doling out a few extra craisons to patrons he's "known" if you get what I'm saying...

So for our star-crossed lovers? Sometimes keeping it in Mishpacha is just as dangerous as not leaving me a bit confused on Village semantics. Is it better to try and make a move on my straight, but Jewish neighbour, or date the cute gay guy at Starbucks? Oy vey... I default to Holt.

The story develops...

Breaking News: Starbucks Price Increase

Dateline: Forest Hill
My father drove me to work on Sunday... capping a week of 100 plus hours of work, which was personified by some crazy christian calling from Thornhill yelling at me telling me that Liberals are removing God from the country. The irony of me teillng her I had to work on Sunday was entirely lost on her. Jesus Christ Son of God and all that. Whatever... as we drove through the Faux I couldn't help but witness a large number of residents standing outside of Starbucks. The ammount of Lululemon hinted at a commercial or at least public branding... I envisioned some sort of mass collective that would coalesce into the Lulu symbol in the middle of the village as an overhead camera took a panorama shot. Kinda creative non?
I realized today as I walked into Starbucks what the fuss was about. Today Starbucks enacted a price increase. My fake boyfriend and investment banker says the price increase is in line with the CPI (what?) so he's not allarmed... however to the denizens of Faux Hill a price increase is a slap in the face for years of loyalty. Let them drink latte's indeed!

Faux Hill Vanity License Plate of the Week

On a red BMW SUV... vanity plate: "Corruption".

Faux Hillary Goes to School

The first time that Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima dropped off Bold at her higher academic institution of choice: McGill - Canada's Harvard, we sat in the car crossing the St Lawrence River and all silently wept as we realized that our beloved Bold was "all grown up." When yours truly arrived at his higher learning instition of choice (also McGill) I was dropped off at the Via train with a sleeping bag strapped to my back. Fer serious...
The right of passage known as university begins anew every year around Labour Day and for the average Faux Hillary university is neatly summed up by a quick decision: Western or McGill - McGill is the choice for the Faux Hillary with a more urban prediliction and who wouldn't be caught dead on Richmond Street in London, while Western is for the more simple of Faux residents i.e. those whose parents have recently inherited some money and subsequently moved into town from Thornhill.
With McGill of course comes yet another right of passage for the well healed spawn of the Faux - an apartment in the Ghetto. The McGill Ghetto, or Little Toronto, as some know it, is a little slice of Forest Hill just to the east of McGill campus. The town houses that line the streets of the Ghetto (and by Ghetto I don't mean poor cramped tenements, I mean restored turn of the century town houses) are filled to the rafters with ex-pat Torontonians who seem to migrate en mass every September for edumacation at McGill, often proclaiming amid cups of Molson Dry at that "Montreal simply has so much more soul then Toronto." Well... MOntreal has more soul then Forest Hill... but that isn't really saying much. The soul of Forest Hill is a two block shopping strip of three coffee shops and eight banks.
A good friend of mine happens to own a condo in the Ghetto, which he used to live in but now rents out to McGill students. Back in Montreal for some rest and relaxation I happened to run into him in the Ghetto. The Deej was forelorn because his new tenants - whom he called "4 assholes from Forest Hill" - were causing a fair bit of grief. No surprises but one of these lads was a cousin of Faux Hill Celebrity Extraordinaire CiCi Cobbstein.

It appears that the 4 Assholes had emailed him a list of demands prior to taking possession of the apartment.

Such demands included:
- all walls repainted white
- light bulbs replaced and a stash of replacement light bulbs left in cupboard
- new carpeting
- new blinds on all the windows
The list went on and on and got more and more ridiculous and more and more beyond Deej's legal responsibilities as a landloard. The Deej thought that these demands were both bizarre and hilarious... until he met the parents of his tenants, whom he attempted to explain that their children were being redonks. It appears, however, that in the Faux the apple doesn't fall far from the tree (Remember this is Forest people!)
As soon as Deej appeared at the condo the mother of the ringleader, who shall remain nameless, motioned for Deej to show her where the dryer to the apartment was. As he showed her the washer and dryer, she looked at the lint trap and asked, "Will you be removing the lint?"
To which Deej responded: "No... but you will."

Snap. You can take the Faux Hillary to McGill... but you can't take the Faux Hillary out of the Hill; or in this case, you can take the Faux Hillary out of the Faux, but you can't take away his philipino nanny. Let's call that lesson 1 in Faux Hill 101. Mid-term next week.

Bard Acres

Haiku Friday's are back with a total winner!

To the Tune of Green Acres:

North of Bloor is where
I'd rather sit and molt; I
Get allergic south of Holt's.

Birds of a Feather

Today perhaps begins a new chapter of this blog. A chapter which could see me as the next Perez Hilton (only slimmer and better looking) or the newest Lainey (only less Asian). Today I am reporting on actual celebrity gossip (i.e. Hollywood celebrities and NOT just Faux Hill Celebs). Although there are a smattering of Village celebrity residents, the Roots proprieters live on my street, a bunch of Maple Leafs reside on the other side of Spadina (i.e. wealther), Ted Rogers is in fact the neighbourhoods Mr Rogers [sans cardigan but with cable sweater -get it?], nobody as exciting, as say Tom Cruise, actually lives in the hood. The Faux ain't Malibu for example (although Nelly Furtado has apparently bought a house here recently and let's face it, in a post-Promiscuous summer, she is Kinda a Big Deal). Every so often a real celeb does indeed grace the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale wondering what the fuss is all about.
Par example: I once saw Ryan Gosling jaywalk across the street in green pants. He didn't say, "Jonathan: I wrote you 365 letters. A letter for every day of the year." Before cradling my face in his ginormous elongated hands and sticking his tongue down my throat. Having once been in a letter writing affair (one that included three letters a day! Beat that McGoslings.)... I can honestly say the thought is too exhausting to even think about again. Sorry RyGos.
But I've lost the plot to this yarn. Where the fuck am I?
Ah... Mischa Barton: The Most Blase woman to have graced the small screen. MB has had to come up to provincial Toronto to film a movie (the role that she decided to leave the OC for because, if you don't already know, she's a big movie STAH!). Barton, a habitual user of the chronic, was a tad bit worried of where she would score her junk once she arrived in the Great White North. So, while still in LA, she called up her friends boyfriend, who happens to be a Canadian lost in LaLaLand, wherein he refers her to his younger sister, a senior at the Faux Hill Collegiate. As so often happens when you find a smoking posse, the smokers become fast friends (remember that time Lisa said Gargamel!! How fucking funny was that! [ahh... it probably wasn't]). Having scored herself an instant posse Mischa ended up spending a fair bit of time, when not shooting the Academy Award winning opus that will launch her career, running around the Village avec her new found gaggle of girls; think, "Oh my gawd I love your Tiffany accessories!" & "Oh my god I love your flat ironed hair!" Birds of a feather certainly do flock together and for a time, Barton became the resident teen queen round these parts. Sadly Barton is back in LA, with her regular buds, and the rest of us are simply left to take the final toke on the proverbial roach of fame. Sad.

