The T-Hill, that other outpost of Torontonian Judaism, has reared its head this weekend. Bold is celebrating her birthday along with another friend, Shosh of the Thornhill Shoshana's. Yours truly has been put in charge of decorations. I was thinking a tasteful trip down to Teatro Verde for a nice planter, a stop at the Flower District @ Ave and Dav for some floral inspiration before artfully concocting a display mixed with floating tea lights. Those from the T-Hill, had a different idea. M-Poo called me this morning to warn me about the decoration intervention. It appears as if Shosh's husband was stopping off to get streamers and balloons.
Background noise (courtesy of Bold): "I will not have balloons and streamers at my party."
M-Poo whispered into the phone: "The problem is that you have a mix of two cultures - Thornhill and Faux Hill."
Truer words have never been spoken.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Friday, September 23, 2005
I Just Want a Shaygetz
Awhile ago I, whilst being angry at Starbucks (in general), I asked Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len why we ended up residing in pretentious Faux Hill. "We liked the house", they answered. I suppose what's not to like about the Two-Fer (the name I've bestowed upon the familial compound)? We have four bedrooms, a den, a backyard... It's GT's over here.
But as a part of a cultural minority, Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima settled in Faux Hill for reasons beyond the tudor styling of the Two-Fer. The Faux Hill and its predominantly Jewish residents, provide a nice protectorate where Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len's offspring (Boldy and me) could be raised in a culturally Jewish neighbourhood with the hope of potentially meeting a culturally similar mate. Faux Hill is like sending your kids to Jewish day school or a jewish camp; only unlike those cultural outposts of latent twenty first century Judaism the Faux Hill is 24/7; it is the twentieth century version of J-Date. And that, in its beauty, is the insiduous nature of the Faux Hill, which is nothing more then a self confined breeding ground for potential Cohen-Greenberg nuptuals.
Alas, a trend within these parts is rebellion, as kids will be kids... for most Jewish boys the spectre of rebellion lies within the cold confines of Rosedale, where a blue eyed-blond haired temptress with decent pedigree and OLD MONEY lures a nice Faux Hill mentsch with her shiks-appeal. A Shiksa is the derogatory term used to describe a non jewish girl who marries/dates a Jewish boy. And really whats not to like about a WASPy mate? Instead of the overly emotional hysterics of a Jewish family, our young Faux Hill lad, gets a glass of scotch and stone cold silence at the dinner table, as his mother, sadly geshries (Yiddish for shrieking) at how her beloved Joshua is dating the gentle HaverGal, Taylor Morgan Pratt.
And for the rebellious Gay Jewish boy of Faux Hill? The reality is not so different, Shiks-appeal, or in my case, Gaygetz appeal still rules. A Gaygetz?
To define: a Shaygetz is the male version of a shiksa, and a gaygetz is a term that I've modified to describe the succession of Pretty White Boys With Problems (PWBWP)that I've have dated. And like the nice Jewish boy who brings home a WASPy shiksa for Rosh Hashannah dinner, I've realized that I as well am only attracted to Gaygetz's. All of my PWBWB have been of the non kosher variety. I have been infatuated with my gaygetz's because of their WASPy last names such as Bradshaw & Payne, their small upturned little noses, their goyishe but beautiful blue eyes, the fact that they all offer me a glass of scotch at the door and the fac that they are all shockingly emotionally despondant.
As I jogged through the Faux Hill the other day, however, I realized that my infatuation with gaygetz's is pretty classic Jew-boy mentality, the Gaygetz, much like the Shiksa, still has the appeal of The Other. And I realized, that just because I'm gay, it doesn't make me any less of a neurotic Jew-boy. Portnoy would be so proud.
But as a part of a cultural minority, Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima settled in Faux Hill for reasons beyond the tudor styling of the Two-Fer. The Faux Hill and its predominantly Jewish residents, provide a nice protectorate where Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len's offspring (Boldy and me) could be raised in a culturally Jewish neighbourhood with the hope of potentially meeting a culturally similar mate. Faux Hill is like sending your kids to Jewish day school or a jewish camp; only unlike those cultural outposts of latent twenty first century Judaism the Faux Hill is 24/7; it is the twentieth century version of J-Date. And that, in its beauty, is the insiduous nature of the Faux Hill, which is nothing more then a self confined breeding ground for potential Cohen-Greenberg nuptuals.
Alas, a trend within these parts is rebellion, as kids will be kids... for most Jewish boys the spectre of rebellion lies within the cold confines of Rosedale, where a blue eyed-blond haired temptress with decent pedigree and OLD MONEY lures a nice Faux Hill mentsch with her shiks-appeal. A Shiksa is the derogatory term used to describe a non jewish girl who marries/dates a Jewish boy. And really whats not to like about a WASPy mate? Instead of the overly emotional hysterics of a Jewish family, our young Faux Hill lad, gets a glass of scotch and stone cold silence at the dinner table, as his mother, sadly geshries (Yiddish for shrieking) at how her beloved Joshua is dating the gentle HaverGal, Taylor Morgan Pratt.
And for the rebellious Gay Jewish boy of Faux Hill? The reality is not so different, Shiks-appeal, or in my case, Gaygetz appeal still rules. A Gaygetz?
To define: a Shaygetz is the male version of a shiksa, and a gaygetz is a term that I've modified to describe the succession of Pretty White Boys With Problems (PWBWP)that I've have dated. And like the nice Jewish boy who brings home a WASPy shiksa for Rosh Hashannah dinner, I've realized that I as well am only attracted to Gaygetz's. All of my PWBWB have been of the non kosher variety. I have been infatuated with my gaygetz's because of their WASPy last names such as Bradshaw & Payne, their small upturned little noses, their goyishe but beautiful blue eyes, the fact that they all offer me a glass of scotch at the door and the fac that they are all shockingly emotionally despondant.
As I jogged through the Faux Hill the other day, however, I realized that my infatuation with gaygetz's is pretty classic Jew-boy mentality, the Gaygetz, much like the Shiksa, still has the appeal of The Other. And I realized, that just because I'm gay, it doesn't make me any less of a neurotic Jew-boy. Portnoy would be so proud.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Life in Slow Motion
Dearest Readers, I have become lost... I dated an actor and got dumped via e-mail only to realize that everyone has baggage - only most people don't carry a Louis Vuitton. And so tonight, I yearn, ne long for a place where everybody knows my name (Cohen, Stern, Golden/Silver-stein, blatt, burg) and where most people's baggage is in fact a newly purchased Louis. Tonight I returned to the Village. Spooky...
