Tuesday found Faux Hillary out of his league. Or not quite out my league, but certainly far away from my comfort zone (read Spadina and Lonsdale).
I found myself attending a function at the city's much vaunted Drake Hotel. The Drake is a bar, come hotel, come scene in and of itself. It's opening is credited with transforming a once wayward stretch of Queen Street into hipster central. The beautiful patio opening one summer when we were all watching the OC and everyone was adding the word "the" in front of everything, hence the obsiqutous, the Drake. Remember that summer; thank god that's over. For a summer everyone and their monther (except for Sim Sim Sima, she's has NO time for bars) was talking about how much of a genius Jeff (owner of the Drake) Stober was.
The Drake is one of those places that isn't actaully cool anymore (some may argue it was never 'cool' at all). The Hipsters have moved on from Queen and Ossington, further west, and wouldn't be caught dead inside of the Drake; regardless though there's enough of grit left on the streets surrounding for the city's I-Banker crowd to feel like they're doing something unusual rather then spending yet another evening staring at the fake titties and faux hair at Hemingways. That's the thing about the Drake, it provided a nice bit of cleanliness in an otherwise dirty area. It was never really marketted to actual hipsters - instead it's sorta like Main Street USA in Disney Land - come be a hipster for a night, but with clean bathrooms, more cocaine and less incense. Drake owner Jeff Stober even lives in the Village if you really want to understand his headspace about the whole thing.
But back to the event...
First encounter of the third kind, Faux Hillary runs into an old friend. The climber, as we'll call her, is, to put it mildly, intense. A day-trader at a downtown investment banking firm she once drunkenly slapped me with her Gucci bag and slurred, "how much do you make, I can get you a job where you'll be making $2000 a week." The Climber, a beautiful leggy blond, was truly out and about to show off her latest and greatest boyfriend, none other then the unemployed schlub of a very old money Toronto family. The type of family whose name adorns buildings at U of T but whose third generation is known not for their philanthropic spirit or shrewd business decisions... but still, a name is still a name.
Before leaving I had the good fortune to run into an even older friend, apparently a friend of the Climber. The Snob, if you will, works with the Climber at whatever banking firm pays that much money a week. Having not seen the Snob since elementary school we did the brief update on our lives (I enjoy throwing in the gratuitous mention of being gay at this point so as to spread that shit around the gossip world, "Do you know who is gay?" "I'm not surprised, didn't you think he was gay in elementary school?" "Ya but didn't he have a girlfriend?" "Do you think she knows now?" "Well maybe we shouldn't say something?")
The Snob asked me what I was doing, "i work in philanthropy at a not for profit." The Snob smiled... "Oh that's so sweet. I'm working for all the money and you're at a not for profit. That's so... cute."
Cute indeed.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Third Estate
I went out for frozen yogurt with my friend Momo last night. We had planned to go for drinks, but realized we were both exhausted by our respective jobs. Frozen yogurt seemed to be the best answer.
"Why is there so much garbage here?" Momo asked as we sat on a bench right at Spadina and Lonsdale.
"Because the children don't know how to pick up for themselves. That's what the nanny is for." I replied.
"Or in my case... three philipino's." Momo was referring to her boss's family who has not one, not two, but three nannies (apparently they got the bulk discount at the Philipino Nanny Depot [is that awful of me to say?]).
As Momo and I sat eating our fro-yo witnessing the parade of Channel fanny packs, Gucci aviators and the like I realized I had seen the same characters here before. This makes sense because the Village isn't really a popular destination for most Torontonians or tourists. The Faux is not like the Beaches or Yorkville - you'd never take an out of town guest on a tour unless said out of town guest was a human anthropologist interested in studying the obnoxious behaviours of wealthy Torontonians. Subsequently the Village maintains its sorta introspective bubble. To quote a friend, "I'll cry if I don't live here when I grow up."
Broken down, the Village, much like acien france the Village has three "estates":
1) Residents - the botoxed beauties who live here, the husbands, Andrew Coyne and myself
2) Wannabe residents - these are people who don't really live in the Village but have ingrained themselves into the scene. These people like the Village more then the residents - they LOVE it. They're regulars at Sotto Sotto and pick up their dry cleaning at Parker's even though they live at Yonge and Lawrence.