U R 2 Sexy

So I promised Bold Sharon that I would no longer blog. Luckily for both of us her demand coincided with me finding myself some [un]gainful employment. So I haven't really been able to blog, even if I had wanted to. Today, however, I found myself with a bit of downtime on the old campaign trail (I've gone mildly political) so I'm sitting in the thicket of the Faux blogging away (in like forty degree heat - this ladies and germs is commitment).
As per usual there is so much to say and so little time to do it in. But today's roman a clef is about the red Ferrari that has just parked itself in front of me.
Buying a Ferrari is a statement in and of itself. It says: I make more money by selling stocks, selling shares of my own internet start-up before the tech bubble burst, or blowing away my father's hard earned sheckels, then you will ever see in your entire lifetime (Even if you win the a cash for life payout).
Buying a red Ferrari is taking such a statement and kickin it up a notch. It says: BAM! Look at me! I have more money then you - you lowly wannabe writer, blogger and bard who for some reason has yet to find a boyfriend and who pines sadomasochistically after those who I've broken up by stalking them via the facebook (sorry, personal tangent) AND everyone else around you.
Anyways, the man in front of me has made all of these statement. He bought the Ferarri, by which he has proven his masculinity for the entire Village to see, his penis is clearly HUGE. So what does one do once they have made such a BOLD statement (and your name doesn't end with Sharon?) why you get yourself a personalized license plate that says U R 2 SEXY. Hunh? Here is where you lost me Mr U R 2 SEXY-owitz. Let's examine this plate for a moment shall we? What does it all mean? Is it about the driver: a balding skinny white man whose red hair clashes with the exterior patina of his car? Is it about his botoxed trophy wife with the biggest Coach bag this side of Yorkdale? Is it about me? Is it about driving along Adelaide Street in Little 906 attempting to pick up 19 year-olds visiting from Mississauga?
U R 2 SEXY if you're reading this please contact me. I've got questions. You've got answers!

Bard of the Village; King Bard the Fourth

A haiku inspired by a girl I saw walking through the village today.

"A personal note:
The girl wearing uggs today
The trend is over."

Traffic

What's traffic like in your hood? Gridlock? SUV's stopped at red lights, some woman errantly cutting her toe nails, while clicking away at her blackberry speading down the interstate? How provincial.
I got into quite the Faux Hill traffic jam myself this morning. As I walked to library to get some new reading material I encountered a spate of sidewalk blocked by six (6!!!!) nannies, two bugaboo strollers, and six dogs of the genetically modified bent. It's so nice to see "the help" walking the dogs as their owners sit at Starbucks drinking latte's and planning weekend trips to Muskoka. Speaking of... I'm late for a coffee date in the Village. Toodles. ;)

Cobb Salad 2

So back from New York, saw Brynnah and went to more village's then the Faux can shake a fist at: West, East, Greenwich. Upon my return who should I run into but one of the local celebrities of the Faux Hill, CiCi Cobstein.
I happened to spot CiCi, everyone's favourite heiress and village dilettante [sic], eating at David's around the time it turns over to Buzz by Night. Now I generally don't like making fun of people's physical appearances, but when you're on the zaftig side of fat, I do like to ask should a person be ordering a salad under this guise: "I don't want any lettuce, replace all the greens with avocado." No. No they shouldn't. But the higher fat quantity of avocado is the least of my worries, right?
Overhearing tales of CiCi's last job and being on the un side of employed I thought: with whom has CiCi been sharing her talents with [besides local cokeheads]? So I did a bit of sleuthing, called up my village informant Holt and ran the gossip through whatever mill used to grist flour up in these parts (uhm... like, we only serve Ace Bakery bread).
And what I unconvered is a classic tale of Faux Hillary so beautiful in its conception that one would assume it to be fictional. Only it isn't.
Upon graduation CiCi decided she wanted to work for a not-for-profit. You go girl! Daddy, wanting only the best for his little girl, arranged a job interview for CiCi at her charitable agency of choice. Yay.
Now do you think it was SO simple; a phone call to arrange a non-existent job? As someone who is unemployed I can tell you that no, no it isn't. To arrange said interview a lovely chunk of change was donated by Mr. Cobbstein to said charity, in exchange for his daughter's employment (gasp!). All's well that end's well right? Wrong. CiCi, always daddy's little girl and business minded at heart, decided that, having won over the hearts and minds of the interview committee with her 'talents', she was going to 'negotiate' for more money and health benefits [Are mani/pedi's covered by OHIP?]. Oy. The charity proceeds to call up daddy and cries poor; we can't hire your daughter unless you pony up more cash. So much like any eight year old needs a pony, daddy forks over the cash and CiCi spends a year working in the marketing department of a charitable organization.
Yet another tale of Faux Hillary Hilarity...

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

It's not too often that I talk about myself, much to the chagrin of Bold who feels she gets the raw deal round the blog.
I fail, however, to give credit where credit is due and I have to hand it to the Rents, Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len for handling the whole je suis gay with utmost class and empathy. So where did the Rents find themself pre-father's day. Why out to the Village (the rainbow coloured one) for dinner at a hot new boite. They raved about the food, the service, and "the nice walk we took down Church Street afterwards". It was "so alive with colour and people". Len even bought a t-shirt at American Apparel. PFLAG here they come.

