The other day - as I sat on the subway commuting to my place of work... my friend Lobo looked at me and screamed. Little black worms were crawling up and down the neatly pressed sleaves of my oxford shirt (the same shirt that I had Parker's clean for $5.00 after getting into an argument with my cheap downtown dry cleaner... sigh, guess that personal jihad is over).
Suddenly I began to notice the black worms everywhere in the Faux's many ravines. At first I thought the worms, a new species - Faux Vermes - were a possible product of global warming. The longer and hotter spring had perhaps created a larger window for the seemingly innocuous worms to spawn and take over additional territory. However, after jumping down from my Al Gore perch - is it really an inconvenient truth? - I started thinking that Faux Vermes were tied to much more sinister developments round the Faux.
I would argue that there are few binding myth's that hold the Village together as distinct from the rest of the city. Although a love of Starbucks and all things Gucci would seemingly point to a strong sense of common identity these characteristics are at base simply proof of rampant commercialism. Does Lululemon equate the concept of a Village sovereign identity - or is it simply an extension of a pervasive mono-culture?
Yet for all of my attempt to lambast this place - the Village does have its own special physicallity to it. Mostly constructured in the 1920's and 1930's the Village's staid Georgian and Mock Tudor houses provided a welcoming respite for Toronto's emerging upper middle classes. The Faux allowed lawyers and doctors to escape downtown Toronto's cramped Victorian row houses for a life in the suburbs. The Village was and is the original extension of that cliched North American dream. Essentially a early twentieth century garden suburb - there is nothing special about the Faux's geographic plot of land; yet the 'hood is consistently referred to as exclusive or tony in the pages of Toronto's papers. Yet it retains this air of exclusivity regardless of the rather plainess of its natural beauty. The Faux does NOT for example have the geographic splendour of its Montreal equivalent: Outremont and Westmount. No - the Village and its bucolic glory is actually very Torontonian - quiet and efficient - magnificence has never been what the Village is selling; rather, its shiny red brick boxes, gracefully placed behind wide front lawns, each crowned with a large maple tree, have been the key features which have created an image of everlasting elegance.
With sadness, however, this Village is no more. It's Upper Middle Class tax bracket has long since been broken by increasing wealth - doctor's and lawyer's don't live here anymore - inherited wealth, stock broker's and the like have long since moved to town - tearing down vintage 1920's centre hall's to erect faux chateau stone monstrosities, often too big for their plot of land and which lear over their neighbours, with a showy sense of non-modernity, as if proclaiming that, "hey our leaded glass windows and dental moulding makes us look old right?" This is in fact faux on top of faux [remember the tear-down of today is actually a mock tudor]- a concept too difficult for my simple mind to wrap its head around.
I know... this sounds all rather classist of me doesn't it? Decrying the new money that has suddenly usurped my pleasant utopia, as if these "people" don't deserve to experience to the type of lifestyle and serenity that has attracted Toronto's elite for the past several decades. And yet the libertarian in me understands this need for dynamism - stagnancy leads to a slow slow death.
As I walk to work every morning my black dress shoes get muddied by the ever marching beat of construction - I can't help but feel a little nostalgic for yesteryear - when the closest thing anyone had to a sport utility vehicle was a Volvo station wagon, which is not only sensible but fuel efficient too.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
I am sixteen going on seventeen
Remember when you were 16? And you thought you were the smartest, most mature person ever. It was the year you probably decided to mix vodka with slushies from Mac's Milk, and then got drunk in your parents basement by downing Mike's Hard Lemonaid, eventually throwing up hot wings while stil repressing your sexuality? (Or was that just me?)
When you're 16 and a daughter of a scion of Toronto's financial world... rebellion doesn't just equate boozing in your parents basement - the act of disobedience is much much worse.
How much worse? How about hot boxing your parents whirlpool, inviting over half the Senior class from Upper Canada College over for some Mary J as the immigrant nanny looks on in horror. Why simply throw tea into the harbour, ya know?
One would think that such acts of civil discord would result in punishment once the parental units returned home. Alas... just last weekend, our Sam Adams of the Village was seen tweaking out about EdoKo. (When you get the munchies in the Faux you eat edameme... please, who orders pizza - think of the carbs!).
Hmm... not too shabby for a 16 year-old you might say. But it gets even better - our very own Faux Hill Village Lohan-Lite was overheard shouting this nuggest of wisdom to her mom: "I saw you at Second Cup in the Village today. You can't ever be seen at the Second Cup. It's embarassing!"
Starbucks anyone? Or would you prefer a vodka slushi and a side of repression?
When you're 16 and a daughter of a scion of Toronto's financial world... rebellion doesn't just equate boozing in your parents basement - the act of disobedience is much much worse.
How much worse? How about hot boxing your parents whirlpool, inviting over half the Senior class from Upper Canada College over for some Mary J as the immigrant nanny looks on in horror. Why simply throw tea into the harbour, ya know?
One would think that such acts of civil discord would result in punishment once the parental units returned home. Alas... just last weekend, our Sam Adams of the Village was seen tweaking out about EdoKo. (When you get the munchies in the Faux you eat edameme... please, who orders pizza - think of the carbs!).
Hmm... not too shabby for a 16 year-old you might say. But it gets even better - our very own Faux Hill Village Lohan-Lite was overheard shouting this nuggest of wisdom to her mom: "I saw you at Second Cup in the Village today. You can't ever be seen at the Second Cup. It's embarassing!"
Starbucks anyone? Or would you prefer a vodka slushi and a side of repression?
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Faux Hill Vanity License Plate of the Week, Part 2
Black Denali SUV (whose owner probably hasn't seen an Inconvenient Truth).
Vanity License Plate: Bukame
And that's the thing about the rich... they don't seem to think puns are as funny as I do. Insert bukkake joke at your own risk.
Vanity License Plate: Bukame
And that's the thing about the rich... they don't seem to think puns are as funny as I do. Insert bukkake joke at your own risk.
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Flock of the Faux Hillary's
The Village has reached its nadir for the summer; all social order has broken down.
Dateline - Victoria Day Weekend, Faux Hill. University students are back from school, european vacations haven't started and high school students have given up of their studies not really caring that weekly tuition at a private school is like $500. If Marie Antoinette were still around she'd probably declare: "Let them drink latte's". Calling Kiki Dunst. Welcome to May, where the Village is overrun by the annual migration of the Village's native species, the Faux Hillary; anthropologists have come to call their movements: "the Flock of the Faux Hillary".
A Flock of Faux Hillary, is a group of 14 - 17 year-old girls who travel together (minimum groups of four) to Starbucks in their parents SUV's, order drinks, chat on their cell phones: "Where are you? I'm with Melissa. We're at Starbucks. Come meet us. Ok we'll meet you at Billy's." The Flock is usually female, the male variant is smaller and stealth. The Flock of the Faux Hillary refers to the increased movement of the pack in May, when the flock comes out from their winter hibernation to wreak havock on the good people of the Faux. (and by good people I mean me)
A Flock of Faux Hillary's are assumed to be armed [the gucci waste sac is their primary weapon] and dangerous. The Flock are known to be rabid Starbucks fans and subside mostly off of over priced sushi from Edo Ko. For the time being it is recommended to travel through the Village with a partner.
Recent reports from this years Flock have not been particularly promissing and appears to be the biggest in recent memory.
While standing in line at Starbucks today Tammy, an apparent Starbucks regular, stood impatiently tapping her foot. [Don't mess with your average Faux Hillary on cafeine withdrawal. They have super human strength.]
"Hello," she randomly shouted [across the coffee shop] at the minimum wage staff, "are there really only three people working here today?" Funny she should ask, because I'm sure there were at least 15 staff doing a civil war re-enactment in the back room smirking to themselves on finally being able to deny Tammy her venti, non-fat, half soy latte. "We really got her this time!"
"I've never see Starbucks so busy." She was right, as in front of both of us, was about twenty tweens. Tammy turned to me for some empathy, not that she got any. Tammy, although a Strarbetic, was unaware of the Flock of the Faux Hillary. Literally 20 girls were standing in front of us ordering latte's and rummaging through Gucci bags bigger then their boobs for change to pay for frappuchino's. It was not a pretty site. Colour Tammy un-amused.
Although this was a day time occurance the Flock of Faux Hillary most often come out at night. They appear out of nowhere, just when the Village appears quit and calm; suddenly, a group of ten girls will depart from black SUV's, run into Starbucks, grab what they want before screeching off in a hurry off to the next house party. Sometimes two separate groups will meet on the street exchange fake pleasantries before juding everyone's legging and RH Vintage Life, Nature, Love sweat combo.