*
It was a dark and stormy night in the Faux Hill; or as dark and stormy as it gets in these calm monied parts. An air of pervasive calm has prevailed over Starbucks; the teenage riff raff has come back from various camps in Algonquin Park and have departed for wannabe ivy league schools in Montreal and London; the Village has been reclaimed by its rightful citizens - the tax payers and by its future tax payers - law school students.
My most frequent interaction has become a various nodding routinte with these future home owners, comical only for its repitition:
"You look familiar." I see one girl in Lulu and I know...
"You were in my class." She says.
"McGill?" I ask.
"Jewish Holiday's; or some other Jewish class." And as we update each other on various summer exploints, current life plans, she tells me how she's finished her first few days of law school. She shows me the courseback with pride, as secretly we both count how many Jewish studies classes she took to get were she is. How many classes padded that CV in the quest for the holy grail: 4.0.
And so the cycle continues this fall in Faux Hill... the new generation arises as the old lingers on a patio sipping chai latte's proud of their accomplishments and David Gray laments on the ipod, "life in slow motion, somehow it can't be real."
*
It was a dark and stormy night in the Faux Hill; or as dark and stormy as it gets in these calm monied parts. An air of pervasive calm has prevailed over Starbucks; the teenage riff raff has come back from various camps in Algonquin Park and have departed for wannabe ivy league schools in Montreal and London; the Village has been reclaimed by its rightful citizens - the tax payers and by its future tax payers - law school students.
My most frequent interaction has become a various nodding routinte with these future home owners, comical only for its repitition:
"You look familiar." I see one girl in Lulu and I know...
"You were in my class." She says.
"McGill?" I ask.
"Jewish Holiday's; or some other Jewish class." And as we update each other on various summer exploints, current life plans, she tells me how she's finished her first few days of law school. She shows me the courseback with pride, as secretly we both count how many Jewish studies classes she took to get were she is. How many classes padded that CV in the quest for the holy grail: 4.0.
And so the cycle continues this fall in Faux Hill... the new generation arises as the old lingers on a patio sipping chai latte's proud of their accomplishments and David Gray laments on the ipod, "life in slow motion, somehow it can't be real."
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Think Inside the Box
Bold Sharon is perhaps the oddest member of the Faux Hill family. Besides her ever increasing 'boldosity' [she was christened Boldy McS after numerous arguments over the surprise party that we planned for our parents last year. For an example I will recount the 'party sandwich incident', wherein yours truly made an executive decision and ordered party sandwiches without consulting her. "What do you mean you ordered the party sandwiches? Those people (by 'those people' she was obviously talking about the international party sandwich conspiracy) are always trying to rip us off... you probably ordered too many. Next time, get a price quote, call me back and then order." This was an argument based on $150 of party sandwiches, so we aren't talking big money here... and they all went. Boldy further distinguished herself as Bold by pushing me aside in a display of superhuman strength and shouting, to my friend Brynnah and Brock, "THEY'RE GOING TO RUIN THE SURPRISE.]; anyways... besides her increasing 'boldosity' Bold Sharon has a habbit of not being very Faux Hillary, even though she grew up here her entire life. Sadly Boldy always placed herself on the fringes of FH society wondering why she isn't as fashionable as "those people"; by those people she is referring to those stricken with Faux Hill-iticis. At thirty, however, Boldy has finally gotten so bold as too demand something from Tiffany's from her beloved husband and man who knows tolerance, M-Poo.
Tiffany-bling is the ultimate mark of the Faux Hillary. It's like a cultural touchstone that symbolizes ones origin. But unlike every other Faux Hillary, Boldy shockingly, has nothing from Tiffany's. Nary an Elsa Paretti heart, nor silver dog chain can be found in her jewellery box. This to insider's is shocking:
Kitty: "Your sister doesn't have anything from Tiffany's? Weird."
Matt: "I mean given the socio-economic standing, I find it shocking, unheard of."
Brynnah once declared, "I think it has something to do with the Bat Mitzvah, but every Jewish girl has at least something from Tiffany's." And finally Boldy can meet the mold, as M Poo has taken the plunge and thought inside the box... but true to form, Boldy directed him at a particular piece, much to the sticker shocked eyes of M Poo. And just because she's Sharon has become a bit more Faux Hillary, doesn't mean she's ain't still bold. And that is why we love her.
Tiffany-bling is the ultimate mark of the Faux Hillary. It's like a cultural touchstone that symbolizes ones origin. But unlike every other Faux Hillary, Boldy shockingly, has nothing from Tiffany's. Nary an Elsa Paretti heart, nor silver dog chain can be found in her jewellery box. This to insider's is shocking:
Kitty: "Your sister doesn't have anything from Tiffany's? Weird."
Matt: "I mean given the socio-economic standing, I find it shocking, unheard of."
Brynnah once declared, "I think it has something to do with the Bat Mitzvah, but every Jewish girl has at least something from Tiffany's." And finally Boldy can meet the mold, as M Poo has taken the plunge and thought inside the box... but true to form, Boldy directed him at a particular piece, much to the sticker shocked eyes of M Poo. And just because she's Sharon has become a bit more Faux Hillary, doesn't mean she's ain't still bold. And that is why we love her.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Your Hair is Amazing
As a guy I don't really 'get' hair. For those who don't know what I look like... my head is actually shaved; and every two weeks I whip out the automatic hair clipper, set it to option three, and shorn my own hair in the bathroom as my mother shrieks, "you have to do this here? Now?" About the most exciting thing to have happen to my hair recently was the purchase of a CORDLESS hair trimmer. I spurged ($60.00) on a fancy Phillips machine, thinking that I save about $25.00 a haircut anyway. The new machine is also, according to the good folks at Phillips, "Lubed for life" and let me tell you something dearest readers; we should all be so lucky.
For girls, however, especially those of the Faux Hill bent, hair is a completely different story. For the Faux Hillary, hair, hair care and conversations about hair are so important that hair will probably be the topic of the next great Faux Hill novel - The Great Hairsby. I realized this insipid obsession with hair while eating lunch with Papa Len at The Restaurant. The Restaurant - aka United Baker's - is rather mediocre dairy restaurant over populated by Jewish grandmothers who live in the surrounding neighrbourhood but who's children have decamped a couple of blocks south to much more affluent Faux Hill. Yet every weekend much of Faux Hill migrates five minutes north for a rather mediocre omelet with Bubbie and Zaidie.
Papa Len and I ended up commiserating about my love life over a bowl of split pea soup as two of the Faux Hill's finest ended up next to us.
The conversation transpired as follows.
"Brad and I were just in Restoration Hardware for three hours. I'm schvitsing."