I'm off to New York to see the non-hormonal sistah Brynnah. Faux in the Apple. GT's all around.

Bard of the Village; The Third Cut is the Bardiest

Life of a nanny:
Your "owner" buys you Starbucks
While you watch the kids.

Inherent Specialization

The problem with Starbucks... (and while I do love the company; sometimes I even joke that "I no longer study Kaballah; Starbucks is my new religion". Anyways the problem with Starbucks )is that it has created a culture of instant gratification and inherent specialization. (Big words eh? I'm kinda intense this week.)

Witness: Lulu mom ordering [and I shit you not] a grande, in a vente cup, soy, four splenda, extra hot, non-fat latte. Fair enough bitch... right? Maybe.
As she leaves her blackberry rings. Thank Sean Preston for her blackberry right? What life-threatening, earth-shattering crisis could this yoga mom possibly be a part of... I'll tell you:
"Yes... hello."
Pause
"Oh you're at which Shoppers Drug Mart?"
Pause
"Well... I was at the Eglinton location and I was looking for a size nine in the black jelly flip flops..."
Let me break down the Faux Hillish for those of you who don't speak the local dialect. This woman, who clearly has NOTHING better to do with her life, was at Shoppers, saw a pair of cheap flip flops that she liked but which were unavailable in her size(and which are probably on sale) so she has had some poor minimally paid employee scour the country for them so she could pick them up. Woman, get a life. Seriously.

I actually blame Starbucks for creating this instant gratification mantra of consumption and for creating a culture where the "customer is always right". [Truly I'm just practicing a bit of university pschology: according to transference psychology it isn't the woman's fault, rather it's society in general, which allows her to get away with it, blah blah blah].
But really IT IS Starbucks which has taught the customer to specialize his/her drink to thesis sized proportions; IT IS Starbucks where consumption is instantaneously gratified and by providing such excellent customer service that by default the cusomters of Starbucks assume that every store plays by the same rules. And that if you haven't gotten the memo via your blackberry is insanity.

Bard of Village Part Deux; Bardier

Todays Haiku:

Grande, Vente, Soy?
So many options to choose
That's why life is hard.

Fat Dan* Quote of the Day

"I just lost sixty grand on the stock market!" Gleefully shouted across the Village.

*Fat Dan is yet another Village Rat. Trust fund baby who tools around the Village doing very, very litte.

Cobb Salad

CiCi Cobbstein... the closest thing the Village has to a celebrity heiress [a la Paris Hilton]has been all over the Faux Hill this summer. And like any afflicted Faux Hillary CiCi is known as a bit of a princess. I know her from our brief respite in grade school when she asked if my parents had a private jet a la hers. No. We drive a Toyota. But I digress.
The Cobbstein family is old Jewish money (circa mid-century). Finance I think but I don't really know and Google searches bring up shell companies upon holding companies. Needless to say, however, there is a LOT of money behind this rather unpleasant girl. What does CiCi do you might ask? CiCi spends a lot of time in the Village ordering salad's at David's.
Tongues, however, have been wagging over the more recent debocles of her existence. It seems that mummy and daddy bought our CiCi a post-grad present - a house! In Faux Hill. Round these parts we're probably talking very high six figures or 1 million plus for an unrenovated Faux Hill pile. Please sir can I have a somemore?
Although not quite house-poor CiCi, always a party girl, took to having high rolling poker parties (texas-holdem is all the rage) as a little side-venture. This lasted till the cops got involved, illegal gambling + drugs + guns = messy PR disaster. So the house was sold and CiCi was installed in a nearby condo avec doorman.

London School of Hardknocks (LSH)

Today, while having coffee with my village informant: Holt [Upper Canada Old Boy turned embittered Village Waiter, you serve $11.00 salads for a year with a BA and see how you feel], I saw a member of the Helmet Brigade (the Helmet Brigade are forty-something + women who get their hair blow dried once a week to the point of consistent hard helmet hair - look around it's all over the place). As a family friend of this particulary Helmet Brigade member (holla holla Linda), I asked how her daugther was doing at teacher's collge. "Fabulous of course! She doesn't like Buffalo... but other then that it's great."
As Linda walked away Holt turned to me and said, "Buffalo? Who goes to teacher's college in Buffalo?"
Ha ha... dearest reader's welcome to Faux Hill where people do in fact go to teacher's college in Buffalo. Why? For the exact same reason that Jessica Goldenstein goes to law school in East Lansing. That is where the progeny of Linda and Jessice Goldenstein got accepted.
Welcome to Faux Hill in 2006 where getting into a Canadian grad school is really really tough :( but getting into some sketchy American grad school that offers equivalency programs, if you're willing to pay top dollar (let's say 20,000 americano - lowball ballpark figure), is really really easy. This is good news if you're thinking of opening an American Apparel outlet in East Lansing; bad news if you tend to think that people should work hard for their future and not simply buy it. Oh wait - this is a capitalistic society, isn't it?
Witness the rise in popularity of going teacher's college in Australia, Buffalo or the favoured grad school of the jetset, LSE. Oh London School of Economics... an interesting case of an international school which has succesfully marketed itself to cash-rich North American's hoping for a bit of Old World Cache (this is an historical consistent... the Vanderbilts foamed with glee at being able to marry off their daughters to poverty stricken British royals). LSE has invented hundred's of master's programs in almost every discipline you could think of... and well to be honest, this kind of shit works. LSE = master's = high paying job... Remember those people who get their teaching degrees from D'Youville College Buffalo will compete for the same teaching job that Sally Smalltown, who worked her ass off to get into teacher's college at Queen's, wants. Who said that life was fair and that we are all given the same opportunities? What do you think this is Communism? Bitches, I saw a Ferrari in Faux Hill today; it's called inheritence... Those who have it have an easier job maintaining it.
So at the end of the day, where does that leave Holt and I? Feelings of imbued superiority and poverty with a mix of a grande Sumatra. Holt, however, did say he was thinking of working on his portfolio for Parsons School of Design... natch.

Bard of the Village

I've decided that as I'm basically the Poet Laureatte of Faux Hill every Friday I will write a new Faux Hill Haiku:

Sittin at Starbucks
Watching Cars Parallel Park
Their Uggs are too tight.