The best way to deal with a Flock of Faux Hillary's is, however, to stand your ground. KB and I did that last night while protecting our own turf from a male pack of Faux Hillary's. The three sixteen year-olds where smoking on the patio (a non-smoking zone). We kindly asked them to stop... however, the one with braces got a bit lippy, referring to yours truly as a homo (damn straight) and KB as a cunt.
"I'm frightened," said KB. "Maybe we should go?"
"No. We can't show weakness." To a flock of Faux Hillary any sense of weakness will be exploited - and enlarge their sense of entitlement. Luckily KB whipped out the trump card: "I have asthma," and the patronizing, "sweetie, your smoking is really bothering me."
Patronization is your only weapon against the Flock. Use it wisely.
Dateline - Victoria Day Weekend, Faux Hill. University students are back from school, european vacations haven't started and high school students have given up of their studies not really caring that weekly tuition at a private school is like $500. If Marie Antoinette were still around she'd probably declare: "Let them drink latte's". Calling Kiki Dunst. Welcome to May, where the Village is overrun by the annual migration of the Village's native species, the Faux Hillary; anthropologists have come to call their movements: "the Flock of the Faux Hillary".
A Flock of Faux Hillary, is a group of 14 - 17 year-old girls who travel together (minimum groups of four) to Starbucks in their parents SUV's, order drinks, chat on their cell phones: "Where are you? I'm with Melissa. We're at Starbucks. Come meet us. Ok we'll meet you at Billy's." The Flock is usually female, the male variant is smaller and stealth. The Flock of the Faux Hillary refers to the increased movement of the pack in May, when the flock comes out from their winter hibernation to wreak havock on the good people of the Faux. (and by good people I mean me)
A Flock of Faux Hillary's are assumed to be armed [the gucci waste sac is their primary weapon] and dangerous. The Flock are known to be rabid Starbucks fans and subside mostly off of over priced sushi from Edo Ko. For the time being it is recommended to travel through the Village with a partner.
Recent reports from this years Flock have not been particularly promissing and appears to be the biggest in recent memory.
While standing in line at Starbucks today Tammy, an apparent Starbucks regular, stood impatiently tapping her foot. [Don't mess with your average Faux Hillary on cafeine withdrawal. They have super human strength.]
"Hello," she randomly shouted [across the coffee shop] at the minimum wage staff, "are there really only three people working here today?" Funny she should ask, because I'm sure there were at least 15 staff doing a civil war re-enactment in the back room smirking to themselves on finally being able to deny Tammy her venti, non-fat, half soy latte. "We really got her this time!"
"I've never see Starbucks so busy." She was right, as in front of both of us, was about twenty tweens. Tammy turned to me for some empathy, not that she got any. Tammy, although a Strarbetic, was unaware of the Flock of the Faux Hillary. Literally 20 girls were standing in front of us ordering latte's and rummaging through Gucci bags bigger then their boobs for change to pay for frappuchino's. It was not a pretty site. Colour Tammy un-amused.
Although this was a day time occurance the Flock of Faux Hillary most often come out at night. They appear out of nowhere, just when the Village appears quit and calm; suddenly, a group of ten girls will depart from black SUV's, run into Starbucks, grab what they want before screeching off in a hurry off to the next house party. Sometimes two separate groups will meet on the street exchange fake pleasantries before juding everyone's legging and RH Vintage Life, Nature, Love sweat combo.
The best way to deal with a Flock of Faux Hillary's is, however, to stand your ground. KB and I did that last night while protecting our own turf from a male pack of Faux Hillary's. The three sixteen year-olds where smoking on the patio (a non-smoking zone). We kindly asked them to stop... however, the one with braces got a bit lippy, referring to yours truly as a homo (damn straight) and KB as a cunt.
"I'm frightened," said KB. "Maybe we should go?"
"No. We can't show weakness." To a flock of Faux Hillary any sense of weakness will be exploited - and enlarge their sense of entitlement. Luckily KB whipped out the trump card: "I have asthma," and the patronizing, "sweetie, your smoking is really bothering me."
Patronization is your only weapon against the Flock. Use it wisely.
Monday, May 14, 2007
"What are you doing this summer?" Part 1
I ran into the younger sister of a Faux Hill friend the other day. Having just gotten back from university the sister, avec Gucci aviators, was out and about trying to find a waitressing job.
"So what are you doing this summer?" She asked before too long.
"Same thing I did during the fall." I responded sincerely. "Work."
"Oh." Silence. "You aren't working at the Gap are you?"
"No - I have a full-time job. So what are your plans for the summer?"
"Looking for a job, then I'm going to Europe with some friends! You should come!"
And I realized - Faux Hillary's don't really work in the summer. I mean why work when you can play? Once the weather turns nice, kids return home from university, spend about a month sitting at Starbucks before being sent off to sleepover camp and or Europe so they can sit in the one Starbucks in Madrid near the Reina Sofia and absorb the culture. "Don't you just love Spain?" Europe is not a priveledge - its a right. Besides how cool is it to buy Louis Vuitton from Paris? Like OMG.
I left wondering whether Europe was indeed always given. Then I remembered a conversation Sim Sim Sima recently had with one of her gal pals, who declared, "you know how when people turn 60 theyir husband's take them to Europe?"
Ah - the apples don't fall far from the many trees in the Forest.
For the pratfalls of the European vacay, however, stay tuned...
"So what are you doing this summer?" She asked before too long.
"Same thing I did during the fall." I responded sincerely. "Work."
"Oh." Silence. "You aren't working at the Gap are you?"
"No - I have a full-time job. So what are your plans for the summer?"
"Looking for a job, then I'm going to Europe with some friends! You should come!"
And I realized - Faux Hillary's don't really work in the summer. I mean why work when you can play? Once the weather turns nice, kids return home from university, spend about a month sitting at Starbucks before being sent off to sleepover camp and or Europe so they can sit in the one Starbucks in Madrid near the Reina Sofia and absorb the culture. "Don't you just love Spain?" Europe is not a priveledge - its a right. Besides how cool is it to buy Louis Vuitton from Paris? Like OMG.
I left wondering whether Europe was indeed always given. Then I remembered a conversation Sim Sim Sima recently had with one of her gal pals, who declared, "you know how when people turn 60 theyir husband's take them to Europe?"
Ah - the apples don't fall far from the many trees in the Forest.
For the pratfalls of the European vacay, however, stay tuned...
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Working Kind
My apologies. Who has time for social commentary when you're building the future of this city and being sufficiently and subsequently holier then though - uhm I work for a not-for-profit so - to bother with the rather plebian artform of blogging. But, I have a new maxim in my life - so may as well seize the day!
Anyway - work is the matter at hand, in part because staff round my way has taken Friday afternoon off and in part because the importance of work is an increasing trend I've noticed amongst the Faux Hillary set.
You'd imagine that the average HaverGal, or Bitch in Short Skirt, having graduated from a top notch private school, such as the aforementioned, and having scored relatively decent marks from Queen's or McGill as perhaps an Anthropology major (sociology - is too common, poli-sci too academic) would be spending her mid to late twenties donig one of two things: rebelling from her parents by "finding herself" in Cambodia, Laos or the country of Africa or would have moved back to Toronto to start up a career at an advertising or PR firm - something where you can wear designer denim to work - only to be installed in a nice condo on King West as the credit card bills get sent to the Faux Hill Centre Hall.
Shockinly - this isn't always the case. In fact - more and more parentals - who in the past have turned a blind eye to their children's indiscretions (IE remember the time that Grant crashed the new motor boat into Port Carling Marina?) have decided that children should be cut off. Well not exactly cut-off, perhaps being taught fiscal responsibility is more appropriate of a title. Don't worry though - Jessica and Hilary would never be caught dead with last year's clutch. So - being taught financial prudence, coupled with the shittyness of an entry-level salary at said public relations firm - the average Faux Hillary is faced with a quandry - scale back their expenditures - or get a part time job. What to do when neither offer is particularly palatable...
CG has chosen the retail route - finding herself folding khaki's at one of the nation's top apparel chains. Thinking of her reputation, however, she chose to work at the Eaton Centre, admitting that none of her friends would be caught dead off of Bloor.
Another friend has found part-time promotional work to subsidize her fashionista habit. So she spends her weekend popping Corona's at sporting events - if you can imagine that! As she admitted manicure pedicure's were expensive and she felt bad asking her parents for money every week... Can't say I blame her.