"Ew. What did you buy?"
"Nothing we were just looking at linen."
Silence. Then Exclamation!
"OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU HAIR."
"I just got it highlighted and layered."
"Your hair is AMAZING."
And suddenly... I realized why Papa Len started buying the split pea soup in takeout form. Her hair may be amazing, but I had lost my appetite.
For girls, however, especially those of the Faux Hill bent, hair is a completely different story. For the Faux Hillary, hair, hair care and conversations about hair are so important that hair will probably be the topic of the next great Faux Hill novel - The Great Hairsby. I realized this insipid obsession with hair while eating lunch with Papa Len at The Restaurant. The Restaurant - aka United Baker's - is rather mediocre dairy restaurant over populated by Jewish grandmothers who live in the surrounding neighrbourhood but who's children have decamped a couple of blocks south to much more affluent Faux Hill. Yet every weekend much of Faux Hill migrates five minutes north for a rather mediocre omelet with Bubbie and Zaidie.
Papa Len and I ended up commiserating about my love life over a bowl of split pea soup as two of the Faux Hill's finest ended up next to us.
The conversation transpired as follows.
"Brad and I were just in Restoration Hardware for three hours. I'm schvitsing."
"Ew. What did you buy?"
"Nothing we were just looking at linen."
Silence. Then Exclamation!
"OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU HAIR."
"I just got it highlighted and layered."
"Your hair is AMAZING."
And suddenly... I realized why Papa Len started buying the split pea soup in takeout form. Her hair may be amazing, but I had lost my appetite.
Monday, August 15, 2005
The Family Friend
When you come out and then move back to Toronto your old high school friends are generally pretty happy for you. For the most part no one really says anything, they just smile and nod politely when you admit that you hate boys and that you just broke up with your boyfriend in Alberta... This has been my experience, and for the most part it's been pleasurable. It is afterall 2005. Last weekend I had a rather different experience while having dinner at a family friends house. The rents were on the Cape and I was invited out... after dinner I drove their son, Danny, to a friends house. Danny - around my age - just came back from a stint working in New York City and is going to law school this fall has never been a fav of mine, although our parents desperately have wanted us to be friends, we just never clicked. As I drove him around, I realized why.
"So are you seeing anyone?"
"No. I just sorta broke up with someone." I answered.
"I hear when people come out they go through a really slutty phase."
Silence. [Although part of me wanted to say - yes some "gays" do; but then they contract deathly diseases, ya know the "gay" disease.] For once however I had no witty remark, or caustic comment... So silence ensued.
"I always thought you were gay. I just never said anything."
Silence.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Are you not going to respond?"
"I try and keep my life pretty private... so..."
And thankfully by then we had reached our destination and Danny exited the car with promises to keep in touch as I shook my head. Another lawyer I thought... just what the world needs.
"So are you seeing anyone?"
"No. I just sorta broke up with someone." I answered.
"I hear when people come out they go through a really slutty phase."
Silence. [Although part of me wanted to say - yes some "gays" do; but then they contract deathly diseases, ya know the "gay" disease.] For once however I had no witty remark, or caustic comment... So silence ensued.
"I always thought you were gay. I just never said anything."
Silence.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Are you not going to respond?"
"I try and keep my life pretty private... so..."
And thankfully by then we had reached our destination and Danny exited the car with promises to keep in touch as I shook my head. Another lawyer I thought... just what the world needs.
What if I fell into a Crater in the Faux Hill Village
Last Sunday I sat reading Freud at Starbucks. This isn't a joke people and yes it was pretty "meta" - as in Josh Schwartz/OC meta... like I'm reading Freud, audience, do you get how fucking smart and self important that reference is?
But really... where have I been? Who knows really... I'm sure if I had blogged over the past couple of months I would have multiple self important stories about my sordid life neatly and wittily catalogued - alas the daily affirmation of my own wit are but distant memories these days; like errant coffee grinds at the bottom of a tall starbucks latte.
In short... I broke up with the Rama; as much as someone can date and subsequently argue over email, got a real job, in advertising - a job description that seemingly no one asks any more questions about... "The FHillary, bubeleh, he's in advertising." Saw the M Brad in Montreal, who ran away like a little rabbit.
*
Actually a really funny story just popped into my mind, one which I will run with and detail to you my loyal readers. To most "the Village" in Toronto is codeword for Forest Hill. However, to some, to those with an affinity for the same sex, rainbow flags, and Diesel t-shirts, "the Village," refers to the Church and Wellesley gaybourhood. It so happened that one night after my Business Law class, my friend Matt and I ventured out for a drink on Church Street. Matt was having a small argument with his boyfriend, and yours truly, permanently single, decided a drink in the Gaybourhood was exactly what Dr Cher, patron saint of all things gay, ordered. As we sat on a patio we eventually struck up a conversation with a lovely professor, who was in town for a conference. By the end of the night enough stollen glances had been exchanged from the much older professor that this young pup realized if he so wanted he had a very interested bite on his rod - which was sadly getting a bit rusty with disuse.
And so we flash forward to the next night, when yours truly meets said professor for drinks... a lovely conversation ensues, we discuss coming out, academia and I realize that although this will clearly end in a one night stand, at least it will be an impressive notch on my belt- a notch that can be hotlinked to ratemyprofessor.com. And so after the good professor swipes the amex card to pay for our drinks, we go back to his hotel room, where I kid you not, he declares that my left toe is bigger then my right one... and soon enough lips locked, clothes in a minor disaray a caveat is presented, "my partner is driving in from Detroit. How do you feel about Philipino's and threesomes?"
As I grab my t-shirt I state with certainty, "I don't mind the first and I've never been in the latter. I gotta go." And with a smug smile on my face I flee the Delta Chelsea and go home to the computer - low and behold, "Professor X - don't waste your time ladies on falling in love with this eye candy, he's gay." "Professor X - gives really hard reading assignments." And I laugh...
But really... where have I been? Who knows really... I'm sure if I had blogged over the past couple of months I would have multiple self important stories about my sordid life neatly and wittily catalogued - alas the daily affirmation of my own wit are but distant memories these days; like errant coffee grinds at the bottom of a tall starbucks latte.
In short... I broke up with the Rama; as much as someone can date and subsequently argue over email, got a real job, in advertising - a job description that seemingly no one asks any more questions about... "The FHillary, bubeleh, he's in advertising." Saw the M Brad in Montreal, who ran away like a little rabbit.