Hired Help

[Warning: the longer i'm unemployed the more bitter I've become]

Yawn... it's so hard to find help these days, isn't it?
A big complaint that I hear from parents (and by hear I mean overhear) is that kids are just floudering at elementary school. There's too much homework, their reading skills aren't up to par... etc... etc... I mean how can little Janey learn both English and French, and Hebrew if she goes to a Jewish day school? One mother pulled her child out of Bialik, a local Hebrew Day School, in grade one because she was worried about her child's poor reading skills.
Hrm... I happened to call my neighbour Linda Goldenblatsternowitz today in order to follow up with a connection she had for my job hunt. Seeing as she herself doesn't really work she must know someone in the working world right? Linda has two youngish boys (13+15)... so who should answer the phone? The housekeeper, of course!
What ensued is the modern day Abbot and Costello routine if Costello was a recent immigrant whose grasp of English was non-existant at best.

FH: Can you tell Linda that Jon called.
HK: Jon?
FH: Yes. J-O-N.
HK: J-O-H-N.
FH: No. J-O-N.
HK: H-N.
Finally I acquiesed.

Now my point here is not to make fun of this woman's English skills. Canada is a country built on immigration etc etc... however, when the unemployed parents of the Faux Hill sit at Starbucks lamenting how their children have poor reading skills - I often snidely think to myself, "if you spent as much time with your beloved children as your housekeeper does and less time at Starbucks maybe little Janey wouldn't have such poor reading comprehension..."

Sweatpants are the new Black

Oy... I may have to change the subheading of this blog. According to this Saturday's Style Section in the Globe and Mail: "The Lululemon era is officially kaput." AHHHHHHHHHHHHH... This blog began with the pretense of making fun of Lululemon. Is my raison d'etre suddenly finito? Finished before I even had the chance of jumping on the Lulu bandwagon. Sim Sim Sima owns a pair of Lulu's, but once she's wearing something trendy, I can safely say that the trend has undoubtedly expired.
After intellectualizing a bit over the whole situation, I came to an important conclusion: round the Faux Hill sweatpants never really went out style. Baggy Gym Master sweatpants, birkenstock clogs, and a messy-bun have been the defacto Faux Hillary uniform since local residents & owners of Roots, the Budmans, started making their classic beaver logo'd sweatpants (see photo) decades ago. At the end of the day Lululemon was simply a brief affair with a trashy, new money, Shiksa interloper from Vancouver (ew).
You might say that Faux Hill is much like the mob... we also protect our own.

Overheard... (via cellphone?)

So I've been spending a lot of time at the Office (Starbucks in Faux Hill). It's the nexus of my job search and the nexus for realizing the ridiculousness that is Faux Hill.
This morning I was stunned to witness the ultimate if Faux Hillary Hillarity - arguments about cell phones. [Sidenote: It's actually a big day for cell phones at the Two-Fer... Sim Sim Sima just got herself a brand spankin new blackberry (of course she isn't paying for it, WWSD, as if you have to ask. TDSB pays for that shit).]
If you haven't noticed, cell phones have truly become ubiqutous; I mean even the children I've tutored in Regent Park have cellies.
My favourite use of cell phones however are the unemployed mummies of the Faux Hill (ya know the kind who don't work, don't need to work). They have Blackberries. I used to ask myself why until I witnessed something so enlightening I practicaly expected JC to walk in off the street and ask for a no foam, extra hot latte.
Here's what happened to Prada (so named because of her lovely Prada rain jacket) and so overheard by yours truly as Prada happened to tell her bff Gucci (so named because of her lovely Gucci rain hat).
P: "I'm sorry I'm late. I just hit another car."
G: "What happened."
Que some story about how Prada tried to deflty manouever new suv into too small parking space with bad results.
P: "We're going to be late for our mani's." (Mani's = Manicure in Faux Hillish - the local dialect)
G: "Let's call the Spa. I need a coffee before we go."
P: "But I don't have the number!"
And to save the day, wouldn't you know it, Gucci swoops into the Louis and pulls out the Blackberry. Mani's saved... soy latte's drunk. Pay it forward, non?

But really the ultimate in cell phone antics is the cell phone bill argument. I arrived to witness Ms CEO (short blond hair, white pearl studs, tailored tasteful power suit) sitting have a morning coffee with daughter. In front of them were Roger's cell phone bills. I knew as soon as I saw them that this was going to end in disaster.
"It is your duty, as my parent, to pay for my cell phone." The daugther yelled.
"Why do you think you get an allowance?" Asked the mother.
"But I spend it on other things."
"Like what?"
"Dinner. Out. With friends."
Que argument over cell phone bills, which escalated, and I shit you not dearest readers, into tears. The daughter actually cried and accused her mother of being a bad parent. I mean my god! Instilling financial lessons in our spawn. Won't somebody please think of the children?

Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to my right...

They're filming a movie in the Faux Hill. This means that there are mildly attractive men in diesel's lurking about.
Now that summer is about to get into full gear the Village is kicking it up a notch, BAM. The patio is back to its usual display of mummies, teenagers, and the oddity who buys lunch at EdoKo, but has to have a cup of java with her tempura (Don't even get me started about this trend - something I'm closely watching and have taken to calling these women Starbetic's. AKA... they're like diabetic, but instead of glucose shots they need shots of Starbucks bevies...)
Inside Starbucks however is a completely different story. Inside, where I've taken to sitting in the laptop aisle, has almost become an office of diligent worker's who have made Starbucsk the Pomo cubicle.
The usual suspects are a convoluted group that are potentially the basic skeleton shell of a Fortune 500 Company (just ask Ken Lay).
They (We) include:
1) Donna... gotta love Donna. Donna apparently is a consultant for gender equality. She lives part time in Switzerland. Donna is fabulous.
2) The Day Traders - Nebish Jewish fellows who are learning how to day trade while living off of family income, I suspect. They're an odd sort, late thirties, who seem to flock to a much older man who is inherently more succesful then them and acts as their guru. They do, however, provide variety to the Bucks... and subsequently you get to hear lines like, "start shortrading gold; its heading for a freefall." It makes me feel like an extra in Michael Douglas's Wall Street.
3) Metrosexual Mike - I don't know Mike's real name. Mike isn't even that attractive in a conventional way... but man o' man... does Mike fill out a skimpy white v-neck t-shirt really fucking well. What does Mike do? I'm not sure to be honest. I worry that Mike could be me in the future (but with A LOT of trips to the gym to work on my biceps)... he seems to have a lot of ideas (he told Donna he was going to start a restaurant that only sold barbecue related things, it was going to be called Que. I wish him all the best.