For now this continues to be primarily a female-oriented trend (I refuse to say whether its because the female gender is stereotypically more responsible or because the female gender stereotypically enjoys retail therapy... I'm not hubristic enough to tackle nature versus nurture) and one that isn't particularly alarming - in fact perhaps it shows a rather practical side of the Faux. Good parenting and fiscal responsibility...
Anyway - work is the matter at hand, in part because staff round my way has taken Friday afternoon off and in part because the importance of work is an increasing trend I've noticed amongst the Faux Hillary set.
You'd imagine that the average HaverGal, or Bitch in Short Skirt, having graduated from a top notch private school, such as the aforementioned, and having scored relatively decent marks from Queen's or McGill as perhaps an Anthropology major (sociology - is too common, poli-sci too academic) would be spending her mid to late twenties donig one of two things: rebelling from her parents by "finding herself" in Cambodia, Laos or the country of Africa or would have moved back to Toronto to start up a career at an advertising or PR firm - something where you can wear designer denim to work - only to be installed in a nice condo on King West as the credit card bills get sent to the Faux Hill Centre Hall.
Shockinly - this isn't always the case. In fact - more and more parentals - who in the past have turned a blind eye to their children's indiscretions (IE remember the time that Grant crashed the new motor boat into Port Carling Marina?) have decided that children should be cut off. Well not exactly cut-off, perhaps being taught fiscal responsibility is more appropriate of a title. Don't worry though - Jessica and Hilary would never be caught dead with last year's clutch. So - being taught financial prudence, coupled with the shittyness of an entry-level salary at said public relations firm - the average Faux Hillary is faced with a quandry - scale back their expenditures - or get a part time job. What to do when neither offer is particularly palatable...
CG has chosen the retail route - finding herself folding khaki's at one of the nation's top apparel chains. Thinking of her reputation, however, she chose to work at the Eaton Centre, admitting that none of her friends would be caught dead off of Bloor.
Another friend has found part-time promotional work to subsidize her fashionista habit. So she spends her weekend popping Corona's at sporting events - if you can imagine that! As she admitted manicure pedicure's were expensive and she felt bad asking her parents for money every week... Can't say I blame her.
For now this continues to be primarily a female-oriented trend (I refuse to say whether its because the female gender is stereotypically more responsible or because the female gender stereotypically enjoys retail therapy... I'm not hubristic enough to tackle nature versus nurture) and one that isn't particularly alarming - in fact perhaps it shows a rather practical side of the Faux. Good parenting and fiscal responsibility...
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Pride and Prejudice
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."
- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Jane Austen, perhaps the original judgemental bitch, is best known for her novels documenting the sordid lives of the English gentry in the late 18th and early 19th Century. In her most popular tome's Austen's characters flit about country manors, attend social events while projecting upward mobility through marriage vows. Jane [and I call her so because clearly we'd be besties if she was alive]'s rather amusing social commentary revolved around the thematic importance of marriage - a bi-product of England's rigorous inheritence laws which directed the bulk of family fortune on male heirs, leaving daughters out in the cold, take that Bold.
Sim Sim Sima in true WWSD mode has made her thoughts known about marriage: She offered Bold 30,000 to elope and save her the trouble of planning an "event". Actually Sim Sim Sima has often remarked at the relative uselessness of marriage, "I wouldn't bother getting married today," she's totally a member of PFLAG!, "unless I planned on having children," or not.
Apparently not enough of my friends are heading Sage Sima's advice though [guys WWSD] - as I've got three weddings this year.
So who, pretell, is exploiting Austen's universal truth?
Recently two of my best friends decided to host their birthday party on the same day. Being the good friend I spent half the evening at one and half the evening at the other party. The first was held at a lovely house in Faux Hill... the other hosted at an Irish pub downtown. Being sans plus one, I dragged El Heurd to the house party for good measure but as we surveyed the scene we realized that "we'd have some splaining to do," as unlike everyone else we were NOT coupled, not to each other and not to anyone else outside of the party. The Faux Hill house party was full of almost engaged and or long-term relationship couples. Downtown, conversation at Fionn McCools centred mostly around whether to take the plunge and join Lavalife.
Marriage is seemingly rampant in the Faux. But, this of course, makes complete sense. As in Jane Austen's time marriage is about financial independence and while my downtown friends are still finding their feet those in the Faux have already walked down the professional aisle of medical school and or law school. Throw in religious pressue of Judaism and its no wonder I have a friend who found the last safron coloured J Crew bridesmaid dress in the world and had it flown to her, "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a mentsch in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a Yiddishe maidel."
- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Jane Austen, perhaps the original judgemental bitch, is best known for her novels documenting the sordid lives of the English gentry in the late 18th and early 19th Century. In her most popular tome's Austen's characters flit about country manors, attend social events while projecting upward mobility through marriage vows. Jane [and I call her so because clearly we'd be besties if she was alive]'s rather amusing social commentary revolved around the thematic importance of marriage - a bi-product of England's rigorous inheritence laws which directed the bulk of family fortune on male heirs, leaving daughters out in the cold, take that Bold.
Sim Sim Sima in true WWSD mode has made her thoughts known about marriage: She offered Bold 30,000 to elope and save her the trouble of planning an "event". Actually Sim Sim Sima has often remarked at the relative uselessness of marriage, "I wouldn't bother getting married today," she's totally a member of PFLAG!, "unless I planned on having children," or not.
Apparently not enough of my friends are heading Sage Sima's advice though [guys WWSD] - as I've got three weddings this year.
So who, pretell, is exploiting Austen's universal truth?
Recently two of my best friends decided to host their birthday party on the same day. Being the good friend I spent half the evening at one and half the evening at the other party. The first was held at a lovely house in Faux Hill... the other hosted at an Irish pub downtown. Being sans plus one, I dragged El Heurd to the house party for good measure but as we surveyed the scene we realized that "we'd have some splaining to do," as unlike everyone else we were NOT coupled, not to each other and not to anyone else outside of the party. The Faux Hill house party was full of almost engaged and or long-term relationship couples. Downtown, conversation at Fionn McCools centred mostly around whether to take the plunge and join Lavalife.
Marriage is seemingly rampant in the Faux. But, this of course, makes complete sense. As in Jane Austen's time marriage is about financial independence and while my downtown friends are still finding their feet those in the Faux have already walked down the professional aisle of medical school and or law school. Throw in religious pressue of Judaism and its no wonder I have a friend who found the last safron coloured J Crew bridesmaid dress in the world and had it flown to her, "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a mentsch in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a Yiddishe maidel."
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Sim, Sim, Sima - She has the Keys
This transpired over the weekend:
Papa Len and I were driving in the car with my mother, en route for dinner. My father began talking about a recent Globe and Mail article about how people were starting to feel trapped by suburbia because of the lack of culture, transit and other urban amenities.
"Thank god we didn't buy that house up north." Sim Sim Sima declared.
"What? How could I have a blog if we lived up north?" I was shocked and imagined us living in Yorkmills or even worse - Thornhill. "Where did you almost buy a house?"
"Lawrence Park." My mother deadpanned. No not deadpanned. She meant it seriously - Yonge and Lawrence is considered north of the city for Portand's favourite princess.
Sima though, is nothing but frank in her opinions. Why just the other day she went on a rant about Stephen Harper's budget.
"I just don't get it - I thought this budget was supposed to appeal to Middle American's; working class Canadians like you and I." She said to my father last night. "I'm not getting any of these tax breaks, this is just so unfair." I looked at her and tried to explain how she wasn't considered a working class Canadian, but she would have none of it. She works so considers herself working class; Harper just doesn't understand her needs.
I offered her a bit of consolation:
Last week Holt Renfrew had their private shopping night - those invited were given a consumption based rebate on purchases; spend $1000.00 receive a $100.00 gift certificate, spend $5000.00 get a $500.00 certificate. Tax break right there, right?
My mother's reply: I don't shop at Holt Renfrew.
Hmm... maybe she truly is a middle class Canadian?
Papa Len and I were driving in the car with my mother, en route for dinner. My father began talking about a recent Globe and Mail article about how people were starting to feel trapped by suburbia because of the lack of culture, transit and other urban amenities.
"Thank god we didn't buy that house up north." Sim Sim Sima declared.
"What? How could I have a blog if we lived up north?" I was shocked and imagined us living in Yorkmills or even worse - Thornhill. "Where did you almost buy a house?"