*
Actually a really funny story just popped into my mind, one which I will run with and detail to you my loyal readers. To most "the Village" in Toronto is codeword for Forest Hill. However, to some, to those with an affinity for the same sex, rainbow flags, and Diesel t-shirts, "the Village," refers to the Church and Wellesley gaybourhood. It so happened that one night after my Business Law class, my friend Matt and I ventured out for a drink on Church Street. Matt was having a small argument with his boyfriend, and yours truly, permanently single, decided a drink in the Gaybourhood was exactly what Dr Cher, patron saint of all things gay, ordered. As we sat on a patio we eventually struck up a conversation with a lovely professor, who was in town for a conference. By the end of the night enough stollen glances had been exchanged from the much older professor that this young pup realized if he so wanted he had a very interested bite on his rod - which was sadly getting a bit rusty with disuse.
And so we flash forward to the next night, when yours truly meets said professor for drinks... a lovely conversation ensues, we discuss coming out, academia and I realize that although this will clearly end in a one night stand, at least it will be an impressive notch on my belt- a notch that can be hotlinked to ratemyprofessor.com. And so after the good professor swipes the amex card to pay for our drinks, we go back to his hotel room, where I kid you not, he declares that my left toe is bigger then my right one... and soon enough lips locked, clothes in a minor disaray a caveat is presented, "my partner is driving in from Detroit. How do you feel about Philipino's and threesomes?"
As I grab my t-shirt I state with certainty, "I don't mind the first and I've never been in the latter. I gotta go." And with a smug smile on my face I flee the Delta Chelsea and go home to the computer - low and behold, "Professor X - don't waste your time ladies on falling in love with this eye candy, he's gay." "Professor X - gives really hard reading assignments." And I laugh...
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
But I am Le Tired/ Variant B
In truth I haven't been to the Village in like a week. Quite frankly I've become irrationally scared of the place. If we remeber my Village lifestyle history we happen upon the Pussy Posse - yes that infamous group of fifty year old dot com millionaires and day traders who sit there every night. They scare the crap out of me to be honest and every time I've been down in the Village, either driving though there, or going to the bank, the Pussy Posse is there, drinking coffee and talking about pussy. The last time I went to the Village to do some work I actually sat in the Second Cup patio because I didn't want to run in to anyone.
*
In other late breaking medical news, the CDC has identified a new variant of Faux Hill-iticis. I call it Faux Hill-iticis Variant B. The symptoms of Variant B are similar enough to Faux Hill-iticis, but with one shocking difference: those who suffer from Variant B don't think of themselves as infected at all. To quote the daughter of a family friend at a recent Sangria/BBQ who was gushing about her Birthright trip, "I also really needed to get away from those Toronto Forest Hill Jews." Now one would think that said daughter, who later lamented the fact that it was sunday and Yorkdale closes early, is an easy diagnosis of Faux HIll-iticis... alas with that comment, however, the intrepid doctor can diagnosis her with the much more malicious Variant B stream. It's like SARS people, but less deadly, and with more Coach.
*
Inquiring minds I'm sure at this point are wondering how is Rama? Well I've given him a new nickname - Pot; this after he got all huffy when I told him that - egads - went on a date with someone else. Rama, at home in Calgary, suggested that I shouldn't be so picky or I may wind up alone. To which I responded, "is that the pot calling the kettle black?" Rama, ne Pot, has taken to writing me every day and has also taken to espousing my fabulous characteristics in his emails, (like being cute, charming, witty, etc...) but we're still just best friends forever. BBF SWAK. Lame.
*
In other late breaking medical news, the CDC has identified a new variant of Faux Hill-iticis. I call it Faux Hill-iticis Variant B. The symptoms of Variant B are similar enough to Faux Hill-iticis, but with one shocking difference: those who suffer from Variant B don't think of themselves as infected at all. To quote the daughter of a family friend at a recent Sangria/BBQ who was gushing about her Birthright trip, "I also really needed to get away from those Toronto Forest Hill Jews." Now one would think that said daughter, who later lamented the fact that it was sunday and Yorkdale closes early, is an easy diagnosis of Faux HIll-iticis... alas with that comment, however, the intrepid doctor can diagnosis her with the much more malicious Variant B stream. It's like SARS people, but less deadly, and with more Coach.
*
Inquiring minds I'm sure at this point are wondering how is Rama? Well I've given him a new nickname - Pot; this after he got all huffy when I told him that - egads - went on a date with someone else. Rama, at home in Calgary, suggested that I shouldn't be so picky or I may wind up alone. To which I responded, "is that the pot calling the kettle black?" Rama, ne Pot, has taken to writing me every day and has also taken to espousing my fabulous characteristics in his emails, (like being cute, charming, witty, etc...) but we're still just best friends forever. BBF SWAK. Lame.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
The Roomate
When you date someone, you have to contend with their roomate, and subsequently as a roomate, you have to contend with your roomate's significant other. It's a not always easy dance to be honest. The M Brad's roomate and I always had a decent relationship; we discussed very little beyond pleasantries and generally I tried to stay out of his way while simultaneously laughing at his on line gambling habit with him.
So with a bit of uprehension yesterday I happened to run into the M Brad's roomate, Lipton. Now Lipton and I haven't spoken since January; I believe we saw each other every day at McGill and gave each other awkward looks that I always assumed meant that Lipton wanted me dead... but alas it wasn't so. Lipton saw me, walked over and asked how I was doing, what I was up to, my summer plans, etc... etc... I asked how his roomate was doing (M Brad) he's apparently doing well - although from my perspective he's being self destructive in Montreal, but whatever. Up until this point, this was probably the most reasonable and adult conversation I had with anyone associated with the M Brad, ever. I wished Lipton a safe trip to Europe, before he grabbed my hand, looked me straight in the eye, and said very meaningfully, "take it easy, ok?" And thus another nail in the coffin of closure as Lipton's very adult, very reasonable approach was just another hint that even those associated with the M Brad are aware of his emotional instability.
So with a bit of uprehension yesterday I happened to run into the M Brad's roomate, Lipton. Now Lipton and I haven't spoken since January; I believe we saw each other every day at McGill and gave each other awkward looks that I always assumed meant that Lipton wanted me dead... but alas it wasn't so. Lipton saw me, walked over and asked how I was doing, what I was up to, my summer plans, etc... etc... I asked how his roomate was doing (M Brad) he's apparently doing well - although from my perspective he's being self destructive in Montreal, but whatever. Up until this point, this was probably the most reasonable and adult conversation I had with anyone associated with the M Brad, ever. I wished Lipton a safe trip to Europe, before he grabbed my hand, looked me straight in the eye, and said very meaningfully, "take it easy, ok?" And thus another nail in the coffin of closure as Lipton's very adult, very reasonable approach was just another hint that even those associated with the M Brad are aware of his emotional instability.