Lost Souls - Finding a Protege

I havne't blogged in over a week. Intrepid readers may have concluded that I have a job. They'd be wrong.
Yesterday I spent five hours sitting at Starbucks with my Village informant Cam. Cam's sorta a lost soul, amongst a sea of lost souls these days... We shot the shit for hours upon end, discussing what used to be where What a Bagel is (Bayshore Trust), Bank of Montreal (Paper Ideas) the Second Cup (CC-ookies, they only sold cookies; surprise it didn't last very long). Cam then suggested that I become the Village historian... something that well... has crossed my mind once before. Once when he was drunk (which is an occurance that occurs more often then not) Cam suggested that they construct a traffic circle with a statue of me in the middle of Spadina and Lonsdale.
As more and more coffee was ingested topics veered from Faux Hill to various antics of our youthful years and we began to attract the attention of the only other patio dweller... (at 10 degrees it was rather chilly for the botoxed beauties with their bugagboo's) a 15 year-old student at the Collegiate. And in this lovely 15 year-old... I may have found myself a protege. For who else besides yours truly sits at the Starbucks patio with a leather bound journal eavesdropping on other peope's conversations? Just me... and now I may have found my straight female counterpart. The good news: she got kicked out of camp and will be around for the entire summer. The even better news - she was wearing a Forest Hill hoodie - does it get any better then that? I don't think so.

Faux in the Faux

Fine... I'll admit that I'm a complete poser whose landed in the Faux Hill by accident of his parent's good fortune to purchase in the hood pre tullip craze.
When I look around the Starbucks patio I do wonder if it's at all noticible that I'm not quite as rich as the Upper Canada old boy next to me. I mean my jeans are designer, but my Ipod's a black and white model (how embarassing).

Said Upper Canada Old Boy is wearing:
Nike Shox Sneakers: $200.00
UCC Sweatpants: approx $50.00 bucks? However... there is no way anyone can simply wear Upper Canada sweatpants unless they a) go there [tuition is $23,475.00 a year] or b) their boyfriend goes there. I attempt to make eye contact with my mark to assess if he actually goes there or if the pants belong to his boyfriend. No dice. He goes there.
Burberry Rain Jacket: $500.00
Motorolla RAZR: $400.00
Ipod 30GB Video: $379.00
Louis Vuitton Ipod case: $250.00 (although its a bit embarassing to have a Louis Vuitton ipod case)
Polo hat: $45.00

Alas... I'm just not quite as bling. I walked home in shame.

It's My Anniversary

Astute readers will have realized that it's my one year anniversary! Yes it has been only a year since this blog began out of sheer boredom and out of complete hilarity at Faux Hill; yet what a year it has been! In fact this anniversary is almost as important to me as my BirthGay (yes... I came out around my birthday and hence the two are combined into one super duper holiday!).
I'm going to try and create a year in review or something to try and help newfound readers figure out what a Gaygetz is, who exactly the Rama is and what WWSD means. We'll see if I don't find a job before this all happens.

And on that note, I gotta be in the Village for coffee. Toodles!

Mayfair

Today I travelled from the confines of the Faux Hill down to Rosed Ale... Rosed Ale is the alternate Faux Hill - pretty much the same place but without a Starbucks (Egads!) but with more WASP's. It's a trade off I guess... and sometimes to be honest I'd trade Starbucks for a Gaygetz. But I digress... as a Faux Hill boy sometimes you gotta check out the rival 'hoods and see what all the fuss is about.
Mayfair is the annual Springtime Fair held by the RosedAliens to celebrate their good fortune and raise money for local sports teams (no not for the nearby slum St Jamestown, but for themselves. Afterall Holden's hockey team needs new practice gear!). I went along with Kitty and her entire family for a day of good natured establishment fun, basically hung out with the mayor, drank beer and hung out with the future business leaders of Canada (remember that these were the same idiots that did bong hit after bong hit in university; the lines of establishment run about as deep as the Canadian Shield that your cottage sits on in Muskoka). I'll admit that I'm always a bit enamoured with Rosed Ale. I love that at the Summerhill Market you can simply say, "162 Binscarth" and sign a receipt and daddy pays for it all. It's beautiful and small-town esque and something that Faux Hill for all of our private school's and coffee shops just can't compete with. Something else the Faux Hill can't compete with - the Gaygetzym... I mean where else is yours truly going to swoon at this sentence:
"Ya Queen's has been really good for law school. It's quiet so I can practice my squash game." Jake McMaster... you had me at squash.

*

In other news A Nax, the unemployed Faux Hill cousin, will be home shortly. Antics will ensue I'm sure.
She also put a gun to my head and made me write that. Bitch.

Shhh Gossip

As Faux Hill Celebrity (TM) and general know it all... I happen to privy to much of Faux Hill Gossip. I have a team of minions who comb the Forests and Hills of the region looking for smutt on which I can report. Actually I have one friend who works at a resto in the Village and he feeds me shit about his clients. Other stuff I pick up at Starbucks.
So the latest goods and people this is hot off the press is that a certain rakish gentleman habituates the Village on certain nights with his mistress and on other's with his wife...
And for those who think the Faux Hill is too harsh a name for these parts - I suggest you reconsider.

