Gaygetz - Redux

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

In on the Joke

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

Happy Chrismukkah!

There are many things to be said about this photo of Steven Harperstein lighting a menorah... but really I think the picture itself is worth a thousand words. Happy New Year.

Callback Episode

A lot of people are always asking me "FH why are you so goddam funny?"
Well this week I learnt that my hilarity may be found in my jeans - and no I'm not talking about my Seven's or Paper Denim's (ho ho ho on that joke, eh?)...
It appears as if Papa Len may be from whom I've inherited the funny bone.
Last week Papa Len found himself at the Faux Hill Public Library picking up some books and video's (WWSD - Sim Sim Sima doesn't rent from Blockbuster she orders from the library - dahlink it's free.) As he was browsing he noticed two of the Village's finest Faux Hillary's - we'll call them Hilary and Amanda - sitting in the magazine section of the library. What were these two 15 year-olds doing? Why they were playing with each other's hair! And so as Papa Len made his way to the front check-out desk he looked at them, interupted the intense game of Hair Salon that they were playing, and said:
"Excuse me, but I have to tell you that your hair is amazing."
Zing. Go Papa Len go.

Bynnah and the Friday Night Dinner

Friday night - the sabbath - to us yids is family time. And so over the past friday the FH family sat around the dining room table (and yes the rug looked fab) - Bold, Papa Len, Sim Sim Sima, M Poo and our adopted shiksa - Brynnah.
Brynnah, the blond haired, blue eyed temptress that she is, is really a political refugee at the two-fer. Her parents have been admonished to the backwards city of Edmonton. Brynnah has now become the family Shiksa (seeing as I ain't bringing one home); she declared this over Friday night dinner as we celebrated her birthday - until KB suggested that being a shiksa wasn't such a badge of honour. In fact it is sort of a derogatory one. Educated and now simply Brynnah, she admitted that she was just happy to be part of the family.
Now Brynnah is much more of Sima's child then Papa Len's. Although in looks she's clearly adopted, in personality Brynnah and Sima are peas in a pod and have spent many a morning discussing the finer things in life over latte's at the breafast table of the two-fer.
Unlike the rest of the FH family Brynnah can, however, carry a decent tune and so after the cross cultural blessings on bread, wine and candles, the family retreated the living room for a concerto as Brynnah offered to sing for the family a couple of her best opera songs; in fact songs she had just sung at an audition for Opera school in New York City.
"I'm going to sing Handel's Messiah." Brynnah declared.
We all blinked.
"It's a Christmas song." Papa Len nodded, as if knew what she was talking about.
"Ya know hallelujah." She sung.
"I love that song!" We all declared. "Sing that part." I shouted.
"That's a chorus part." Her own confusion mirrored our own confusion.
And sadly I realized that you can move a girl into the Faux Hill, give her a yiddishe name, but she's still the only Brynnah whose going to become an opera singer. I mean really, what do Jews no about Opera? Is Barbara Streisand taking Yentl to Lincoln Centre this year? One can only hope!

"I've Got Soul but I'm not a Soldier"

Today a random thought occured to me as I shuffled quickly out of St Clair West Subway Station's Heath Street Exit - a mere stone's throw away from the Faux Hill Village - what would people do if I suddenly stoped, stood in front of the elevator & started singing the Killer's "All These Things that I've Done"?

What Would Sima Do?

WWSD is a question I've probably asked myself since I was bar-mitzvah'd about ten years ago (fuck I'm getting old). It's hard to encapsulate the antics of my mother in one blog posting, but she really is a special lady... truth be told today's posting is, however, based around a little nugget of motherly wisdom from everyone's favourite anagram.
It so happened that in our effort to keep up with the neighbouring Schwartz's, Cohen's & Goldenblatt's the FH family bought one of those nice black cast iron urns to put on the front porch of the two-fer; Bold got the old clay hand me down. In the summer Sima and I planted a nice arrangement of pink geraniums. Alas as the leaves in the Faux Hill (like, uhm, this is a Forest, right?) have turned into brilliant reds and yellows, and subsequently fallen to the ground [causing quite a traction problem for the neighbourhood SUV's let me tell you], our pink geraniums have begun to wilt; something a bit more seasonal was required for the two-fer. Something that screamed, "we don't celebrate Christmas, but we still need to decorate the front of the house." Something beyond a wreath was deemed appropriate. And so, being the dutiful son that I am, today I found myself schlepping down the garden district to purchase a much needed red berry & winter green arrangement. As Sima and I were arranging $100.00 bucks of cut tree branches in the black urn, she remarked, "this is the problem with possessions. We purcahsed this and now it requires seasonal attention." I suggested that since she was such a luddite hippie that she should return the rug she had just purchased for the dining room and we could live out in a shack in the woods; maybe a real forest? "Don't be stupid." She answered.