Perspective
I recently saw a family friend whose daughter passed away. We chatted briefly and eventually got onto the topic of dogs as another family friend was in the process of putting down their dog. I told by this family friend, "from my perspective, these days - it's only a dog."
I suppose that it's been a year of figuring out that perspective; and in our world things can change in an instant, that one second when I met the M-Brad for example, led to a series of catacylsmic events that could have been avoided if I had stuck to studying at the Law Library and not the sixth floor of McLennan.
And so today... as I awoke up and realized that Rama had sent me eight one sentence emails about nothing, there was much too much more important things going on in the world. Word from Sim, Sim, Sima -just decamped to London - had yet to arrive as to whether or not she was ok and dearest KB was live and well if not a bit shaken up from the confines of her residence room in London as well. Papa Len was sitting freaking out in his office, his hear growing whiter by the minute...
And in that one instant as someone's world can come crashing down, someone's perspective changes.
I suppose that it's been a year of figuring out that perspective; and in our world things can change in an instant, that one second when I met the M-Brad for example, led to a series of catacylsmic events that could have been avoided if I had stuck to studying at the Law Library and not the sixth floor of McLennan.
And so today... as I awoke up and realized that Rama had sent me eight one sentence emails about nothing, there was much too much more important things going on in the world. Word from Sim, Sim, Sima -just decamped to London - had yet to arrive as to whether or not she was ok and dearest KB was live and well if not a bit shaken up from the confines of her residence room in London as well. Papa Len was sitting freaking out in his office, his hear growing whiter by the minute...
And in that one instant as someone's world can come crashing down, someone's perspective changes.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Outbreak
Spoke to my friend J Lo last night. She's recently been struck with a case of "Faux Hill-iticis." She much like many of the neighbourhood girls has applied to law school and is waiting to hear back from her number one choice - Western. What's she been up to since? Well... when we spoke she was in London decorating her boyfriends apartment and playing house. Her words not mine. I suggested she get a job when she opined that if she wanted to she could work for her parents as a medical secretary. J Lo... much like every other girl who has been diagnosed with Faux Hill-iticis has never worked a real job. She has never handed in her resume to a Starbucks, folded a t-shirt at the Gap, scooped icecream as Baskin Robbins, or waited tables on Eglinton. Her resume experience is working for her parents at a medical office, how lame is that?
But to quote Coombs, who was quoting Elizabeth Darko, at a party the other night, "It doesn't really matter, they're just biding time till they squeeze one out." I suppose the alpha male in Coombs was a bit crude, but he didn't mean his comment in offence or in sexism, he meant it in truth. Years after the women's liberation movement,after bra's were burnt, there is still a sick subculture of women who will never work but rely on their husband to be the breadwinner. They will sit, post yoga, in the Faux Hill Village discussing whether or not to go to Yorkdale or Holt's. What's sad of course is that these people are worth more then that... they've just contacted a disease that renders them useless.
Be carefull though Faux Hill-iticis is contagious and it's spreading.
But to quote Coombs, who was quoting Elizabeth Darko, at a party the other night, "It doesn't really matter, they're just biding time till they squeeze one out." I suppose the alpha male in Coombs was a bit crude, but he didn't mean his comment in offence or in sexism, he meant it in truth. Years after the women's liberation movement,after bra's were burnt, there is still a sick subculture of women who will never work but rely on their husband to be the breadwinner. They will sit, post yoga, in the Faux Hill Village discussing whether or not to go to Yorkdale or Holt's. What's sad of course is that these people are worth more then that... they've just contacted a disease that renders them useless.
Be carefull though Faux Hill-iticis is contagious and it's spreading.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
David's by Day, Buzz By Night
Remeber when you first had sex? How it was sort of squishy and a tad underwhelming?
David's by Day is a mediocre lunch spot at the centre of the Village. It's sort of the type of mediocre place that Faux Hill 'celebs' go, not because it's good, but because in the US Weekly pages of Faux Hill [gossip] someone can simply say, "Oh guess who I saw at David's? [Insert JAP name here]". It's the Faux HIll version of LA hotspots like The Ivy, where Mary Kate was seen brunching... etc... etc...
David's by Day is like the cool table in the elementary school cafeteria. All the cool kids in Faux Hill go there for lunch and they sith with their besties orin their Channel sunglasses and with copious amounts of Louis on the patio people watching and hollering at their friends as they pass by, "yoo who... Becky! OH my G-d come join us."
I had never before been to David's by Day before last week [a shock I know] and then I finally gave it up and lost my David's V Card.
I've never been, because A) it's lame and B) I never felt cool enough. But as I've become a minor village celebrity this summer I thought I might as well relent and well - give it up. I've now been twice in the last week; actually I was invited a third time, from a group of lady friends who happened to be sitting down for lunch and hollered after me, wondering if I wanted to join them [once you've entered the circle, its tough to get out]. The verdict? Well... my wrap at David's was a bit squishy and a tad underwhelming.
David's by Day is a mediocre lunch spot at the centre of the Village. It's sort of the type of mediocre place that Faux Hill 'celebs' go, not because it's good, but because in the US Weekly pages of Faux Hill [gossip] someone can simply say, "Oh guess who I saw at David's? [Insert JAP name here]". It's the Faux HIll version of LA hotspots like The Ivy, where Mary Kate was seen brunching... etc... etc...
David's by Day is like the cool table in the elementary school cafeteria. All the cool kids in Faux Hill go there for lunch and they sith with their besties orin their Channel sunglasses and with copious amounts of Louis on the patio people watching and hollering at their friends as they pass by, "yoo who... Becky! OH my G-d come join us."
I had never before been to David's by Day before last week [a shock I know] and then I finally gave it up and lost my David's V Card.
I've never been, because A) it's lame and B) I never felt cool enough. But as I've become a minor village celebrity this summer I thought I might as well relent and well - give it up. I've now been twice in the last week; actually I was invited a third time, from a group of lady friends who happened to be sitting down for lunch and hollered after me, wondering if I wanted to join them [once you've entered the circle, its tough to get out]. The verdict? Well... my wrap at David's was a bit squishy and a tad underwhelming.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Faux Ho Meet Boho
I've decided that I'm going to turn this summer into the summer of the date. And so with determination I've now gone on two dates in the past week. To quote ER, "You're a DATOR." Admitedly I use such endevours to frustrate lonely Rama who (after beaing told that I went on two dates with one guy) responded passive agressively, "so you're seeing someone?" Well not really Rama, simmer down their kiddo, I'm still sitting in Toronto pining for you and you love it.