The Bible

Sociologically... the Village is odd. 50% yid and 50% WASP the two solitudes are neatly divided by the regions only thoroughfare, Spadina, which cuts a broad swath down the middle of Faux Hill separating the upwardly mobile Yids to the West and the Landed Gentry WASP's on the Eastside. Both groups mingle sans much trouble in the Village; there was one time when I thought a group of WASP's and JAP's were going to recreate a scene from West Side Story (When you're a JAP you're a JAP all the way, from your first Louis Vuitton to your last dyin' day), but then I realized they were politely waiting for the light to change. In fact I'm propossing someone dispatch me to Northern Ireland to help with peace talks... there hasn't been an uprising round these parts since the great Botox Scare of 1999. This cultural sensitivity is perhaps best personified by Starbucks, which round 'Holiday' sells both Christmas themed shortbread cookies AND some which commmemorate the Eight Crazy nights...
The proliferation of Jews in the Village isn't a shocker... read any good book on Modern American Jewish history and what will you find? Well round the fifties upwardly mobile Jewish practitioners, second generation doctor's and lawyers began settling in establishment neighbourhoods as a sign of newfound wealth, and desire to escape from the Ghetto while emulating North America's WASP Gentry. As a product of this is it any wonder of my own obsession with the Gaygetz (old habits die hard dahlink's).
Philip Roth's Goodbye Columbus portray's this obsession with establishment prep in a rather popcorn-esque fashion as nouveau suburbanized Jews form country clubs and "have their noses fixed". In one particularly telling scene Roth describes the family's bar stocked with the best bottles of whiskey and champagne, all unopened of course (because in emulating the landed Gentry... we Jews don't drink - note the absence of a bar in Faux Hill - it's like prohibition here).
And so I present to you my latest purchase, pink and green argyle vans. Because does anything say establishment prep more then pink and green? Add in argyle and you have yourself establishment prep with a British flair... these shoes aren't just a purchase y'all they are a statement.

The Village Tap

I was on the phone with Kitty today; Kitty is like my Rosed Alien mother... or exactly how I picture the mother of my future Gaygetz [basically she offers me a glass of wine when I come to her with my emotional problems, then tries to hug me (awkwardly) before admitting that she just isn't that emotional].
Kitty is to Rosed Ale as I am to Faux Hill... aka underemployed, bitter and simply enamoured with the ridiculousness of our respectively cushy lodgings.
We discussed a friend of hours who had left the family pile on Binscarth... she had found the move to be rather traumatic; Kitty empathized of course, "I'm sure I'd also be upset. If I ever left."
So what is it about Faux Hill that says you're home?
What truly warms my heart every time I laze about Starbucks pondering my directionless life is the Village Tap. The Village Tap is an elaborate dance between cars awkwardly trying to manoever around the overpopulated Village Strip. There is nothing more heartwarming then sitting on a Starbucks patio on the first day of spring and watching a Mercedes Benz shirk itself into non-existant spot.

There are 3 kinds of Village Tap:

1) Geriatric Tap
- generally an old man/woman in a ginormous American built Buick who has no concept of how far back the car actually extends
- Although generally excusable "they're old! they're confused!" Watch out, the Geriatric Tap is exceptionally dangerous not only to your fender but also to pedestrians walking on the sidewalk. Geriatrics aren't only about harming other cars... they're also about jumping the curve.

2) SUV Tap
- this is a new breed of tap brought on by:
post-yoga samsara + caffeine/aspertame withdrawl * stressed out mothers - hired foreign help + unnecessarily large cars + the Motorolla Razr cellphone
= highly unncessary Tapping while attempting a parallel park while on the phone ordering foreign help to feed beloved children lunch even as her own headache grows from combined caffeine and aspertame withdrawl and her mouth salivates in anticipation of sharing a David's salad with similarly unemployed friends as they discuss the uselessness of hired help. Try and do that WHILE parallel parking? Impossible!

3) The Hired Help Tap
- this is the most awkward tap
- the hired help of the Village (aka the painters, gardeners who are sleeping with your wife while you're downtown working for a large mulitnational/playing gulf and siphoning off from your trust fund) often inundate the place over the lunch hour trying to fit their vans into narrow spots vacated by post-yogga mummies hurrying to the Summer Sale at Holt's
- exceptionally awkward because this Tap raises horrible issues of social class that no one wants to talk about - Dude it's Canada

Today as I biked through the Village I witnessed all three kinds of Tap and thought to myself, "I truly would miss this if I ever left."

Craigslist!

Because I'm a) weird b) unemployed and c) a hopeless romantic I read the Craigslist Missed Connetions just about every day... in the hopes that one day someone will write a Craigslist Missed Connection about me: You - stunningly attractive boy at Starbucks in the Forest Hill Village - we exchanged smiles accross the patio... Me - Jake Gylenhaal esque...

Well... Imagine my surprise as I perused the MC's this weekend:

ForestHill 2ndCup ~ just b4 10am ~ light? - m4m - 48

---

Reply to: pers-157976105@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-05-05, 9:31PM EDT


I lit you once, I lit you twice.
You, great pockets, a smoke & 3 coffees. Very sexy accent...
Me, my coffee, my Drum, my glasses...


May I light you thrice?

~
No... he wasn't referring to me reader's [uhm... I only do Starbucks] but a Missed Connection in the Faux Hill and a gay one at that!
Love is in the air!

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em

In regards to being unemployed and sans Gaygetgz... I've taken to wearing shorts. Madras shorts. If you can't find a gaygetz... might as well emulate one.

Unemployment...

They are renovating a house down the street (no surprise really... people NEED space for sub-zero's these days) and it happened that in my unemployement I've gotten to see the happy home owner out and about, directing construction workers, directing the gardener (a kept woman of the Faux Hill does a lot of ordering; her entire life is basically a giant life size Starbucks outlet) and well... let's just say that she's used to having work done and I'm not only talking about the house. ZING!
So... what's my point here? There exists in this world a whole underclass of those who don't work, do so by their own choice and are still indepentely wealthy enough that they don't even need to look for a job!
It so happened that I've been hanging out a fair bit in the Rosedale Village (mostly circumstatial and partially practical - I mean if I'm going to meet a gaygetz... I better start hanging out in WASP territory - non?). Today I happened across a member of the Pussy Posse, who as a gang are not really known for doing much other then sitting and drinking coffee; this man, whom I'll call Jesse Raphael, (named for his prediliction of red reading glasses), was sitting with another gaggle of unemployed Rosed Alien men. My first reaction was - SLUT! - how dare he cheat on the pussy posse... but then I realized this wasn't really cheating. This man has literally nothing else to do but sit at various Starbucks's (and can we as a society please think of a better plural for Starbucks?) and gab with other unemployed yet independently wealthy men.
Whenever I mention this independently wealthy syndrome to my mother, Sim Sim Sima, who then reminds me that I am not of independently wealthy means and that I better get a job. I hear Starbucks is hiring...

