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."

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

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

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

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

Talk of the Town

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

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

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

"Stars! They're Just Like Us"

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

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

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

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

LOL: Love Over Lonsdale

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

Picture this:

INT - Beth Jacob Synagogue - Evening

The Engagement Partyof Jordana Shapiro and Mark Shefman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story develops...

Breaking News: Starbucks Price Increase

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

Faux Hill Vanity License Plate of the Week

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

Faux Hillary Goes to School

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

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

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

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

Bard Acres

Haiku Friday's are back with a total winner!

To the Tune of Green Acres:

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

Birds of a Feather

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

U R 2 Sexy

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

Bard of the Village; King Bard the Fourth

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

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

Traffic

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

Cobb Salad 2

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

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

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

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

Bard of the Village; The Third Cut is the Bardiest

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

Inherent Specialization

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

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

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

Bard of Village Part Deux; Bardier

Todays Haiku:

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

Fat Dan* Quote of the Day

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

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

Cobb Salad

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