Date number two saw yours truly a little out of his league. I met my friend Debo and her friends at Sneaky Dee's on the sketchy side of College (well as sketchy as College gets, but about a block or two east of the martini bars). She wanted to set me up with a fresh off the boat artist (from Halifax; not from France or some European locale, that would have been hotter). Sadly as the table waxed and waned with various writers, film-istes and people variously affiliated with the Gladstone Hotel, I realized that I just wasn't that artsy; or I wasn't THAT type of artsy. Sure I write, a lot, but I have no desire to sing Seasons of Love in a dirty bachelor apartment that reeks of patchouli.
In that realm, I was only a voyeur (shit my jeans could have paid for someone's rent) and there is admittedly a part of me that enjoys the more expensive things that a life if Faux Hill has accustomed me too.
Pretentious, sure? Self admitted, yes; I mean I'm the kid that used to go to Pusateri's with KB for lunch, carrying an empty cake box to pretend that we actually shopped there.
Sadly my week long dating blitz has left me pining for a little bisexual in Alberta who shops at Caban... and who wears expensive jeans only "because I have big thighs" sure buddy, I'm just calling for the return of Seven on Seven Action. K?
Date number two saw yours truly a little out of his league. I met my friend Debo and her friends at Sneaky Dee's on the sketchy side of College (well as sketchy as College gets, but about a block or two east of the martini bars). She wanted to set me up with a fresh off the boat artist (from Halifax; not from France or some European locale, that would have been hotter). Sadly as the table waxed and waned with various writers, film-istes and people variously affiliated with the Gladstone Hotel, I realized that I just wasn't that artsy; or I wasn't THAT type of artsy. Sure I write, a lot, but I have no desire to sing Seasons of Love in a dirty bachelor apartment that reeks of patchouli.
In that realm, I was only a voyeur (shit my jeans could have paid for someone's rent) and there is admittedly a part of me that enjoys the more expensive things that a life if Faux Hill has accustomed me too.
Pretentious, sure? Self admitted, yes; I mean I'm the kid that used to go to Pusateri's with KB for lunch, carrying an empty cake box to pretend that we actually shopped there.
Sadly my week long dating blitz has left me pining for a little bisexual in Alberta who shops at Caban... and who wears expensive jeans only "because I have big thighs" sure buddy, I'm just calling for the return of Seven on Seven Action. K?
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Same Shit, Different Patio
If I were to draw a triangle connecting Toronto's three most affluent area's one of the three points would undoubtedly hit Faux Hill, one would be centred somewhere in Rosedale and the third point would probably be at the corner of Cumberland and Belair in the heart of the city's tony [sic] Yorkville.
And so there this intreped Faux Hillary found himself having coffee with a long lost pal debating the merits of bisexuality. One would expect that, being a bit out of my Faux Hill league, a different patio would imply a different set of people to watch. Not so in Toronto - a city of 5 million, but where Yorkville is an extension of Forest Hill, only with a big Holt Renfrew at its centre and not Kitsch Boutique.
Random People I ran into:
The Pussy Posse - not content to sit all night at the Faux Hill Village Starbucks, they spend their day's checking out tail in Yorkville. I suppose its better then the potential underage tail of the Village. Thank god for small miracles.
Bold Sharon - the sister, making an unusual Yorkville run, "but I'm not a DINK [Dual Income No Kids], I swear."
My neighbour, Lisa Golden-blatt, stern, stein [insert jewish name] part of the over forty, "I wear Sevens like its my job because I have no job" set.
And my first year frat boy friend Dave McWaspy Last Name and his brother Pete, he's going to camp (he's 22) and then his father arranged a job for him at a marketing firm (but really my hatred for his ilk is perhaps best reserved for another posting, its really too lovely out to be bitter); however to quote my friend Kitty, after fooling around with him, "he has a pencil-sized dick."
Thank God for small miracles.
And so there this intreped Faux Hillary found himself having coffee with a long lost pal debating the merits of bisexuality. One would expect that, being a bit out of my Faux Hill league, a different patio would imply a different set of people to watch. Not so in Toronto - a city of 5 million, but where Yorkville is an extension of Forest Hill, only with a big Holt Renfrew at its centre and not Kitsch Boutique.
Random People I ran into:
The Pussy Posse - not content to sit all night at the Faux Hill Village Starbucks, they spend their day's checking out tail in Yorkville. I suppose its better then the potential underage tail of the Village. Thank god for small miracles.
Bold Sharon - the sister, making an unusual Yorkville run, "but I'm not a DINK [Dual Income No Kids], I swear."
My neighbour, Lisa Golden-blatt, stern, stein [insert jewish name] part of the over forty, "I wear Sevens like its my job because I have no job" set.
And my first year frat boy friend Dave McWaspy Last Name and his brother Pete, he's going to camp (he's 22) and then his father arranged a job for him at a marketing firm (but really my hatred for his ilk is perhaps best reserved for another posting, its really too lovely out to be bitter); however to quote my friend Kitty, after fooling around with him, "he has a pencil-sized dick."
Thank God for small miracles.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Who Wants Another Friend?
When I first met the Rama it was the end of March. My assumption was that because I randomly started talking to him in Veggierama it was clearly evident that I was interested in more then discussing the poor quality of muffins, right?
My reality at the time was, who the fuck wants another friend? I certainly don't. And I don't even mean that in a, "I'm so cool and have SOOOO many friends" type of way. But how many best friends can a guy have? Three/ four? Any more and your beholden to too many late night phone calls about how boys suck, or how when you're fifty you and 'the boys' are going to to go New Mexico, find a shaman and smoke peyote (yes Manty of course).
Alas beyonds the Rama I managed to pick up another best friend late this year. Jessica and I were in a year long history class together (and really from my history[sic] history classes just aren't a great place to meet people - M Brad, case in point). I thought we had developed a nice class friendship; we saw each other in the library, we studied together every now and again and our conversation never veered from German History, ever. We had a purely lovely class relationship that was destined to end with the end of McGill; or so I thought. But alas Jessica seems to want more. A couple of days ago, she added me to her msn, fine... then one afternoon she started talking about some guy who she loved that she was supposed to meet but she somehow mixed up the time; a bit weird, but when she ended the conversation, "thanks, I really needed to talk to a friend..." I got even more weirded out. Friend? Does this mean I have to buy her a birthday gift? An e-card is my limit to be honest.