Backstreet's Back Alright

Now throw your hands up in the air - wave 'em around like you just don't care...

Ya know how on the OC Ryan and Marissa are like always getting back together, fighting, breaking up and its a vicious cycle of Marissa getting into drugs/alchohol/lesbianism and waiting for Ryan to come save her whilst you the viewer are always sitting there yelling at the TV and being like, "fuck Ryan for the love of G-d ditch the twig and come live with me"? Ok maybe that's just me...
Well dearest readers... I'm back... It's May 2006 and I'm unemployed and potentially friendless... yes that's right that whole blip of becoming an advertising maven was a complete and utter joke - I'm all about the words and potentially about making Faux Hill Village t-shirts (because what's a gay jewish yid supposed to do other then become a fashion designer, natch).

In short:
- The jock got dumped - :(
- I renamed my boss Cuntina Whordeiro and then quit
- The Rama attempted a comeback (because people never change and because Ryan and Marissa will always be Ryan and Marissa - the Rama will always be the Rama) - only to be told that he was last season's plot device and like any bad secondary character he won't be getting his own spin off
- I went to LA - it sucks and makes the Village look like South Compton on a good day

Stay tuned dahlink's. I'd write more but I must bank and buy a latte in the Village. Sigh...

Holla Hollah

Springtime for a Faux Hiller

The Village is really a summer thing. I've said it before and I'll reiterate it now. So... a couple of weeks ago on the first passable day of warmth in Toronto would I not happen to spot the classic male Faux Hillary in his summer ensemble: sweatpants, those adidas flip flops that everyone owned in Rez, polo and sunglasses. Yes ladies put those Uggs away the David's patio is OPEN!

Alas I've been busy to recount tales from a blossoming Faux Hill Spring. In short I've dumped the jock, quit my job in MEDIA, travelled to LA (whose bling puts the Faux Hill Village to shame) and have once again found myself back as of May1st: Unemployed, potentially friendless, sitting watching life passby on the patio of the Faux Hill Village. To make matters even better the Rama has reared his summer head only to profess his love for yours truly only days before he gets shipped off to war/ fine an oil rig. Well don't I feel like Sandra Bullock in that awful Hemingway inspired movie with Chris O'Donnell (yum).

In fact... as I ventured into Starbucks over the weekend only to run in one of Those Girls.

"FH how are you?"
"Good"
"I haven't seen you since last summer. When you were here like everyday."
"Well I'm back baby..."

And to that point I found myself this morning sitting and having a latte at the Starbucks jockeying for position on the patio. Uhm... FYI I'm a celebrity god dammit. Does Kirstin Dunst jockey for space at the Urth Caffe on Melrose (that's just a little LA talk, baby). No. No she doesn't. I am the Kirstin Dunst of the Faux Hill Village.

Bugaboo

For some people the phrase bug-a-boo harkens back to the namesake Destiny's Child song with these pullitzer prize winning lyrics:

"You make me wanna throw my pager out the window
Tell MCI to cut the phone calls
Break my lease so I can move
Cause you a bug a boo a bug a boo
I wanna put your number on the call block
Have AOL make my emails stop
Cause you a bug a boo
You buggin what? you buggin who? you buggin me!
And don't you see it aint cool "

Beyonce... who knew you were like a modern day Byron?

According to the Urban Dictionary a bugaboo is an overly annoying person who doesn't stop calling or harassing you.

Around these parts, and I'm going to be brutally honest here, the only urban connotation one could make in the Faux Hill is schleping down to Urban Outfitters for on sale Seven's; a bugaboo therefore is not what the MBrad once called me, rather, it refers to the name of a fancy baby stroller. [Take that Marty, whilst you were telling anyone who would listen that I was a Bugaboo, you were really calling me a stroller - who has egg on their face now??]

The Bugaboo is not just any stroller; at $1100.00, the Bugaboo is the SUV of the stroller world and comes with so many accessories it's like Barbie's Dream House.



Now I'm sure most intrepid reader's are wondering... FH what do you know about stroller's? Have you finally relented and adopted the Cambodian love child that the Rama vicitiously insinuated you would eventually adopt?

Nope... dearest friends: Bold is knocked up (although in wedlock, I guess one could say she's pregnant). And so... round these part's it's all baby all the time. In true WWSD mold Bold... well... Bold has a little bit of Sim Sim Sima in her and is therefore trying to figure out how she buy the Bugaboo without paying the rather exhorbitant asking price. Hair brained schemes involve Brynnah in New York City and taking advantage of free shipping opportunities to anywhere in the contintental United States.

WWSD is, as always, how this family tries to keep up with the Jones' while still keepin' it real. And on that rather Chris Rockian note I can admit that maybe there actually is a little bit more urban in these parts then I had previously thought.

Save our Bus - The Faux Hill 33

So in the Saturday Globe and Mail there was an article about how the TTC may cancel the Forest Hill 33, the lone bus that travels through the Faux Hill Village, connecting Faux Hillary's with public transit since 1978. Now I've got to be honest, Faux Hillary's don't do public transit. We do our parents' SUV's until they buy us our own cars and in the mean time we get chaufered around to climate controlled malls like Yorkdale. We do carpool until we get our G2's. [Not me personally I take public transit, but I'm atypical.] Furthermore, a Faux Hillary mom ain't gonna be caught dead on the subway either. That much Louis Vuitton hasn't seen so much underground since Marie Antoinette was imprisoned in the French Revolution and look how that turned out.
The article portrayed the Faux Hill as per usual... tony, monied and perhaps synopsized by this gem of a closing sentence: "[But] the nannies and kiddies are entitled to public transportation too."
A couple of points that I feel must be made as a local resident of the Village:
1) "A lot of the nannies and housekeepers of the people of Forest Hill ride it." Thank you local resident Roy Boyce.
2) I don't care how many people ride this bus, and judging by the many SUV's in this neighbourhood I'm thinking few residents use it... I will fight tooth and nail to ensure that the Faux Hill Village 33 will never be cancelled. "You can take away our back door garbage service but you can never take away our BUS."
To quote an entirely fictitional character I've constructed, but whom I feel is the Faux Hill Alpha male archeteype:
"This is Forest Hill bitches, you can't take shit away from us. It's called entitlement, we've got a bus, you don't. You wanna run for reelection next year and you want us to contribute to your candidacy... uhm... you took our away our bus. The bus that carries in our housekeeper. She's now fifteen minutes late everyday because she has to walk in from Eglinton and you expect a donation? I don't think so."
I think that really sums it up, no?