3) The Help - ie construction workers and nannies, the subdued proletariat if you will.
The third estate is a rather confusing segment.
As I was walking to work the other day, a construction worked stopped me on the sidewalk.
"Is there a Tim Horton's around here?" He asked. I did'nt know what to say beyond... a hell's no. This is Latte Land my friend... ask one of the local Starbetic's what a double double is and you're bond to hear this: "that's the new mani pedi deal they're offering at the Forest Hill Spa right?"
To Quote Abbe Sieyes:
What is the Third Estate? Everything
What has it been hereto in the political order? Nothing
What does it demand? A Tim Hortons!
Marx is probably rolling over in his grave right now.
"Why is there so much garbage here?" Momo asked as we sat on a bench right at Spadina and Lonsdale.
"Because the children don't know how to pick up for themselves. That's what the nanny is for." I replied.
"Or in my case... three philipino's." Momo was referring to her boss's family who has not one, not two, but three nannies (apparently they got the bulk discount at the Philipino Nanny Depot [is that awful of me to say?]).
As Momo and I sat eating our fro-yo witnessing the parade of Channel fanny packs, Gucci aviators and the like I realized I had seen the same characters here before. This makes sense because the Village isn't really a popular destination for most Torontonians or tourists. The Faux is not like the Beaches or Yorkville - you'd never take an out of town guest on a tour unless said out of town guest was a human anthropologist interested in studying the obnoxious behaviours of wealthy Torontonians. Subsequently the Village maintains its sorta introspective bubble. To quote a friend, "I'll cry if I don't live here when I grow up."
Broken down, the Village, much like acien france the Village has three "estates":
1) Residents - the botoxed beauties who live here, the husbands, Andrew Coyne and myself
2) Wannabe residents - these are people who don't really live in the Village but have ingrained themselves into the scene. These people like the Village more then the residents - they LOVE it. They're regulars at Sotto Sotto and pick up their dry cleaning at Parker's even though they live at Yonge and Lawrence.
3) The Help - ie construction workers and nannies, the subdued proletariat if you will.
The third estate is a rather confusing segment.
As I was walking to work the other day, a construction worked stopped me on the sidewalk.
"Is there a Tim Horton's around here?" He asked. I did'nt know what to say beyond... a hell's no. This is Latte Land my friend... ask one of the local Starbetic's what a double double is and you're bond to hear this: "that's the new mani pedi deal they're offering at the Forest Hill Spa right?"
To Quote Abbe Sieyes:
What is the Third Estate? Everything
What has it been hereto in the political order? Nothing
What does it demand? A Tim Hortons!
Marx is probably rolling over in his grave right now.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Village Pride
An anonymous poster a couple of posts down accused me of being a "bad person and class traitor." I don't like to think of myself as a bad person; caustic, yes; embittered at times, sure; emotional, check - but bad person? Them's fighting words.
Today - being father's day, we held a giant brunch. My family friends the Whiterock's - their house a wine cellar - showed up a couple of hours late, hightaling it from Muskoka only to complain about the traffic (I love when people complain about cottage traffic...). Thankfully they brough their son, Whiterock Jr., and his [asian] girlfriend. This is amusing because scandalized guests can turn to my mother only to state the obvious, "Did you see his girlfriend? She's asian." Once, one of my mother's friend used the word Oriental to describe her. It was simultaneously so awkward and so amazing. As I stood in the kitchen washing dishes I thought that the brunch would be a FABULOUS (note the use of the word) time to introduce my non-existent significant other to the extended family. "This is 'so and so...'" I'd say, "we fuck." No amount of Gucci could replicate the look of shock I'd expect from some of my parents friends.
I longed for escape; as the party droned on Whiterock Jr ends up prostelatyzing guests about his weird blend of pseudo populist, neo conservative vision for Canadian politics, while I watched the fresia melt under the sun. Once everyone had left I wound up in the Village, natch, sipping iced tea and sweating. It was a usual sunday in the Village - the fashion monotony was broken up only by a seventeen year old in a black tank top, black shorts and black Uggs. UGGS. WINTER BOOTS. FYI - it's 35 degrees outside.
What happened next is a first for the Village, at least in my own experiences. It was something which actually brought a smile, yes a smile, to my curmudgeonly face: hark, in the distance, appearing almost out of nowhere - two men walked together hand-in-hand, down Spadina cutting a swath through the Village.