"Lawrence Park." My mother deadpanned. No not deadpanned. She meant it seriously - Yonge and Lawrence is considered north of the city for Portand's favourite princess.
Sima though, is nothing but frank in her opinions. Why just the other day she went on a rant about Stephen Harper's budget.
"I just don't get it - I thought this budget was supposed to appeal to Middle American's; working class Canadians like you and I." She said to my father last night. "I'm not getting any of these tax breaks, this is just so unfair." I looked at her and tried to explain how she wasn't considered a working class Canadian, but she would have none of it. She works so considers herself working class; Harper just doesn't understand her needs.
I offered her a bit of consolation:
Last week Holt Renfrew had their private shopping night - those invited were given a consumption based rebate on purchases; spend $1000.00 receive a $100.00 gift certificate, spend $5000.00 get a $500.00 certificate. Tax break right there, right?
My mother's reply: I don't shop at Holt Renfrew.
Hmm... maybe she truly is a middle class Canadian?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Won't You be my Neighbour?
This morning at breakfast Sim Sim Sima went on a bit of a rant about our next door neighbour, Gail, until Papa Len interupted her and said - "we could have worse neighbours - like the ones across the street." You get down with your bad self Papa Len.
We don't like the neighbours across the street, because they leave their dog outside on the front porch, park their car in front of our house and blah blah blah. These aren't things that ONE does in the Village, FYI. According to street gossip: they moved down from Thornhill after a family windfall. How dismissive is that?
On the surface the Village is a seemingly bucolic place of tidy lawns, botoxed beauties and SUV's. Walk into Banfi on a Saturday night and you'll be greeted with a chorus of "You who! Sandra, how are you? How was Florida?" It's almost like they care about your trip to Florida. When they don't. They just ask you about it, so they can make sure that their trip to Florida was both better, longer and more expensive then yours. This also allows them to talk about how their children are smarter and prettier [and less gay!] then yours. It's a cruel cruel world over here. Dripping below the surface of such friendlness is the constant fear of one-up-manship and SUV jealousy. Literally Gail once knocked on our door to show my mother her new vintage planters. Sima didn't know what to say except to trott out her new tropical planter in retaliation. Yikes, bring home the troops please, I'm sensing a domestic.
Such simple one-upmanship is nothing compared to some of the other shit that goes on round here. Just the other day, as I ran into the local subway station, I spotted an old classmate from elementary school. Seeing as most of the people who I spent nine years with in jewish day school live in the Village or in the Other Hill, this is no big surprise. It's also no big surprise to find someone my age still living at home as why move out unless you're getting married?
Well hello Ilana Lipman! I stopped to say hello and ask the patented, "So how are you doing?" Ilana smiled, nodded her head and told me how great she was doing, before turning away and opening her book. No asking how I was. No nothing.
Woah you might say, well isn't that a bit cold? And you'd be right, especially, since not a year ago - I was Ilana Lipman's newest bestie. One year ago, I sat, unemployed and in the Village Starbucks thinking about my life, when she ran up to me and started telling me about her boyfriend who really wanted to work at my brother in laws firm, and maybe I could set something up. Not a big deal, I was particularly happy to help a fellow job seeker thinking that by paying it forward Karma would come back to reward me.
You'd think after all of that - she'd have been happy to see an old friend on the St Clair West subway platform. No dice. All of this would have been fine, had I had the time to move past her on the platform. Alas, as she turned, fate interveened, the subway arrived and fearing missing the train, I got on to the same, empty car, that she did. So there we sat, across the way from each other, not talking.
Lovely. What would Mr. Rogers say?
We don't like the neighbours across the street, because they leave their dog outside on the front porch, park their car in front of our house and blah blah blah. These aren't things that ONE does in the Village, FYI. According to street gossip: they moved down from Thornhill after a family windfall. How dismissive is that?
On the surface the Village is a seemingly bucolic place of tidy lawns, botoxed beauties and SUV's. Walk into Banfi on a Saturday night and you'll be greeted with a chorus of "You who! Sandra, how are you? How was Florida?" It's almost like they care about your trip to Florida. When they don't. They just ask you about it, so they can make sure that their trip to Florida was both better, longer and more expensive then yours. This also allows them to talk about how their children are smarter and prettier [and less gay!] then yours. It's a cruel cruel world over here. Dripping below the surface of such friendlness is the constant fear of one-up-manship and SUV jealousy. Literally Gail once knocked on our door to show my mother her new vintage planters. Sima didn't know what to say except to trott out her new tropical planter in retaliation. Yikes, bring home the troops please, I'm sensing a domestic.
Such simple one-upmanship is nothing compared to some of the other shit that goes on round here. Just the other day, as I ran into the local subway station, I spotted an old classmate from elementary school. Seeing as most of the people who I spent nine years with in jewish day school live in the Village or in the Other Hill, this is no big surprise. It's also no big surprise to find someone my age still living at home as why move out unless you're getting married?
Well hello Ilana Lipman! I stopped to say hello and ask the patented, "So how are you doing?" Ilana smiled, nodded her head and told me how great she was doing, before turning away and opening her book. No asking how I was. No nothing.
Woah you might say, well isn't that a bit cold? And you'd be right, especially, since not a year ago - I was Ilana Lipman's newest bestie. One year ago, I sat, unemployed and in the Village Starbucks thinking about my life, when she ran up to me and started telling me about her boyfriend who really wanted to work at my brother in laws firm, and maybe I could set something up. Not a big deal, I was particularly happy to help a fellow job seeker thinking that by paying it forward Karma would come back to reward me.
You'd think after all of that - she'd have been happy to see an old friend on the St Clair West subway platform. No dice. All of this would have been fine, had I had the time to move past her on the platform. Alas, as she turned, fate interveened, the subway arrived and fearing missing the train, I got on to the same, empty car, that she did. So there we sat, across the way from each other, not talking.
Lovely. What would Mr. Rogers say?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
FST: Faux Hill Sales Tax
Generally I'm a pretty nice person. I like to buy tulips and I used to have a pet rabbit. And with the exception of a couple of months in fourth year when I certifiably went nuts (total crazy), I'm generally pretty reasonable. There are, however, certain things in this world that I have no time or patience for.
Beyond the usual suspects, such as Uggs and dogs that aren't allowed to walk on sidewalks, I also have no time for closeted celebrities and politicians. I also reserve my real wrath for the few retail establishments that are on my "bring down" list. Actually for awhile, there was only one such store I've been planning to destroy: Forest Hill Tutoring [don't even get me started on the troll woman who rips off parents by charging $55.00 an hour for tutoring and pays her high school student tutors $15.00 an hour, I've thought about unionizing them]; thankfully I have a new nemesis: Parker's Cleaners.
What pretell - has brought about this particular rage attack?
The following:
Because I'm not a particularly real person (I don't buy groceries, pay rent and sometimes I borrow twenty bones from my father to buy gin-martini's from Habitat on Queen Street) my new years resolution was to act more adult-like.
As part of this attempt to take on more responsibilities imagine how proud I was, of myself, just the other day, when I walked down into the Village to drop off a pair of pants that I needed to dryclean. Thanks for the clapping. Huge step right? I thought so.
It reached the denoument when I was chatting with my coworker about the salt stains on my new suit, facetiously joking: "Fuck, I hate winter- I don't know how the hell my father affords my dry cleaning bills." Deciding that I was bordering a bit too much on being a Faux Hillary for my own good - I marched straight from work to Parker's thinking to myself: I'm not even going to charge the cost of the pants on my father's tab, which, to be honest, was my original intention (don't judge).
I walked right up to the woman behind the counter, gave her my slip, and watched her ring up my total.
Cost: $10.33
Let me repeat: ten dollars and thirty three cents to clean a pair of wool pants from Banana Republic. Shocked, I gave her, begrudgingly, my interac card calculating other things I could do with ten bones: latte's, food, porn. Deciding that this was way too much to pay for dry cleaning, I found my inner Sima and did a little comparison shopping. The dry cleaning place by work, at Yonge and Bloor, charges $4.99 for a pair of pants. Nuff said.
Realizing that I was victimized, by what Sim Sim Sima calls, FST or Forest Hill Sales Tax, I from this day on vow to bring down the oligopoly that Parker's has. Viva la revolution.