Confessions of Bold

Bold, everyone's favourite role model (married long-time sweatheart after 8 year courtship; currently a third year pediatrics resident; home owner), would like her fan club to know that she has returned her birthday gift to Tiffany's.
She is, however, still Bold and Proud. Just an FYI.

For anyone who has a 12inch 'BOLDIE' action figure the limitted edition Tiffany Accessory Kit has been discontinued; the value will be credited to your Visa/Mastercard.

Cheers.

You Give Great Foam

"You give great foam," are not words a gay guy really likes to hear. You give great head on the other hand, is a more marketable commodity. However, while working once at a coffee shop in I swear I was hit on by a guy who told me that I "made the best damn hot chocolate in Dublin." Gay innuendo asside, the Faux Hill Starbucks ain't a place to cruise. When the forty year old woman in Lulu tells you that you give great foam, she ain't insinuating that she wants to dyke it out with you. She's being serious.
So... with foam on the mind, I wound up at Starbucks, around midday, as I had been feeling nauseus and decided to take a sick day from work (& yes this blog will for sure wind its way up as a cautionary tale about people who get fired because of their blogs... but whatever). The day was for my MENTAL HEALTH.

This is what transpired:
I was in line with three ladies, Lulu, Dior and Dior's friend Gucci. Lulu had already ordered and was waiting to pick up her much needed treat, she was post yoga afterall.
"I'd like a soy, one splenda, no foam latte." Said Dior.
"I'd like a lactaid, two splenda, extra foam latte." Said Dior's friend Gucci.
I ordered a plain latte. I'm a simple guy with simple tastes.

As the four of us (which one of us didn't belong? Was it the gay guy without any fancy duds?) waited for our drinks... Lulu began commenting on the barista's technique.
"Joanna," she said, "I just want to say that you give the best foam." And on second thought... I may need another mental health day to recover!

The C List

I used to consider myself a McGill Celebrity... like an A-Lister... alas back in the Faux Hill, I've become a mindless Faux Hillary, or at best a potential candidate for the Surreal Life. Thankfully my celeb status got a little bit of boost this week.
I found myself at Holt's (a place where every Faux Hillary is glad they came and Joe the Doorman knows your name...) wherein I bought myself something ridiculous and expensive because it has an alligator on it. I needed a cashmere hat, right?
Post purchase and riding that wave of euphoria that comes with buying something I was walking along Bloor when a red minivan pulled over, the windows rolled down, and a chorus of about five girls shouted out the window, "Hey did you go to McGill?" I nodded and laughed before telling them how my BA had purchased me a one way ticket to the two-fer and an entry level job at an advertising agency. But I'm not cynical about it because I love the two-fer and my life, really I do.
My four years at McGill and semester of being an on campus celebrity (think Veggierama instead of Mary Kate eating breakfast at the Ivy in LA though)apparently still matter to some however, even though these days I've been relegated to the back pages of US Weekly and I've become just another faceless Faux Hillary with a pair of Uggs*.



*I don't really own Uggs.

Happy New Year?