Yesterday's msn, however, took the cake, "I'm coming back to Toronto, we should hang out this weekend." Not to sound callous, but weekend is a pretty big step for a new friendship, isn't it? Weekday drinks, coffee, maybe a book club, but Saturday night?
And so I ask what to do? There are many books written about how to break up with someone; or how to tell if a guy isn't into you. For example, "He's just not that into you" has a place on my bookshelf but why hasn't someone written, "I'm sure you're a great person but I just don't want another friend." Well... I'm off to research my new summer project, look for it at Indigo, it'll be a Heather's Pick by the end of the summer.
My reality at the time was, who the fuck wants another friend? I certainly don't. And I don't even mean that in a, "I'm so cool and have SOOOO many friends" type of way. But how many best friends can a guy have? Three/ four? Any more and your beholden to too many late night phone calls about how boys suck, or how when you're fifty you and 'the boys' are going to to go New Mexico, find a shaman and smoke peyote (yes Manty of course).
Alas beyonds the Rama I managed to pick up another best friend late this year. Jessica and I were in a year long history class together (and really from my history[sic] history classes just aren't a great place to meet people - M Brad, case in point). I thought we had developed a nice class friendship; we saw each other in the library, we studied together every now and again and our conversation never veered from German History, ever. We had a purely lovely class relationship that was destined to end with the end of McGill; or so I thought. But alas Jessica seems to want more. A couple of days ago, she added me to her msn, fine... then one afternoon she started talking about some guy who she loved that she was supposed to meet but she somehow mixed up the time; a bit weird, but when she ended the conversation, "thanks, I really needed to talk to a friend..." I got even more weirded out. Friend? Does this mean I have to buy her a birthday gift? An e-card is my limit to be honest.
Yesterday's msn, however, took the cake, "I'm coming back to Toronto, we should hang out this weekend." Not to sound callous, but weekend is a pretty big step for a new friendship, isn't it? Weekday drinks, coffee, maybe a book club, but Saturday night?
And so I ask what to do? There are many books written about how to break up with someone; or how to tell if a guy isn't into you. For example, "He's just not that into you" has a place on my bookshelf but why hasn't someone written, "I'm sure you're a great person but I just don't want another friend." Well... I'm off to research my new summer project, look for it at Indigo, it'll be a Heather's Pick by the end of the summer.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Hidden Agenda
I'm actually incensed at the recent shenanigans of the Canadian Parliament. The Conservative Party has threatened to fillibuster the passge of the Liberal/NDP budget which would prolong the current parliamentary session; however, it appears as if Harper and his crew would cease its planned fillibustering techniques if the Liberal government differed passage of Bill C-38 (the scary gay marriage bill) untill the fall.
Classically Martin has dithered around the situation by refusing to dig in his heels to protect his governments legislation arguing that its up to Harper to decide when the bill will be passed; why is it up to the leader of the opposition, when the Liberal's, NDP and Bloc all support C-38, ask Martin.
But more importantly, I must ask: What is now at the heart of the Conservative Party, social conservatism, or economic conservatism? If the Conservative Party is so willing to sacrifice its economic conservatism (this is the NDP budget that increases social spending by hundreds of millions of dollars) for some pseudo socially conservative vision of Canada, then this Conservative Party will continue reap its own downfall; fine don't support gay marriage, you've already lost my vote, but to placate the religious right above your own economic principles, you've now lost my respect.
Conservatives? Oh right we lost the progressive name a long time ago. Today we might as well call Harper a Republican.
Classically Martin has dithered around the situation by refusing to dig in his heels to protect his governments legislation arguing that its up to Harper to decide when the bill will be passed; why is it up to the leader of the opposition, when the Liberal's, NDP and Bloc all support C-38, ask Martin.
But more importantly, I must ask: What is now at the heart of the Conservative Party, social conservatism, or economic conservatism? If the Conservative Party is so willing to sacrifice its economic conservatism (this is the NDP budget that increases social spending by hundreds of millions of dollars) for some pseudo socially conservative vision of Canada, then this Conservative Party will continue reap its own downfall; fine don't support gay marriage, you've already lost my vote, but to placate the religious right above your own economic principles, you've now lost my respect.
Conservatives? Oh right we lost the progressive name a long time ago. Today we might as well call Harper a Republican.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
The Pick Up
My dear friend Mandy has been attempting to befriend a Sanjay Gupta look-a-like at her place of work. She's made the requisit eye contact, attempted to befriend and has now decided, "That he's just not that into her." She thinks so because he just doesn't seem to be returning her advances. Being master of the library/veggierama hook up, she's turned to me for advice.
Here's the thing: Everyone is playing some sort of game, most don't acknowledge it, but EVERYONE is playing it. This is complicated of course by the fact that no one knows the rules of anyone else's game. In Mandy's mind, it's Sanjay's turn to initiate conversation. But in Sanjay's mind, well... we don't know what's going on in Sanjay's mind, he could be playing hard to get, or he may not realize that the lovely Mandy wants to jump his bones. When the M Brad and I iniatiated our ill fated library romance, he continued to invite me to drinks with him and his posse at BDP. In his mind this was an invitation, in my mind this was not; "BDP? His friends? Maybe HE doesn't like me?"
As such I've ruefully realized that the Rama and I have embroiled ourselves in an elaborate game of lord knows what. Inquiring minds I'm sure are wondering, just what is going on with that attractive oil worker? Right well... after some testy emails regaring Gay Paris, the word deluded was lobbed around, the Rama and I have resumed our usual email chats. Recently I received an email which coalesced my realization that the Rama and I are participants in some sort of elaborate dance.
To wit, the Rama, has emailed to declare that although he has little time to respond to my last email, he thought he'd email me just to let me know that he's alive and ok in Northern Alberta. Thanks buddy... I was losing sleep wondering why I hadn't heard from my non boyfriend in Alberta.
Here's the thing: Everyone is playing some sort of game, most don't acknowledge it, but EVERYONE is playing it. This is complicated of course by the fact that no one knows the rules of anyone else's game. In Mandy's mind, it's Sanjay's turn to initiate conversation. But in Sanjay's mind, well... we don't know what's going on in Sanjay's mind, he could be playing hard to get, or he may not realize that the lovely Mandy wants to jump his bones. When the M Brad and I iniatiated our ill fated library romance, he continued to invite me to drinks with him and his posse at BDP. In his mind this was an invitation, in my mind this was not; "BDP? His friends? Maybe HE doesn't like me?"
As such I've ruefully realized that the Rama and I have embroiled ourselves in an elaborate game of lord knows what. Inquiring minds I'm sure are wondering, just what is going on with that attractive oil worker? Right well... after some testy emails regaring Gay Paris, the word deluded was lobbed around, the Rama and I have resumed our usual email chats. Recently I received an email which coalesced my realization that the Rama and I are participants in some sort of elaborate dance.