Beyond the usual suspects, such as Uggs and dogs that aren't allowed to walk on sidewalks, I also have no time for closeted celebrities and politicians. I also reserve my real wrath for the few retail establishments that are on my "bring down" list. Actually for awhile, there was only one such store I've been planning to destroy: Forest Hill Tutoring [don't even get me started on the troll woman who rips off parents by charging $55.00 an hour for tutoring and pays her high school student tutors $15.00 an hour, I've thought about unionizing them]; thankfully I have a new nemesis: Parker's Cleaners.
What pretell - has brought about this particular rage attack?
The following:
Because I'm not a particularly real person (I don't buy groceries, pay rent and sometimes I borrow twenty bones from my father to buy gin-martini's from Habitat on Queen Street) my new years resolution was to act more adult-like.
As part of this attempt to take on more responsibilities imagine how proud I was, of myself, just the other day, when I walked down into the Village to drop off a pair of pants that I needed to dryclean. Thanks for the clapping. Huge step right? I thought so.
It reached the denoument when I was chatting with my coworker about the salt stains on my new suit, facetiously joking: "Fuck, I hate winter- I don't know how the hell my father affords my dry cleaning bills." Deciding that I was bordering a bit too much on being a Faux Hillary for my own good - I marched straight from work to Parker's thinking to myself: I'm not even going to charge the cost of the pants on my father's tab, which, to be honest, was my original intention (don't judge).
I walked right up to the woman behind the counter, gave her my slip, and watched her ring up my total.
Cost: $10.33
Let me repeat: ten dollars and thirty three cents to clean a pair of wool pants from Banana Republic. Shocked, I gave her, begrudgingly, my interac card calculating other things I could do with ten bones: latte's, food, porn. Deciding that this was way too much to pay for dry cleaning, I found my inner Sima and did a little comparison shopping. The dry cleaning place by work, at Yonge and Bloor, charges $4.99 for a pair of pants. Nuff said.
Realizing that I was victimized, by what Sim Sim Sima calls, FST or Forest Hill Sales Tax, I from this day on vow to bring down the oligopoly that Parker's has. Viva la revolution.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
My Two Villages
Hilary Rodham Clinton infamously published a book a couple of years ago entitled “It Takes a Village.” Lifted from the African proverb, “It Takes a Village to raise a child” Clinton espoused her unique vision about how to parent a gawky red head in America (loves ya Chelsea!). The Village she was talking about, I suspect was NOT Forest Hill. Here it takes one immigrant nanny to raise a child, yet an entire Village to corrupt said child into a bitchy sixteen year-old wearing $90.00 sweatpants. Sigh. [Sidenote: how much do you love the fact that Old School Roots Sweatpants are back?]
Toronto, in true Clinton esque fashion, is however city defined by its villages, neighborhoods and nabes. At the recent Toronto City Summit, the health of our neighborhoods was on par with discussions on transportation, economy and even topic du jour, the environment. In fact “Strong Neighbourhoods, Stronger Toronto Region” was one of the most dynamic and provocative session of the summit; more attendees wanted to talk about Toronto neighborhoods with Frances Laskin then those who humored Mayor Miller’s frenetic One Cent Now campaign.
In Toronto – communities and villages represent a rather simplistic, yet provocative, version of identity. Neighborhoods are instant generalized value judgments. Annex = hippie. Rosedale = WASP establishment. This list could go on and on and like any sweeping generalization there are I’m sure exceptions to the rule; that being said you can bet your Holt Renfrew Amex card that the McGregor Smith’s outnumber the Singh’s on Binscarth Avenue, Rosedale.
As a gay and Jewish man who grew up in the Faux Hill my community based identity should be pretty clear. I oscillate between two of the city’s most infamous villages: the Gay Village at Church & Wellesley is where I indulge in my love of non-kosher meat, and in the Faux Hill Village at Spadina-Lonsdale, I can wolf down a chopped egg salad sandwich from What a Bagel. Sometimes it’s hard to choose.
In funneling between these two villages I’ve realized however that I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in either. Sometimes when I go to Woody’s [That would be a gay bar for those not in know, because yes – gays love phallic gay bar names] I feel like a 14 year-old twink awkwardly venturing downtown for his first taste of homosexuals. A friend looked at me recently and said, “you really don’t like either of your identities, do you?” I stonewalled for a second before looking at him and argued, “Its not that I reject who I am,” I love being gay, and like some aspects of being Jewish, “I just reject the popular connotations of my identities.” What I meant, when I took some time to actually examine my use large, multi-syllabic words, was that I hated the public connotations of my two villages. As a happy fag and embittered Jew I don’t particularly associate or feel represented by the popular connotations of my identity groups, which in Toronto is best personified by the their respective Villages.
When I went to Puerta Vallarta over Christmas (yes - that would have been a vacation I took WITH my parents) I ended up in a hotel about a stones throw away from the Puerta Vallarta gay village. Same rainbow flags, same sex shop, phallic based bar names – and same sense of not belonging. I don’t particularly like the popularized image of the gay village for some reason – perhaps best represented by an inverse graph to the number of times I’ve been asked to “join me and my boyfriend for some hot three way action.” I’m more of a love the dick, hate the Village kinda guy. As if to exacerbate my views on gay villages, one relatively infamous Canadian fag I know had this to say about PV, “I can’t believe you went there with your folks – there are so many men there; Martin [boyfriend of ten years] really loves the Latin men.” Did you just vomit in your mouth, because I did. And as for the other village in my life – Faux Hill, my distaste with these parts has an entire blog devoted to its Lululemon clad ass so really nothing more to say there.
Too often I get accused of some form of self loathe. Gay friends accuse me of being a bad gay, Jews accuse me of being a self-loathing Philip Roth lite; and maybe they’re all correct in their assumption. Maybe I should accept who I am and get myself a nice set of Burberry earmuffs. Don’t worry – I’m not going to. I realize the problem though: at base we all love to belong. We all love to be amongst peers who we recognize and who we can borrow from a Coach purse now and again. For example, there is even a group for people ‘like myself’, Jewish-Fags, which attempts to bridge the cultural gap between uptown middle class Judaism and downtown hardcore faggotry. One could argue even that the success of Toronto is inherently tied to its Village structure and the sense of belonging it imbues. Residents feel an intense sort of pride in the common sense of identity that their neighborhood provides.
The bigger problem though beyond this sense of belonging, or in my case, lack there of is that the Village creates a sort of identity that sometimes is often more stereotypical then real. I.E. all gay men aren’t obnoxious pigs, no matter how many times the bisexual tells me that over the phone [that is called self-loathe sweetie] and no matter how many times I leave a gay bar shaking my head in revulsion. And not all Village residents are Faux Hillary’s – remember Bold doesn’t own anything from Tiffany’s.
My friend Kitty often introduces me as Jewish Jon to her friends. When I came out we discussed adding the additional adjective before deciding that one derogatory nickname was enough. The rather intelligent joke of course is that by calling me Jewish Jon, she was in fact making fun of that particularly stereotype, that Village mentality if you will, wherein cultural identity is trump. And more then that, cultural identity is a broad stereotype that everyone gets. “Oh you’re Jewish?” Her friends would say. “I love latke’s! I love hanging out in the Forest Hill Village!” Jewish Jon was a motif for the fact that for the most part the people that we associate with are happy to loudly and proudly declare their minority status. I’m gay! I’m Jewish! I’m Asian! I blame the whole multi-cultural mosaic concept; either way, welcome to Village Pride baby.
Ghettoization has never been so vogue.
Toronto, in true Clinton esque fashion, is however city defined by its villages, neighborhoods and nabes. At the recent Toronto City Summit, the health of our neighborhoods was on par with discussions on transportation, economy and even topic du jour, the environment. In fact “Strong Neighbourhoods, Stronger Toronto Region” was one of the most dynamic and provocative session of the summit; more attendees wanted to talk about Toronto neighborhoods with Frances Laskin then those who humored Mayor Miller’s frenetic One Cent Now campaign.
In Toronto – communities and villages represent a rather simplistic, yet provocative, version of identity. Neighborhoods are instant generalized value judgments. Annex = hippie. Rosedale = WASP establishment. This list could go on and on and like any sweeping generalization there are I’m sure exceptions to the rule; that being said you can bet your Holt Renfrew Amex card that the McGregor Smith’s outnumber the Singh’s on Binscarth Avenue, Rosedale.
As a gay and Jewish man who grew up in the Faux Hill my community based identity should be pretty clear. I oscillate between two of the city’s most infamous villages: the Gay Village at Church & Wellesley is where I indulge in my love of non-kosher meat, and in the Faux Hill Village at Spadina-Lonsdale, I can wolf down a chopped egg salad sandwich from What a Bagel. Sometimes it’s hard to choose.