Papa Len & Sim Sim Sima decided last summer to Christen (watch and wait for the irony) my WASPy friends with Yidishe names (did it hit ya in the groin or were you prepared?); Caitlyn became Channah, Bridget became Brynah, Trevor became Tevye and so on... [To keep pace with Sima and Len antics I suggest you visit their own blog at wespawnedboldsharon.blogspot.com] I suppose however, that their joke was reflective of the fact that for many Faux Hillary's their entire world is a Jewish one. This became apparent over the recent days as the Village was swarmed - no longer by marauding packs of teenagers in their SUV's - but with out of towners visiting the Faux Hill's numerous synagogues to partake in a little bit of Jewish New Year Goodness. The streets have been jam packed with so many luxury SUV's over the past few days that its like SUV Mardi Gras - high gas prices be damned!
This blog began with a simple question: "Why do so many people wear Lululemon?" and to this day I can't figure it out. But, jokes aside, it was part of a much greater problem; the village breeds conformity... [and I ain't just talking about Gucci fanny packs, which are a) ugly and b) pretentious].
Case in point: Family Friend Dan (see previous blog entry) sent out one of those emails annoucning his new cell phone number, it was signed with: "oh and happy New Year to anyone on this list who is Jewish - oh wait, everyone is." Funny, sure; but also sad because if your world consists entirely of Brynnah's and Berol's, we foget that everyone doesn't always wear Lulu. So on this New Year's Resolution is not to ask why everyone wear's Lulu but to realize that not everyone does. Happy New Year to Jews and Shiksa's and Shaygetz's alike...

The Other Hill - Part Deux

The T-Hill, that other outpost of Torontonian Judaism, has reared its head this weekend. Bold is celebrating her birthday along with another friend, Shosh of the Thornhill Shoshana's. Yours truly has been put in charge of decorations. I was thinking a tasteful trip down to Teatro Verde for a nice planter, a stop at the Flower District @ Ave and Dav for some floral inspiration before artfully concocting a display mixed with floating tea lights. Those from the T-Hill, had a different idea. M-Poo called me this morning to warn me about the decoration intervention. It appears as if Shosh's husband was stopping off to get streamers and balloons.
Background noise (courtesy of Bold): "I will not have balloons and streamers at my party."
M-Poo whispered into the phone: "The problem is that you have a mix of two cultures - Thornhill and Faux Hill."
Truer words have never been spoken.

I Just Want a Shaygetz

Awhile ago I, whilst being angry at Starbucks (in general), I asked Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len why we ended up residing in pretentious Faux Hill. "We liked the house", they answered. I suppose what's not to like about the Two-Fer (the name I've bestowed upon the familial compound)? We have four bedrooms, a den, a backyard... It's GT's over here.
But as a part of a cultural minority, Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima settled in Faux Hill for reasons beyond the tudor styling of the Two-Fer. The Faux Hill and its predominantly Jewish residents, provide a nice protectorate where Sim Sim Sima and Papa Len's offspring (Boldy and me) could be raised in a culturally Jewish neighbourhood with the hope of potentially meeting a culturally similar mate. Faux Hill is like sending your kids to Jewish day school or a jewish camp; only unlike those cultural outposts of latent twenty first century Judaism the Faux Hill is 24/7; it is the twentieth century version of J-Date. And that, in its beauty, is the insiduous nature of the Faux Hill, which is nothing more then a self confined breeding ground for potential Cohen-Greenberg nuptuals.
Alas, a trend within these parts is rebellion, as kids will be kids... for most Jewish boys the spectre of rebellion lies within the cold confines of Rosedale, where a blue eyed-blond haired temptress with decent pedigree and OLD MONEY lures a nice Faux Hill mentsch with her shiks-appeal. A Shiksa is the derogatory term used to describe a non jewish girl who marries/dates a Jewish boy. And really whats not to like about a WASPy mate? Instead of the overly emotional hysterics of a Jewish family, our young Faux Hill lad, gets a glass of scotch and stone cold silence at the dinner table, as his mother, sadly geshries (Yiddish for shrieking) at how her beloved Joshua is dating the gentle HaverGal, Taylor Morgan Pratt.
And for the rebellious Gay Jewish boy of Faux Hill? The reality is not so different, Shiks-appeal, or in my case, Gaygetz appeal still rules. A Gaygetz?
To define: a Shaygetz is the male version of a shiksa, and a gaygetz is a term that I've modified to describe the succession of Pretty White Boys With Problems (PWBWP)that I've have dated. And like the nice Jewish boy who brings home a WASPy shiksa for Rosh Hashannah dinner, I've realized that I as well am only attracted to Gaygetz's. All of my PWBWB have been of the non kosher variety. I have been infatuated with my gaygetz's because of their WASPy last names such as Bradshaw & Payne, their small upturned little noses, their goyishe but beautiful blue eyes, the fact that they all offer me a glass of scotch at the door and the fac that they are all shockingly emotionally despondant.
As I jogged through the Faux Hill the other day, however, I realized that my infatuation with gaygetz's is pretty classic Jew-boy mentality, the Gaygetz, much like the Shiksa, still has the appeal of The Other. And I realized, that just because I'm gay, it doesn't make me any less of a neurotic Jew-boy. Portnoy would be so proud.