To wit, the Rama, has emailed to declare that although he has little time to respond to my last email, he thought he'd email me just to let me know that he's alive and ok in Northern Alberta. Thanks buddy... I was losing sleep wondering why I hadn't heard from my non boyfriend in Alberta.
Deposed Retail Heiress
Deposed monarch's are sort of sad; I say this without ever having met one, but I'd assume it sort of sucks to have once been Crown Prince of (insert minor Prussion state like Westphalia); yet currently being an unemployed, yet seemingly decadent loaf. The problem of course is that as a former monarch you're used to the finest money can buy and even if you are a deposed monarch you sort of have to pretend that you still have the means [with the hope of marrying back into wealth]; only you don't actually have the means. And sadly you no longer have the peasantry of said minor Prussion state to financially support you.
With a tear, of course, I happened to see the wife of a former retail scion shopping at the GAP (with her family's department store now but a name, she has to buy her khaki's somewhere doesn't she?). Seeing as anyone who has read the Globe and Mail over the past five years knows how her idiot husband and his family squandred the vast family fortune we all know that there isn't as much money behind those manicured nails as she'd like us to think. Yet retail heiresses are about as close to royalty as this country seems to have had and as such, even deposed monarch's, are treated with an air of respect in Midtown Toronto where her family name still consures up memories of Christmas Parade's and Department Store glamour.
Yet one's experience with deposed monarch's highlights the fact that money, even old, depleted resources, can't buy class. Said heiress was partacking in the seemingly disgusting trend of shopping with one's housekeeper who diligently holds piles of clothes at the checkout line as they are asked, "Milly, did YOU see anything for yourself? I'll buy it for you."
Handout for the help - I suppose it's in keeping with her families tradition of philanthropy.
With a tear, of course, I happened to see the wife of a former retail scion shopping at the GAP (with her family's department store now but a name, she has to buy her khaki's somewhere doesn't she?). Seeing as anyone who has read the Globe and Mail over the past five years knows how her idiot husband and his family squandred the vast family fortune we all know that there isn't as much money behind those manicured nails as she'd like us to think. Yet retail heiresses are about as close to royalty as this country seems to have had and as such, even deposed monarch's, are treated with an air of respect in Midtown Toronto where her family name still consures up memories of Christmas Parade's and Department Store glamour.
Yet one's experience with deposed monarch's highlights the fact that money, even old, depleted resources, can't buy class. Said heiress was partacking in the seemingly disgusting trend of shopping with one's housekeeper who diligently holds piles of clothes at the checkout line as they are asked, "Milly, did YOU see anything for yourself? I'll buy it for you."
Handout for the help - I suppose it's in keeping with her families tradition of philanthropy.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The Other Hill
There comes a time for the Torontonian Jew to accept the fact that North of Steeles (NOS) exists another, predominately Jewish Hill; 905's answer to Faux Hill is of course the rather charmless Thornhill. And so with determination and Sim Sim Sima's car I found myself on the 401 with the intent of sussing out the other Hill and saying bon voyage to my friend El Huerd before he leaves for Israel.
Every time I try and go up there I attempt to check my snobby Faux Hill attitude at 416-905 divide, but Thornhill sucks; it is utterly charmless. First of all its far, maybe not geographically, but if I have to get on the 401 to get somewhere, I may as well be driving to cottage country. It's also ugly. This I don't even think is being snobbish. This is a fact - Thornhill is land of the giant, identically similar houses that are overshadowed by their ginormous two car garages. I get the economic, "not everyone can afford to live in Forest Hill" argument, but the T-Hill ain't cheap, and these people aren't poor - the multiple luxury suv's which crowded Huerd's street are testament to the financial wealth of his neighbours, Thornhill is for some - a choice. A choice to choose poorly built, identical monster homes on winding cul de sacs interspersed with highway like main streets and charmless strip plaza's.
Alas, you can take the boy out of Faux Hill, but you can't take the Faux Hill out of the boy.
Every time I try and go up there I attempt to check my snobby Faux Hill attitude at 416-905 divide, but Thornhill sucks; it is utterly charmless. First of all its far, maybe not geographically, but if I have to get on the 401 to get somewhere, I may as well be driving to cottage country. It's also ugly. This I don't even think is being snobbish. This is a fact - Thornhill is land of the giant, identically similar houses that are overshadowed by their ginormous two car garages. I get the economic, "not everyone can afford to live in Forest Hill" argument, but the T-Hill ain't cheap, and these people aren't poor - the multiple luxury suv's which crowded Huerd's street are testament to the financial wealth of his neighbours, Thornhill is for some - a choice. A choice to choose poorly built, identical monster homes on winding cul de sacs interspersed with highway like main streets and charmless strip plaza's.
Alas, you can take the boy out of Faux Hill, but you can't take the Faux Hill out of the boy.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
The Summer of the Graduate
A while ago I declared to Sim, Sim, Sima that this was my summer of The Graduate. She wanted to know if I was hoping to find an older woman to bed and I of course laughed and said I was hoping to bed an older man. Sima didn't find my hilarity as funny as most would, but she did helpfully declare, that securities are the new plastics.
Yesterday, of course, was quite topical to Graduate shenanigans as the original Mrs. Robinson, Anne Bancroft, died; here's to you Mrs. Robinson, may ye rest in peace. Yesterday I also agreed to be my neighbours pool boy, thus fulfilling a life long dream of being a POOL BOY. As my neighbour walked me through the ins and outs of watering her flowers and skimming the pool, I coulnd't help but feel a bit - appreciated shall we say, by this well preserved older Faux Hill woman of leisure. Sadly, I'm neither interested in her, nor her only child - a daughter; rather I'm hoping for some sort of hot cousin (ala Ryan in the OC) to come live in the poolhouse.
Yesterday, of course, was quite topical to Graduate shenanigans as the original Mrs. Robinson, Anne Bancroft, died; here's to you Mrs. Robinson, may ye rest in peace. Yesterday I also agreed to be my neighbours pool boy, thus fulfilling a life long dream of being a POOL BOY. As my neighbour walked me through the ins and outs of watering her flowers and skimming the pool, I coulnd't help but feel a bit - appreciated shall we say, by this well preserved older Faux Hill woman of leisure. Sadly, I'm neither interested in her, nor her only child - a daughter; rather I'm hoping for some sort of hot cousin (ala Ryan in the OC) to come live in the poolhouse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)