In funneling between these two villages I’ve realized however that I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in either. Sometimes when I go to Woody’s [That would be a gay bar for those not in know, because yes – gays love phallic gay bar names] I feel like a 14 year-old twink awkwardly venturing downtown for his first taste of homosexuals. A friend looked at me recently and said, “you really don’t like either of your identities, do you?” I stonewalled for a second before looking at him and argued, “Its not that I reject who I am,” I love being gay, and like some aspects of being Jewish, “I just reject the popular connotations of my identities.” What I meant, when I took some time to actually examine my use large, multi-syllabic words, was that I hated the public connotations of my two villages. As a happy fag and embittered Jew I don’t particularly associate or feel represented by the popular connotations of my identity groups, which in Toronto is best personified by the their respective Villages.
When I went to Puerta Vallarta over Christmas (yes - that would have been a vacation I took WITH my parents) I ended up in a hotel about a stones throw away from the Puerta Vallarta gay village. Same rainbow flags, same sex shop, phallic based bar names – and same sense of not belonging. I don’t particularly like the popularized image of the gay village for some reason – perhaps best represented by an inverse graph to the number of times I’ve been asked to “join me and my boyfriend for some hot three way action.” I’m more of a love the dick, hate the Village kinda guy. As if to exacerbate my views on gay villages, one relatively infamous Canadian fag I know had this to say about PV, “I can’t believe you went there with your folks – there are so many men there; Martin [boyfriend of ten years] really loves the Latin men.” Did you just vomit in your mouth, because I did. And as for the other village in my life – Faux Hill, my distaste with these parts has an entire blog devoted to its Lululemon clad ass so really nothing more to say there.
Too often I get accused of some form of self loathe. Gay friends accuse me of being a bad gay, Jews accuse me of being a self-loathing Philip Roth lite; and maybe they’re all correct in their assumption. Maybe I should accept who I am and get myself a nice set of Burberry earmuffs. Don’t worry – I’m not going to. I realize the problem though: at base we all love to belong. We all love to be amongst peers who we recognize and who we can borrow from a Coach purse now and again. For example, there is even a group for people ‘like myself’, Jewish-Fags, which attempts to bridge the cultural gap between uptown middle class Judaism and downtown hardcore faggotry. One could argue even that the success of Toronto is inherently tied to its Village structure and the sense of belonging it imbues. Residents feel an intense sort of pride in the common sense of identity that their neighborhood provides.
The bigger problem though beyond this sense of belonging, or in my case, lack there of is that the Village creates a sort of identity that sometimes is often more stereotypical then real. I.E. all gay men aren’t obnoxious pigs, no matter how many times the bisexual tells me that over the phone [that is called self-loathe sweetie] and no matter how many times I leave a gay bar shaking my head in revulsion. And not all Village residents are Faux Hillary’s – remember Bold doesn’t own anything from Tiffany’s.
My friend Kitty often introduces me as Jewish Jon to her friends. When I came out we discussed adding the additional adjective before deciding that one derogatory nickname was enough. The rather intelligent joke of course is that by calling me Jewish Jon, she was in fact making fun of that particularly stereotype, that Village mentality if you will, wherein cultural identity is trump. And more then that, cultural identity is a broad stereotype that everyone gets. “Oh you’re Jewish?” Her friends would say. “I love latke’s! I love hanging out in the Forest Hill Village!” Jewish Jon was a motif for the fact that for the most part the people that we associate with are happy to loudly and proudly declare their minority status. I’m gay! I’m Jewish! I’m Asian! I blame the whole multi-cultural mosaic concept; either way, welcome to Village Pride baby.
Ghettoization has never been so vogue.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Bard of the Village - Fifth Times a Charm
Perfect gift for your
ten year old daughter: braces
and a gucci purse.
ten year old daughter: braces
and a gucci purse.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Fajitas
Things have gone from good to worse over at the Two-Fer.
My parents, god blessim, have long since entertained the idea of moving to Mexico. They have a dream of being served margharita's by someone named Lupita as they ride off into the sunset of their lives. Papa Len has even started taking Spanish lessons; so far, he's mastered "Una Cerveza per favor." As a result of the pending move down Mexico way - Sim Sim Sima has become obsessive about packing. Moving is frightening because leaving Faux Hill is tantamount to suicide. To quote, pre anti-Semitic Mel GIbson, in his Oscar winning movie, Braveheart - "They may take my classic centre-hall mansion, but they may never take my right to sit on the Starbucks patio!"
Sim Sim Sima has subsequently taken it upon herself to get rid of most things in our basement. WWSD right? Well what would Sima do? I can tell you that she'd sell the crap in your basement instead of giving it to charity. That's what she would do and that's what she's currently doing. Profit darling.
Well imagine reading the Saturday Globe and Mail, trying to get angry about Leah Mclaren's narcissism, and having your mother shove a silver serving platter in your face: "do you ever think you'll want this?" Having neither apartment nor home I can't imagine needing sterling silver crockery. Besides... perhaps Liam, my future husband, will come with his own monogrammed set of dishes, right? WASP gentry has shit like that, non? Bottom line: the consistent talk of moving, coupled with people shoving serving platters into my face, has put me a little on edge.
Tensions reached their denoument over dinner - when the family decamped to partake in some supper at the Hope Street Diner - right at the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. [First, dearest readers - a tip - there is a plethora of hot men serving tables at the Hope Street Diner. One looks like Wentworth Miller. Go. Go now.]
So, Sim Sim Sima opens up the menu, takes a glance and says this:
"Oh, Faux Hillary, they' have Fajita's." She said, pronouncing the j, as in Fa-gee-tas.
"Ah yes, Fahitas - the national cuisine of Mexico. Perhaps you've heard of the country, just south of America. Oh wait - I believe you were planning on moving there."
I guess it makes sense though - Faux Hill, is one of the least multi-cultural nabes in the city. Sure the Village may have two Italian Resto's, but that's pretty much it for ethnicity. Other then Sotto Sotto and Banfi it's Mangia Cake city coupled with a sushi place - which doesn't really count; it's the harajuku girl of the intersection. So don't blame Sim Sim Sima for not knowing how to pronounce Fajita's - we don't really do ethnic in the Village. Starbucks anyone?
My parents, god blessim, have long since entertained the idea of moving to Mexico. They have a dream of being served margharita's by someone named Lupita as they ride off into the sunset of their lives. Papa Len has even started taking Spanish lessons; so far, he's mastered "Una Cerveza per favor." As a result of the pending move down Mexico way - Sim Sim Sima has become obsessive about packing. Moving is frightening because leaving Faux Hill is tantamount to suicide. To quote, pre anti-Semitic Mel GIbson, in his Oscar winning movie, Braveheart - "They may take my classic centre-hall mansion, but they may never take my right to sit on the Starbucks patio!"
Sim Sim Sima has subsequently taken it upon herself to get rid of most things in our basement. WWSD right? Well what would Sima do? I can tell you that she'd sell the crap in your basement instead of giving it to charity. That's what she would do and that's what she's currently doing. Profit darling.
Well imagine reading the Saturday Globe and Mail, trying to get angry about Leah Mclaren's narcissism, and having your mother shove a silver serving platter in your face: "do you ever think you'll want this?" Having neither apartment nor home I can't imagine needing sterling silver crockery. Besides... perhaps Liam, my future husband, will come with his own monogrammed set of dishes, right? WASP gentry has shit like that, non? Bottom line: the consistent talk of moving, coupled with people shoving serving platters into my face, has put me a little on edge.
Tensions reached their denoument over dinner - when the family decamped to partake in some supper at the Hope Street Diner - right at the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. [First, dearest readers - a tip - there is a plethora of hot men serving tables at the Hope Street Diner. One looks like Wentworth Miller. Go. Go now.]
So, Sim Sim Sima opens up the menu, takes a glance and says this:
"Oh, Faux Hillary, they' have Fajita's." She said, pronouncing the j, as in Fa-gee-tas.
"Ah yes, Fahitas - the national cuisine of Mexico. Perhaps you've heard of the country, just south of America. Oh wait - I believe you were planning on moving there."
I guess it makes sense though - Faux Hill, is one of the least multi-cultural nabes in the city. Sure the Village may have two Italian Resto's, but that's pretty much it for ethnicity. Other then Sotto Sotto and Banfi it's Mangia Cake city coupled with a sushi place - which doesn't really count; it's the harajuku girl of the intersection. So don't blame Sim Sim Sima for not knowing how to pronounce Fajita's - we don't really do ethnic in the Village. Starbucks anyone?