Life in Slow Motion

Dearest Readers, I have become lost... I dated an actor and got dumped via e-mail only to realize that everyone has baggage - only most people don't carry a Louis Vuitton. And so tonight, I yearn, ne long for a place where everybody knows my name (Cohen, Stern, Golden/Silver-stein, blatt, burg) and where most people's baggage is in fact a newly purchased Louis. Tonight I returned to the Village. Spooky...

*

It was a dark and stormy night in the Faux Hill; or as dark and stormy as it gets in these calm monied parts. An air of pervasive calm has prevailed over Starbucks; the teenage riff raff has come back from various camps in Algonquin Park and have departed for wannabe ivy league schools in Montreal and London; the Village has been reclaimed by its rightful citizens - the tax payers and by its future tax payers - law school students.
My most frequent interaction has become a various nodding routinte with these future home owners, comical only for its repitition:
"You look familiar." I see one girl in Lulu and I know...
"You were in my class." She says.
"McGill?" I ask.
"Jewish Holiday's; or some other Jewish class." And as we update each other on various summer exploints, current life plans, she tells me how she's finished her first few days of law school. She shows me the courseback with pride, as secretly we both count how many Jewish studies classes she took to get were she is. How many classes padded that CV in the quest for the holy grail: 4.0.
And so the cycle continues this fall in Faux Hill... the new generation arises as the old lingers on a patio sipping chai latte's proud of their accomplishments and David Gray laments on the ipod, "life in slow motion, somehow it can't be real."

Think Inside the Box

Bold Sharon is perhaps the oddest member of the Faux Hill family. Besides her ever increasing 'boldosity' [she was christened Boldy McS after numerous arguments over the surprise party that we planned for our parents last year. For an example I will recount the 'party sandwich incident', wherein yours truly made an executive decision and ordered party sandwiches without consulting her. "What do you mean you ordered the party sandwiches? Those people (by 'those people' she was obviously talking about the international party sandwich conspiracy) are always trying to rip us off... you probably ordered too many. Next time, get a price quote, call me back and then order." This was an argument based on $150 of party sandwiches, so we aren't talking big money here... and they all went. Boldy further distinguished herself as Bold by pushing me aside in a display of superhuman strength and shouting, to my friend Brynnah and Brock, "THEY'RE GOING TO RUIN THE SURPRISE.]; anyways... besides her increasing 'boldosity' Bold Sharon has a habbit of not being very Faux Hillary, even though she grew up here her entire life. Sadly Boldy always placed herself on the fringes of FH society wondering why she isn't as fashionable as "those people"; by those people she is referring to those stricken with Faux Hill-iticis. At thirty, however, Boldy has finally gotten so bold as too demand something from Tiffany's from her beloved husband and man who knows tolerance, M-Poo.
Tiffany-bling is the ultimate mark of the Faux Hillary. It's like a cultural touchstone that symbolizes ones origin. But unlike every other Faux Hillary, Boldy shockingly, has nothing from Tiffany's. Nary an Elsa Paretti heart, nor silver dog chain can be found in her jewellery box. This to insider's is shocking:
Kitty: "Your sister doesn't have anything from Tiffany's? Weird."
Matt: "I mean given the socio-economic standing, I find it shocking, unheard of."
Brynnah once declared, "I think it has something to do with the Bat Mitzvah, but every Jewish girl has at least something from Tiffany's." And finally Boldy can meet the mold, as M Poo has taken the plunge and thought inside the box... but true to form, Boldy directed him at a particular piece, much to the sticker shocked eyes of M Poo. And just because she's Sharon has become a bit more Faux Hillary, doesn't mean she's ain't still bold. And that is why we love her.