And so I thought, maybe the Village has a bit of pride after all?
Happy Pride Week Y'all.
Today - being father's day, we held a giant brunch. My family friends the Whiterock's - their house a wine cellar - showed up a couple of hours late, hightaling it from Muskoka only to complain about the traffic (I love when people complain about cottage traffic...). Thankfully they brough their son, Whiterock Jr., and his [asian] girlfriend. This is amusing because scandalized guests can turn to my mother only to state the obvious, "Did you see his girlfriend? She's asian." Once, one of my mother's friend used the word Oriental to describe her. It was simultaneously so awkward and so amazing. As I stood in the kitchen washing dishes I thought that the brunch would be a FABULOUS (note the use of the word) time to introduce my non-existent significant other to the extended family. "This is 'so and so...'" I'd say, "we fuck." No amount of Gucci could replicate the look of shock I'd expect from some of my parents friends.
I longed for escape; as the party droned on Whiterock Jr ends up prostelatyzing guests about his weird blend of pseudo populist, neo conservative vision for Canadian politics, while I watched the fresia melt under the sun. Once everyone had left I wound up in the Village, natch, sipping iced tea and sweating. It was a usual sunday in the Village - the fashion monotony was broken up only by a seventeen year old in a black tank top, black shorts and black Uggs. UGGS. WINTER BOOTS. FYI - it's 35 degrees outside.
What happened next is a first for the Village, at least in my own experiences. It was something which actually brought a smile, yes a smile, to my curmudgeonly face: hark, in the distance, appearing almost out of nowhere - two men walked together hand-in-hand, down Spadina cutting a swath through the Village.
And so I thought, maybe the Village has a bit of pride after all?
Happy Pride Week Y'all.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Impatients
Impatiens - are flowers that most people plant in their yards come summer. They're cheap and colourful and are easy enough to maintain, with your underground automatic sprinkler and or gardener they're really no trouble for the busy Faux Hill executive. I always thought Impatiens were spelled impatients, as in lack of patience. I imagined that the clever pun loving botanist who named them had a good chorttle at his own expense upon coming up with the name. "By george I'm brilliant - when you plant impatients you don't have to be patient - these flowers provide instant colour!" Have I mentioned that I used to work in advertising? I've never felt so stupid when I looked on wikipedia the other day and realized the error of my ways.
Impatience, however, has been on my brain of late. Having been recently dumped - by someone who argued that he wasn't quite ready to be in the relationship I wanted, arguing I was looking for a husband, he wasn't (don't you love 2007 though, FYI? GAY MARRIAGE!!), was a bit of a harsh blow. When I finally sorted out the emotional upheaval of having my heart broken - the only lingering doubt was a fear for my own future. Why was I so impatient to settle into adulthood?
So like most other things - I blamed the Faux for latent feelings of neuroses. It's cheaper then therapy and really... WWSD? Actually I'll let you know what Sim Sim Sima would say, "therapy? total waste of money." Hi mom!
After much introspection I've identified two problems with the Faux Hill lifestyle and its effects on the spawn of its residents. (I know only two!)
1) The Faux raises the fear of failure [say it ten times really quickly].
Growing up amongst upper middle class affluence is a frightening prospect when you're 25 and trying to figure out your future. A certain fear of never being able to replicate your parents' success and buy the centre hall mock Tudor house you've been raised in is a very cognizant nightmare. Brynnah, now in New York, once wrote me an email when she was interning at a PR firm, "what if I end up making $35,000 for the rest of my life and living in Pickering." I know these aren't huge issues and perhaps sound spoiled (oh wait they are). People are in fact dying in Africa and all... but to quote my mother, "It's easier to have nothing and make something of yourself, then to." A good friend and I were walking in between our respective houses in the Village the other night because yes we both still live at home and as we walked through the manicured streets, we exchanged pleasantries with neighbours, before she finally turned to me in near tears and said: "is this where you thought you'd be at 25?" What she meant was, did you think you'd be living at home and waking up every day wondering if we would ever find happiness and job fulfillment (questionable at 25)? There were no words of comfort of course; what do you say when you're feeling the exact same thing and you realize that at 25 your parents were married and owned a house.