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
S.O.S. - Save Our St Clair
I recently had the pleasure of having dinner with our family friends - the Whiterock's. The Whiterock's used to live near the Two-Fer until they moved to the other [ie the wealthier] side of Faux Hill, to the east side of the Village's dividing line - Spadna Road. The Whiterock's are typical Faux Hillary's, so gotta love em. They have an art collection valued at a couple of million dollars (some of it is total crap though... beauty in the eye of the beholder, blah blah blah), and Mr Whiterock drives a vintage 1960's Mercedes 300SL convertable (ya this fag knows about cars). I always enjoy dinner chez Whiterock because a) Mrs. Whiterock is a fine cook, she makes a mean ratatouille, and b) the conversation, which for the most part, borders on the offensive and judgemental. Just my specialty. Also the Whiterock's have 5000 bottles in their wine cellar so I generally I can get blato pretty easily on expensive red wine, and walk home drunk. WHEE!!!
So this time around - we had ten Faux Hillary's gathered around the dining room table, pleasnatly being served by the Maybe Gaybe butler (not that anyone would ever mention cock sucking at the dinner table). At some point conversation veered to something we all had intimate knowledge of. Stocks? Bonds? Racial degradation of Philipino house workers? Nope. Why - Public Transit of course (note my sarcasm). Apparently an elder member of the family had had a rude interaction with a TTC driver and was just completely turned off the not so better way.
"You're quite right," agreed Mr. Whiterock with his great aunt. "I also had a rude bus driver the other day." At this I almost spit up my French Bourdeaux all over the Frette Linen table cloth.
"When was the last time you took the bus?" I asked.
"I take the buss all the time." He answered. This was a bold-faced lie, because Mr Whiterock does not take the bus. Mr Whiterock has probably never taken a bus in his life - Whiterock grew up with my father in Montreal and was given a red sportscar when he was 16. Please. Don't bullshit a bullshitter.
Anyways conversation shifted from the bus, how plebian, to the St Clair Streetcar Reconstruction. The St Clair Streetcar is a construction project on the south end of the Faux, on - St Clair Ave. I won't bore anyone with details but blah blah blah it has caused a lot of construction and discussion amongst neighbourhood residents. The rich people don't like construction because it interferes with their lifestyle. Subsequently no one at the Whiterock's was a fan of the construction project. The noise! The cement harms their SUV's! It interferes with their driving routes! Everyone universally demeaned the project which will eventually provide reliable and faster streetcar service to thousands of communters a day, communters who happen to not live in Faux Hill, but travel through the Village to get to the subway. Not that any of this is of any consequence to those sitting around the table last week. No one at the Whiterock's actually takes the streetcar. I mean - how does one schlep 500 wine bottles on a streetcar? Oh you can't. Right.
So this time around - we had ten Faux Hillary's gathered around the dining room table, pleasnatly being served by the Maybe Gaybe butler (not that anyone would ever mention cock sucking at the dinner table). At some point conversation veered to something we all had intimate knowledge of. Stocks? Bonds? Racial degradation of Philipino house workers? Nope. Why - Public Transit of course (note my sarcasm). Apparently an elder member of the family had had a rude interaction with a TTC driver and was just completely turned off the not so better way.
"You're quite right," agreed Mr. Whiterock with his great aunt. "I also had a rude bus driver the other day." At this I almost spit up my French Bourdeaux all over the Frette Linen table cloth.
"When was the last time you took the bus?" I asked.
"I take the buss all the time." He answered. This was a bold-faced lie, because Mr Whiterock does not take the bus. Mr Whiterock has probably never taken a bus in his life - Whiterock grew up with my father in Montreal and was given a red sportscar when he was 16. Please. Don't bullshit a bullshitter.
Anyways conversation shifted from the bus, how plebian, to the St Clair Streetcar Reconstruction. The St Clair Streetcar is a construction project on the south end of the Faux, on - St Clair Ave. I won't bore anyone with details but blah blah blah it has caused a lot of construction and discussion amongst neighbourhood residents. The rich people don't like construction because it interferes with their lifestyle. Subsequently no one at the Whiterock's was a fan of the construction project. The noise! The cement harms their SUV's! It interferes with their driving routes! Everyone universally demeaned the project which will eventually provide reliable and faster streetcar service to thousands of communters a day, communters who happen to not live in Faux Hill, but travel through the Village to get to the subway. Not that any of this is of any consequence to those sitting around the table last week. No one at the Whiterock's actually takes the streetcar. I mean - how does one schlep 500 wine bottles on a streetcar? Oh you can't. Right.
Friday, January 26, 2007
All Politics is Local
Talk to any old political hack, and being employed by a politician, I talk to many, all will tell you that at the end of the day there is one truism in politics - all politics is local. The veracity of such an outlandish generalization was indeed proven to be true when I became a good friend with the infamous New Brunswick Moose Lady while working on a [National] political campaign. The Moose Lady's political endorsement was to be given to the politico who supported her bid to fence in the New Brunswick highway system [shout out to my peeps Cathy "moose lady" McCollum, what up sistah?!]. Foreign policy? She didn’t really care. Quebec as a nation? Even less interest… Mention the moose campaign to the participants of the 9:30 spin class at the Village Fitness and the most likely reply would be: "Moose? You're talking about the yoga pose right?" Uhm… sure.
Every so often the Globe and Mail and Toronto Star, the two major papers of note in this berg, devote a fair bit of coverage to the city's homeless problem. Following said expose [perhaps Jan Wong embedded as a panhandler at King and Bay? Royson James squatting underneath the Gardiner!?] the chattering classes will click their tongues at dinner party's, Margaret Wente will write a column about how she couldn't care less about the homeless because as a Baby Boomer blah blah blah, and some local celebrity, perhaps the wife of a prominent business person, will show up at a soup kitchen and lend her name to a new save the homeless mission. WHEE!!
In the long-term no one gives two shits and the city's homeless problem becomes an endemic feature to the downtown landscape, because the people with political clout in Toronto live in the Faux and or RosedAle. There are no homeless people in these two affluent neighborhoods - they are on the fringe of the downtown and as such exist as manicured bubbles cut off from the urban environment, isolated from the social woes South of Bloor.
For the first time in my memory, however, I have noticed a [disturbing] trend. There are now two panhandlers who sit on opposite sides of Spadina and Lonsdale asking passerby’s for spare change. The juxtaposition between the morning spin classes at the Village Fitness, where one can hear shouts of: "give it one more shot ladies, push it harder!" interspersed with Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous, and a the cries of a panhandler, "spare some change" is jarring. So jarring that I've seen a couple of people spill some non-fat latte on their lulu's.
The first morning I noticed the newest Faux Hillary's, my preliminary and honest reaction, was: "homeless people? in the Village? how disturbing". But why disturbing? Disturbing because there are homeless people in general, or disturbing because there are homeless people in my pristine hamlet of society. Truthfully, I'll admit it was the latter. I’m pretty awful.
If all politics is local - and I venture to say it is - then looks like we're bound for the next round of homelessness exposes [someone get me Christie Blatchford please]. With both the editor in chief of the Globe and Mail and Andrew Coyne, National Post columnist, frequent fliers at the village Starbucks, the two panhandlers in the Village may prove to have the biggest impact on the collective conscious of this city, after all homeless people don’t raise property values.
Every so often the Globe and Mail and Toronto Star, the two major papers of note in this berg, devote a fair bit of coverage to the city's homeless problem. Following said expose [perhaps Jan Wong embedded as a panhandler at King and Bay? Royson James squatting underneath the Gardiner!?] the chattering classes will click their tongues at dinner party's, Margaret Wente will write a column about how she couldn't care less about the homeless because as a Baby Boomer blah blah blah, and some local celebrity, perhaps the wife of a prominent business person, will show up at a soup kitchen and lend her name to a new save the homeless mission. WHEE!!
In the long-term no one gives two shits and the city's homeless problem becomes an endemic feature to the downtown landscape, because the people with political clout in Toronto live in the Faux and or RosedAle. There are no homeless people in these two affluent neighborhoods - they are on the fringe of the downtown and as such exist as manicured bubbles cut off from the urban environment, isolated from the social woes South of Bloor.