Gaygetz - Redux

My affinity for non kosher meat is wildly known and is perhaps best personified by the dog-eared copy of the Preppy Handbook placed above my desk. In my mind there really is nothing better then a cute boy in Madras shorts holding both a tennis racquet and a glass of scotch.
It so happened, however, that I recently found myself at party (cowboy themed - I dressed as Jake from Brokeback, natch) where upon a lovely lad with beautiful eyes took it upon himself to hit on me. He was kinda like Rama 2.0 - cute, small, toned, with exceptionally pretty eyes. The lad, is an actual mentsch, as in he went to Jewish camp, had an outrageous over-the-top bar-mitzvah, and grandparents live in Florida. On this particular evening the two of us took it upon ourselves to discuss the finer points of growing up gay and in the Faux Hill, to quote, "Jewish sleepover camp: breeding ground for the young homosexual." I found myself surprisingly smitten.
There was something oddly comforting in our flirtation, something that harkened back to a comment by Sim Sim Sima, "your father used to date non-Jewish nurses; at the end of the day, he knew what type of wife he wanted. You always want to stick with what you know. And what you know is kosher meat." I'm paraphrasing her; fine I added meat comment, so sue me.
I began to question my attraction to the Gaygetz, was it all simply boyish whims and emotional immaturity? Would I, at the end of my twenties, find myself looking for love over blintze's, copulating with a Jewish Doctah and fretting about the colour scheme for our milk and meat plates?
The evening's catch, Josh, was at first the perfect mix of Gaygetz and Yid. He even went to Neuchatel, the same waspy private prep school that once harbored such past boyfriends as the MBomb, [this thought made me do a little bit of mathematics: 80 students a year go to Neuchatel. Approximately 35 are boys, of those 3 must be gay. Out of the two years that the MBomb and Josh attended I assumed that there would have to be about six faygeleh's. I've now attracted 2/6... considering I haven't even met the other four my Neuchi batting average is pretty fucking sweet.] But I digress...
As we chatted I thought maybe Josh was less affected then other neighbourhoud Faux Hillary's; maybe we could wear matching Faux Hill t-shirts and make sarcastic comments together about Uggs. Even more importantly Josh was doing his master's in something that didn't involve Law School, a surprise for a Faux Hill yeled, maybe he had enough Gaygetz in him fo me to appreciate. Perhaps it was time, I thought, to put a posting my proverabial posting on Jdate [Which had recently come out of the closet and begun to welcome boy on boy Jewish action] and hook up with an actual Yid.
By the end of the night though the Gaygetz treaty held true, I was no longer attracted to Josh, who had excused himself to one of those very Jewish, camp oriented house parties that I had never gone to, and I realized that my affection was merely misplaced on his waspy nose and not his kosher meat. Sim Sim Sima is right, I want what I know and what I know is non kosher.
I've found a new muse: http://waspdate.blogspot.com/

In on the Joke

The purpose of this blog was to recount various tales from the heartland of the Faux Hill. For a while such tales had dried up... it was winter and there is only so much I can say about Uggs that hasn't already been said at this point. Yoga moms generally run from pilates to Starbucks to SUV's without stopping to chat. Bubbie's and Zaidie's head to Florida. I even found myself busy at my ridiculously sycophantic job in media. Trust me it isn't cool.
Alas! Christmas break happened and I ran into one of "those girls" (Uggs, Louis, odd Jewish accent, copious amounts of Jewish studies classes on the transcript). My run in with Lindsay fullfilled my seasonal tale of Faux Hill-arity. Truthfully I sorta like Lindsay even if she looks and acts like every other classic Faux Hillary. We've always had a good on campus conversation relationship: "Finals... ew." Lindsay is also a bit more interesting then the rest of her pack of besties, she has a nice boyfriend who studies Peace and Conflict Studies at NYU. He is ridiculously attractive and has that sorta Montreal Jewish Male (is he gay? vibe...). Trust me, Montreal Jewish Males (MJM's) = mama's boys = at least 15% gay. And hence when my mother tells me she has a nice Jewish Dr she wants me to meet in Monteral I shudder and think of his baggage.
But I digress... I ran into Lindsay as I was going to hang out with the Jockular boyfriend (oh right, somewhere along the way I picked up a MAN as a boyfriend, like a big beefy man who raps) while Linds and her sexually ambiguous boyfriend were leaving EdoKo (overpriced sushi for Village rats). It was quite the reunion tour for all involved.
"Oh my god! How are you!" Exclamation points ad nausesum...
I of course wanted to know about her time at Law School. [See my posting on the Law School Disease as to why this is most classic situation ever.]
But unlike most of her sister's Jessica had bucked the Osgoode trend in order to study at some mid-westnern state school. She regaled me with tales of Abercrombie clad frat boys from Virginia and Oklahoma who for some reason found her hilarious and, eyebrows raised, "quite the individual." As she said this she laughed and guffawed, "Me? An Individual? Are they serious? I mean look at me... I'm a carbon copy of every other girl around here." She continued,"So I suggested maybe a class trip. If they think I'm so special I figure I'll take them to Forest Hill, where there's gotta be like five thousand of us. An army of us in fact." I pictured said army, "back off, we'll hit you - with our Louis Vuitton clutch purses."
As we said our goodbyes, "kissses!" I realized why I had always given Lindsay more credit then most. If you're going to be a stereotype, at least get in on the joke.

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.