Problemo numero uno leads to the second issue:
2) The indecision of wealth. I sat with my friend Jer at Starbucks the other day. He admitted that at 24 he had no clue what to do with his life. I told him that like everyone else we know he was just indecisive. There were too many options on our table; our cup doth runeth over with suggestions. By the end of our convo he decided to spend a year in Australia, hoping a period of travel would provide some answers or at least delay the inevitable rush to law school. He admitted that everyone we knew was doing "something" travelling or studying abroad that he couldn't quite commit himself to anything.
Indecision is a mark of privilege I realize. And for a generation of youts whose baby boomer parents have indulged our every whim, no wonder why we have no patience for these intermittent years. Making decisions isn't quite so fun and let's face it - Faux Hillary's just want to have fun.
Another friend admitted that he wanted to fast-forward to his thirtieth birthday party. He pictured his wife and baby sitting around a dining room table presenting a cake to him. He actually contemplated dating a thirty year old whose biological clock was ticking so loudly that on their first date she literally asked him to bare her children. That odd sense of him actually found this attractive - instant family; no decisions had to be made.
Before we parted for coffee Jeremy said something mildly profound "ya know - we're lucky we don't have student debt." And he was correct - as Jer and I sat in a coffee shop drinking four dollar latte's wondering what we were going to do with our lives, I could count the number of people I know who were struggling to pay off their student debt wondering why they had to work two jobs to make ends meet.
That's the problem of course when you're part of a decadent generation (of which I'm only too happy to be a part of - no sense being high and mighty today). Money buys trips to Africa, a year or two spent teaching English in Japan as we try and find ourselves, aimlessly fearing the future and our own indecisiveness. But on the flip side, no one's dying, which probably makes matters that much worth. It's hard to feel sorry for yourself, when life isn't that awful.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Africa
"I hear the drums echoing tonight
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She's coming in 12:30 flight
The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation
I stopped an old man along the way
Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies
He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"
CHORUS:
It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I blessed the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had"
Ahh... Toto. Thank you for being a one hit wonder circa 1982. The song Africa, as many people have noted over the years, has little to do with the actual continent. Like most people's fascination with the Dark Continent - Toto's lyrics are really about Toto itself; or about the band's keyboardist missing his woman... and really who I am to judge?
Ahh... Africa. Never been. And yet... I get the sense these days that Africa is a theme park for your average Faux Hillary. Africa is the new Europe.
I got an email from a friend the other day, a self-described, typical Toronto snob. She had been unable to find a "real" job since graduation in Toronto. "I'm bored. So I've decided to go to Africa." Note... I'm not sure which country she's going to (Africa FYI is a pretty big place!). There was never a mention about really wanting to go to Africa. No, "I've always wanted to go to Africa. I've decided to use my undergraduate degree in African Studies with a minor in International Development Studies to actually learn first-hand about Africa." Nope. Nothing. Simply... yawn, Toronto is boring :( Africa is fun!
Another friend - CB is currently in Ghanna. I'm not quite sure what she's doing beyond "saving the children". Every once in a while I get a mass email about CB's latest exploits. The latest, "I now understand real poverty," have seemingly had a profound impact on her own life, "I think I finally understand myself," she writes, "all of my anger, my rage of the years... being hear and faced with such conflict and poverty has made me feel so much more in tune with myself; my own issues."
Just as Toto's Africa wasn't about the actual continent, today's Africa isn't about saving the world, its about saving your parents cash-money in therapy bills. At least there's more room for me at the Starbucks patio!
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She's coming in 12:30 flight
The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation
I stopped an old man along the way
Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies
He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"
CHORUS:
It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I blessed the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had"
Ahh... Toto. Thank you for being a one hit wonder circa 1982. The song Africa, as many people have noted over the years, has little to do with the actual continent. Like most people's fascination with the Dark Continent - Toto's lyrics are really about Toto itself; or about the band's keyboardist missing his woman... and really who I am to judge?
Ahh... Africa. Never been. And yet... I get the sense these days that Africa is a theme park for your average Faux Hillary. Africa is the new Europe.