For the first time in my memory, however, I have noticed a [disturbing] trend. There are now two panhandlers who sit on opposite sides of Spadina and Lonsdale asking passerby’s for spare change. The juxtaposition between the morning spin classes at the Village Fitness, where one can hear shouts of: "give it one more shot ladies, push it harder!" interspersed with Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous, and a the cries of a panhandler, "spare some change" is jarring. So jarring that I've seen a couple of people spill some non-fat latte on their lulu's.
The first morning I noticed the newest Faux Hillary's, my preliminary and honest reaction, was: "homeless people? in the Village? how disturbing". But why disturbing? Disturbing because there are homeless people in general, or disturbing because there are homeless people in my pristine hamlet of society. Truthfully, I'll admit it was the latter. I’m pretty awful.
If all politics is local - and I venture to say it is - then looks like we're bound for the next round of homelessness exposes [someone get me Christie Blatchford please]. With both the editor in chief of the Globe and Mail and Andrew Coyne, National Post columnist, frequent fliers at the village Starbucks, the two panhandlers in the Village may prove to have the biggest impact on the collective conscious of this city, after all homeless people don’t raise property values.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Living the Dream
A young boy growing up in the Faux has two options in life: Doctah, or Lawyah. I am neither. Not only that but I have sex with men. I'm my own walking and talking shunda [ scandal]. I've managed to not go back to school for almost two years now, and family friends are starting to talk, "Nu... so when are you going to school law school?" Lord knows I'm not a doctah like Bold. The fact that a person can be succesful without a law degree doesn't really dawn on the clucking masses of botoxed beauties, who see the world in black and white (or Gucci versus Louis). One family friend caught me running out the door to a meeting and asked when I was going back to school; not 'if' mind you, but when! "You're going to law school eventually, right?" She asked. When I said No, she looked ashen, near tears and probably thought about how best to consol my mother. [Did I mention the gay sex thing? Sim Sim Sima's got bigger worries then me going to law school; I can tell you, she's giving herself ten years to process the eventuality of me introducing her to her cambodian granddaughter, then we'll talk consoling her, ok?]. Law school and a Faux Hill centre hall home is essentially the local version of the American dream.
For me, however, not so much. As such my job in politics - the one that I really like and doesn't involve lawyering or doctoring- has, however, recently provided me with the last laugh. The Chief Financial Officer of my campaign is a partner in a large downtown law firm. The campaign office closed down recently due to campaign transition but I've been given a nice office at the CFO's firm in order to finish up campaign related business. So I'm now faking it. Every day I wake up, subway downtown, sit in the office, stare out my window and wait for my thank you letters to print. When I'm bored I walk through the hallways nod at my "fellow" staff, wink at the receptionist and make a latte at the firm's esperesso machine. Living the dream, sans law degree and also paying law school tuition. WWSD indeed.
For me, however, not so much. As such my job in politics - the one that I really like and doesn't involve lawyering or doctoring- has, however, recently provided me with the last laugh. The Chief Financial Officer of my campaign is a partner in a large downtown law firm. The campaign office closed down recently due to campaign transition but I've been given a nice office at the CFO's firm in order to finish up campaign related business. So I'm now faking it. Every day I wake up, subway downtown, sit in the office, stare out my window and wait for my thank you letters to print. When I'm bored I walk through the hallways nod at my "fellow" staff, wink at the receptionist and make a latte at the firm's esperesso machine. Living the dream, sans law degree and also paying law school tuition. WWSD indeed.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
It's Because I'm Jewish. Jewish and Gay.
One of my best friends, El Huerd, has decided to take up squash. I got a bit excited as well... I happen to play a bit of squash.
"Are you any good?" He asked over the phone. "We can't play if you're very good. You'll beat me."
"El Huerd," I said, "I'm jewish and gay... what do you expect?"
Unfortunately I rarely play squash, for both of the above reasons, but also because I don't have access to a court. Brynnah, however, was in from New York and she is a member at the very tony Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club (established 1876). It's an old boys Toronto club. Read WASP. I love when Brynnah takes me there because I feel like establishment Toronto and because I'm hoping to meet my gaygetz there. In theory I picture something like this happening:
~
Int - Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club Bar
In walks Faux Hillary. He is sweaty from a game of squash. He orders a post-game drink, sits at the bar, and turns face-to-face with Caleb, a blue-eyed scion of Toronto society.
Caleb
Quite the game you've got. You really know how to handle a ball.
F.H.
Well then you should see me work my wonders on a raquet.
~
The wedding would be a tasteful affair in one of the adjoining Toronto Lawn banquet rooms, overlooking the squash court. Perfect no?
Early last week Brynnah and I arrived at the Toronto Lawn and started warming up. About one point into our game someone knocked on the glass door. Success I thought! I've been noticed already. It was the squash pro. Hot.
"You can't wear grey shorts in here. All squash players must wear all white."
"Mine were dirty." I lied. I don't own white shorts, because Sim Sim Sima always argued that white shorts were impractical. Which they are. You think we have a maid to do our laundry? What do you think we are rich?
"You'll have to wear the loner shorts, or we'll have to ask you to leave." The pro stayed in the doorway, pointing to the reception desk, watching and waiting.
And so... as I walked back to the court, wearing a pair of shorts tagged with the word: Loner (aka loser) I thought, part jokingly, part seriously - "it's like they knew I was Jewish. Jewish and gay."
"Are you any good?" He asked over the phone. "We can't play if you're very good. You'll beat me."
"El Huerd," I said, "I'm jewish and gay... what do you expect?"
Unfortunately I rarely play squash, for both of the above reasons, but also because I don't have access to a court. Brynnah, however, was in from New York and she is a member at the very tony Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club (established 1876). It's an old boys Toronto club. Read WASP. I love when Brynnah takes me there because I feel like establishment Toronto and because I'm hoping to meet my gaygetz there. In theory I picture something like this happening:
~
Int - Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club Bar
In walks Faux Hillary. He is sweaty from a game of squash. He orders a post-game drink, sits at the bar, and turns face-to-face with Caleb, a blue-eyed scion of Toronto society.
Caleb
Quite the game you've got. You really know how to handle a ball.
F.H.
Well then you should see me work my wonders on a raquet.
~
The wedding would be a tasteful affair in one of the adjoining Toronto Lawn banquet rooms, overlooking the squash court. Perfect no?
Early last week Brynnah and I arrived at the Toronto Lawn and started warming up. About one point into our game someone knocked on the glass door. Success I thought! I've been noticed already. It was the squash pro. Hot.
"You can't wear grey shorts in here. All squash players must wear all white."
"Mine were dirty." I lied. I don't own white shorts, because Sim Sim Sima always argued that white shorts were impractical. Which they are. You think we have a maid to do our laundry? What do you think we are rich?
"You'll have to wear the loner shorts, or we'll have to ask you to leave." The pro stayed in the doorway, pointing to the reception desk, watching and waiting.
And so... as I walked back to the court, wearing a pair of shorts tagged with the word: Loner (aka loser) I thought, part jokingly, part seriously - "it's like they knew I was Jewish. Jewish and gay."
"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?"
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?"
Monday, December 11, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
"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.
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.
Friday, October 13, 2006
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?
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.
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...
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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!
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!
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 25, 2006
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.
To the Tune of Green Acres:
North of Bloor is where
I'd rather sit and molt; I
Get allergic south of Holt's.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
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!
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!
Sunday, July 09, 2006
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."
"A personal note:
The girl wearing uggs today
The trend is over."
Friday, June 30, 2006
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. ;)
Thursday, June 29, 2006
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...
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...
Monday, June 19, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Bard of the Village; The Third Cut is the Bardiest
Life of a nanny:
Your "owner" buys you Starbucks
While you watch the kids.
Your "owner" buys you Starbucks
While you watch the kids.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Bard of Village Part Deux; Bardier
Todays Haiku:
Grande, Vente, Soy?
So many options to choose
That's why life is hard.
Grande, Vente, Soy?
So many options to choose
That's why life is hard.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
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.
*Fat Dan is yet another Village Rat. Trust fund baby who tools around the Village doing very, very litte.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, June 05, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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.
Sittin at Starbucks
Watching Cars Parallel Park
Their Uggs are too tight.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
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..."
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..."
Sunday, May 28, 2006
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.
Friday, May 26, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 22, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, May 15, 2006
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!
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!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 12, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
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 establishmen
t 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 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 establishmen
t 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.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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."
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."
Sunday, May 07, 2006
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:
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!
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!
Friday, May 05, 2006
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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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...
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...
Monday, May 01, 2006
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
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
Sunday, April 16, 2006
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.
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.
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