Your Hair is Amazing

As a guy I don't really 'get' hair. For those who don't know what I look like... my head is actually shaved; and every two weeks I whip out the automatic hair clipper, set it to option three, and shorn my own hair in the bathroom as my mother shrieks, "you have to do this here? Now?" About the most exciting thing to have happen to my hair recently was the purchase of a CORDLESS hair trimmer. I spurged ($60.00) on a fancy Phillips machine, thinking that I save about $25.00 a haircut anyway. The new machine is also, according to the good folks at Phillips, "Lubed for life" and let me tell you something dearest readers; we should all be so lucky.

For girls, however, especially those of the Faux Hill bent, hair is a completely different story. For the Faux Hillary, hair, hair care and conversations about hair are so important that hair will probably be the topic of the next great Faux Hill novel - The Great Hairsby. I realized this insipid obsession with hair while eating lunch with Papa Len at The Restaurant. The Restaurant - aka United Baker's - is rather mediocre dairy restaurant over populated by Jewish grandmothers who live in the surrounding neighrbourhood but who's children have decamped a couple of blocks south to much more affluent Faux Hill. Yet every weekend much of Faux Hill migrates five minutes north for a rather mediocre omelet with Bubbie and Zaidie.

Papa Len and I ended up commiserating about my love life over a bowl of split pea soup as two of the Faux Hill's finest ended up next to us.

The conversation transpired as follows.

"Brad and I were just in Restoration Hardware for three hours. I'm schvitsing."

"Ew. What did you buy?"

"Nothing we were just looking at linen."

Silence. Then Exclamation!

"OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU HAIR."

"I just got it highlighted and layered."

"Your hair is AMAZING."

And suddenly... I realized why Papa Len started buying the split pea soup in takeout form. Her hair may be amazing, but I had lost my appetite.

The Family Friend

When you come out and then move back to Toronto your old high school friends are generally pretty happy for you. For the most part no one really says anything, they just smile and nod politely when you admit that you hate boys and that you just broke up with your boyfriend in Alberta... This has been my experience, and for the most part it's been pleasurable. It is afterall 2005. Last weekend I had a rather different experience while having dinner at a family friends house. The rents were on the Cape and I was invited out... after dinner I drove their son, Danny, to a friends house. Danny - around my age - just came back from a stint working in New York City and is going to law school this fall has never been a fav of mine, although our parents desperately have wanted us to be friends, we just never clicked. As I drove him around, I realized why.
"So are you seeing anyone?"
"No. I just sorta broke up with someone." I answered.
"I hear when people come out they go through a really slutty phase."
Silence. [Although part of me wanted to say - yes some "gays" do; but then they contract deathly diseases, ya know the "gay" disease.] For once however I had no witty remark, or caustic comment... So silence ensued.
"I always thought you were gay. I just never said anything."
Silence.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Are you not going to respond?"
"I try and keep my life pretty private... so..."
And thankfully by then we had reached our destination and Danny exited the car with promises to keep in touch as I shook my head. Another lawyer I thought... just what the world needs.

What if I fell into a Crater in the Faux Hill Village

Last Sunday I sat reading Freud at Starbucks. This isn't a joke people and yes it was pretty "meta" - as in Josh Schwartz/OC meta... like I'm reading Freud, audience, do you get how fucking smart and self important that reference is?
But really... where have I been? Who knows really... I'm sure if I had blogged over the past couple of months I would have multiple self important stories about my sordid life neatly and wittily catalogued - alas the daily affirmation of my own wit are but distant memories these days; like errant coffee grinds at the bottom of a tall starbucks latte.
In short... I broke up with the Rama; as much as someone can date and subsequently argue over email, got a real job, in advertising - a job description that seemingly no one asks any more questions about... "The FHillary, bubeleh, he's in advertising." Saw the M Brad in Montreal, who ran away like a little rabbit.
*
Actually a really funny story just popped into my mind, one which I will run with and detail to you my loyal readers. To most "the Village" in Toronto is codeword for Forest Hill. However, to some, to those with an affinity for the same sex, rainbow flags, and Diesel t-shirts, "the Village," refers to the Church and Wellesley gaybourhood. It so happened that one night after my Business Law class, my friend Matt and I ventured out for a drink on Church Street. Matt was having a small argument with his boyfriend, and yours truly, permanently single, decided a drink in the Gaybourhood was exactly what Dr Cher, patron saint of all things gay, ordered. As we sat on a patio we eventually struck up a conversation with a lovely professor, who was in town for a conference. By the end of the night enough stollen glances had been exchanged from the much older professor that this young pup realized if he so wanted he had a very interested bite on his rod - which was sadly getting a bit rusty with disuse.
And so we flash forward to the next night, when yours truly meets said professor for drinks... a lovely conversation ensues, we discuss coming out, academia and I realize that although this will clearly end in a one night stand, at least it will be an impressive notch on my belt- a notch that can be hotlinked to ratemyprofessor.com. And so after the good professor swipes the amex card to pay for our drinks, we go back to his hotel room, where I kid you not, he declares that my left toe is bigger then my right one... and soon enough lips locked, clothes in a minor disaray a caveat is presented, "my partner is driving in from Detroit. How do you feel about Philipino's and threesomes?"
As I grab my t-shirt I state with certainty, "I don't mind the first and I've never been in the latter. I gotta go." And with a smug smile on my face I flee the Delta Chelsea and go home to the computer - low and behold, "Professor X - don't waste your time ladies on falling in love with this eye candy, he's gay." "Professor X - gives really hard reading assignments." And I laugh...