I got an email from a friend the other day, a self-described, typical Toronto snob. She had been unable to find a "real" job since graduation in Toronto. "I'm bored. So I've decided to go to Africa." Note... I'm not sure which country she's going to (Africa FYI is a pretty big place!). There was never a mention about really wanting to go to Africa. No, "I've always wanted to go to Africa. I've decided to use my undergraduate degree in African Studies with a minor in International Development Studies to actually learn first-hand about Africa." Nope. Nothing. Simply... yawn, Toronto is boring :( Africa is fun!
Another friend - CB is currently in Ghanna. I'm not quite sure what she's doing beyond "saving the children". Every once in a while I get a mass email about CB's latest exploits. The latest, "I now understand real poverty," have seemingly had a profound impact on her own life, "I think I finally understand myself," she writes, "all of my anger, my rage of the years... being hear and faced with such conflict and poverty has made me feel so much more in tune with myself; my own issues."
Just as Toto's Africa wasn't about the actual continent, today's Africa isn't about saving the world, its about saving your parents cash-money in therapy bills. At least there's more room for me at the Starbucks patio!
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Lawn Bowling
My dear friend Chessy [Yiddishe for Caitlin] the original RosedAlian has recently migrated from the family home on Binscarth to Davisville Village. Here she has alligned herself with the local lawn bowling club, established 1928. I'm still not quite sure what lawn bowling is - but I'm pretty sure it's about as gentry as you can get in Canada without going duck hunting with a member of the Eaton family up in Caledon.
This weekend Chessy roped a bunch of us to spend the afternoon power sanding, power washing and power painting. Power bottom jokes went unnoticed by this crowd of private schoolies and National Post writer's. Gay? I spent most of the day leering at one of Chessy's sisters friends (established 1986) whom in my mind was a repressed Upper Canada old boy waiting for an older man to show him the joys of gay sex... Chessy said I could day dream; just not touch. Sigh. He was wearing a polo and madras shorts... I'm only human.
A friend called me while I was the club, "You're lawn bowling? I didn't know Jews lawn-bowled."
"We don't."
"So why you going?"
"Same reason I go to the Toronto Lawn."
"Find a man?"
"Yup. Where else can I meet my gaygetz?"
"Maybe your WASP boyfriend doesn't lawnbowl?"
Embracing my weekend of extremes I attended a fundraiser for the Sex Professional Workers of Canada on Sunday evening. Bitches are unionizing and if you thought CUPE Local 4400 was militant, I suggest you talk to an angry transvestite prostitute. She knows pain; over paid transit workers, not so much.
As I waited, awkwardly, for my friend to arrive, as videos of boys jerking off played in the background I looked down had a Marisa Tomei, in My Cousin Vinnie moment. Really... did I have to wear a lacoste polo, cardigan and loafers? Contemplating what exactly is the correct outfit to wear to a fundraiser for sex workers I realized that at the end of the day - you can take the boy out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the boy.
This weekend Chessy roped a bunch of us to spend the afternoon power sanding, power washing and power painting. Power bottom jokes went unnoticed by this crowd of private schoolies and National Post writer's. Gay? I spent most of the day leering at one of Chessy's sisters friends (established 1986) whom in my mind was a repressed Upper Canada old boy waiting for an older man to show him the joys of gay sex... Chessy said I could day dream; just not touch. Sigh. He was wearing a polo and madras shorts... I'm only human.
A friend called me while I was the club, "You're lawn bowling? I didn't know Jews lawn-bowled."
"We don't."
"So why you going?"
"Same reason I go to the Toronto Lawn."
"Find a man?"
"Yup. Where else can I meet my gaygetz?"
"Maybe your WASP boyfriend doesn't lawnbowl?"
Embracing my weekend of extremes I attended a fundraiser for the Sex Professional Workers of Canada on Sunday evening. Bitches are unionizing and if you thought CUPE Local 4400 was militant, I suggest you talk to an angry transvestite prostitute. She knows pain; over paid transit workers, not so much.
As I waited, awkwardly, for my friend to arrive, as videos of boys jerking off played in the background I looked down had a Marisa Tomei, in My Cousin Vinnie moment. Really... did I have to wear a lacoste polo, cardigan and loafers? Contemplating what exactly is the correct outfit to wear to a fundraiser for sex workers I realized that at the end of the day - you can take the boy out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the boy.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Lament for a Village
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.
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.
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.
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