But I am Le Tired/ Variant B

In truth I haven't been to the Village in like a week. Quite frankly I've become irrationally scared of the place. If we remeber my Village lifestyle history we happen upon the Pussy Posse - yes that infamous group of fifty year old dot com millionaires and day traders who sit there every night. They scare the crap out of me to be honest and every time I've been down in the Village, either driving though there, or going to the bank, the Pussy Posse is there, drinking coffee and talking about pussy. The last time I went to the Village to do some work I actually sat in the Second Cup patio because I didn't want to run in to anyone.

*

In other late breaking medical news, the CDC has identified a new variant of Faux Hill-iticis. I call it Faux Hill-iticis Variant B. The symptoms of Variant B are similar enough to Faux Hill-iticis, but with one shocking difference: those who suffer from Variant B don't think of themselves as infected at all. To quote the daughter of a family friend at a recent Sangria/BBQ who was gushing about her Birthright trip, "I also really needed to get away from those Toronto Forest Hill Jews." Now one would think that said daughter, who later lamented the fact that it was sunday and Yorkdale closes early, is an easy diagnosis of Faux HIll-iticis... alas with that comment, however, the intrepid doctor can diagnosis her with the much more malicious Variant B stream. It's like SARS people, but less deadly, and with more Coach.

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Inquiring minds I'm sure at this point are wondering how is Rama? Well I've given him a new nickname - Pot; this after he got all huffy when I told him that - egads - went on a date with someone else. Rama, at home in Calgary, suggested that I shouldn't be so picky or I may wind up alone. To which I responded, "is that the pot calling the kettle black?" Rama, ne Pot, has taken to writing me every day and has also taken to espousing my fabulous characteristics in his emails, (like being cute, charming, witty, etc...) but we're still just best friends forever. BBF SWAK. Lame.

The Roomate

When you date someone, you have to contend with their roomate, and subsequently as a roomate, you have to contend with your roomate's significant other. It's a not always easy dance to be honest. The M Brad's roomate and I always had a decent relationship; we discussed very little beyond pleasantries and generally I tried to stay out of his way while simultaneously laughing at his on line gambling habit with him.
So with a bit of uprehension yesterday I happened to run into the M Brad's roomate, Lipton. Now Lipton and I haven't spoken since January; I believe we saw each other every day at McGill and gave each other awkward looks that I always assumed meant that Lipton wanted me dead... but alas it wasn't so. Lipton saw me, walked over and asked how I was doing, what I was up to, my summer plans, etc... etc... I asked how his roomate was doing (M Brad) he's apparently doing well - although from my perspective he's being self destructive in Montreal, but whatever. Up until this point, this was probably the most reasonable and adult conversation I had with anyone associated with the M Brad, ever. I wished Lipton a safe trip to Europe, before he grabbed my hand, looked me straight in the eye, and said very meaningfully, "take it easy, ok?" And thus another nail in the coffin of closure as Lipton's very adult, very reasonable approach was just another hint that even those associated with the M Brad are aware of his emotional instability.