Traffic

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

Cobb Salad 2

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

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

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

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

Bard of the Village; The Third Cut is the Bardiest

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

Inherent Specialization

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

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

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

Bard of Village Part Deux; Bardier

Todays Haiku:

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

Fat Dan* Quote of the Day

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

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

Cobb Salad

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

London School of Hardknocks (LSH)

Today, while having coffee with my village informant: Holt [Upper Canada Old Boy turned embittered Village Waiter, you serve $11.00 salads for a year with a BA and see how you feel], I saw a member of the Helmet Brigade (the Helmet Brigade are forty-something + women who get their hair blow dried once a week to the point of consistent hard helmet hair - look around it's all over the place). As a family friend of this particulary Helmet Brigade member (holla holla Linda), I asked how her daugther was doing at teacher's collge. "Fabulous of course! She doesn't like Buffalo... but other then that it's great."
As Linda walked away Holt turned to me and said, "Buffalo? Who goes to teacher's college in Buffalo?"
Ha ha... dearest reader's welcome to Faux Hill where people do in fact go to teacher's college in Buffalo. Why? For the exact same reason that Jessica Goldenstein goes to law school in East Lansing. That is where the progeny of Linda and Jessice Goldenstein got accepted.
Welcome to Faux Hill in 2006 where getting into a Canadian grad school is really really tough :( but getting into some sketchy American grad school that offers equivalency programs, if you're willing to pay top dollar (let's say 20,000 americano - lowball ballpark figure), is really really easy. This is good news if you're thinking of opening an American Apparel outlet in East Lansing; bad news if you tend to think that people should work hard for their future and not simply buy it. Oh wait - this is a capitalistic society, isn't it?
Witness the rise in popularity of going teacher's college in Australia, Buffalo or the favoured grad school of the jetset, LSE. Oh London School of Economics... an interesting case of an international school which has succesfully marketed itself to cash-rich North American's hoping for a bit of Old World Cache (this is an historical consistent... the Vanderbilts foamed with glee at being able to marry off their daughters to poverty stricken British royals). LSE has invented hundred's of master's programs in almost every discipline you could think of... and well to be honest, this kind of shit works. LSE = master's = high paying job... Remember those people who get their teaching degrees from D'Youville College Buffalo will compete for the same teaching job that Sally Smalltown, who worked her ass off to get into teacher's college at Queen's, wants. Who said that life was fair and that we are all given the same opportunities? What do you think this is Communism? Bitches, I saw a Ferrari in Faux Hill today; it's called inheritence... Those who have it have an easier job maintaining it.
So at the end of the day, where does that leave Holt and I? Feelings of imbued superiority and poverty with a mix of a grande Sumatra. Holt, however, did say he was thinking of working on his portfolio for Parsons School of Design... natch.

Bard of the Village

I've decided that as I'm basically the Poet Laureatte of Faux Hill every Friday I will write a new Faux Hill Haiku:

Sittin at Starbucks
Watching Cars Parallel Park
Their Uggs are too tight.

Hired Help

[Warning: the longer i'm unemployed the more bitter I've become]

Yawn... it's so hard to find help these days, isn't it?
A big complaint that I hear from parents (and by hear I mean overhear) is that kids are just floudering at elementary school. There's too much homework, their reading skills aren't up to par... etc... etc... I mean how can little Janey learn both English and French, and Hebrew if she goes to a Jewish day school? One mother pulled her child out of Bialik, a local Hebrew Day School, in grade one because she was worried about her child's poor reading skills.
Hrm... I happened to call my neighbour Linda Goldenblatsternowitz today in order to follow up with a connection she had for my job hunt. Seeing as she herself doesn't really work she must know someone in the working world right? Linda has two youngish boys (13+15)... so who should answer the phone? The housekeeper, of course!
What ensued is the modern day Abbot and Costello routine if Costello was a recent immigrant whose grasp of English was non-existant at best.

FH: Can you tell Linda that Jon called.
HK: Jon?
FH: Yes. J-O-N.
HK: J-O-H-N.
FH: No. J-O-N.
HK: H-N.
Finally I acquiesed.

Now my point here is not to make fun of this woman's English skills. Canada is a country built on immigration etc etc... however, when the unemployed parents of the Faux Hill sit at Starbucks lamenting how their children have poor reading skills - I often snidely think to myself, "if you spent as much time with your beloved children as your housekeeper does and less time at Starbucks maybe little Janey wouldn't have such poor reading comprehension..."

Sweatpants are the new Black

Oy... I may have to change the subheading of this blog. According to this Saturday's Style Section in the Globe and Mail: "The Lululemon era is officially kaput." AHHHHHHHHHHHHH... This blog began with the pretense of making fun of Lululemon. Is my raison d'etre suddenly finito? Finished before I even had the chance of jumping on the Lulu bandwagon. Sim Sim Sima owns a pair of Lulu's, but once she's wearing something trendy, I can safely say that the trend has undoubtedly expired.
After intellectualizing a bit over the whole situation, I came to an important conclusion: round the Faux Hill sweatpants never really went out style. Baggy Gym Master sweatpants, birkenstock clogs, and a messy-bun have been the defacto Faux Hillary uniform since local residents & owners of Roots, the Budmans, started making their classic beaver logo'd sweatpants (see photo) decades ago. At the end of the day Lululemon was simply a brief affair with a trashy, new money, Shiksa interloper from Vancouver (ew).
You might say that Faux Hill is much like the mob... we also protect our own.

Overheard... (via cellphone?)

So I've been spending a lot of time at the Office (Starbucks in Faux Hill). It's the nexus of my job search and the nexus for realizing the ridiculousness that is Faux Hill.
This morning I was stunned to witness the ultimate if Faux Hillary Hillarity - arguments about cell phones. [Sidenote: It's actually a big day for cell phones at the Two-Fer... Sim Sim Sima just got herself a brand spankin new blackberry (of course she isn't paying for it, WWSD, as if you have to ask. TDSB pays for that shit).]
If you haven't noticed, cell phones have truly become ubiqutous; I mean even the children I've tutored in Regent Park have cellies.
My favourite use of cell phones however are the unemployed mummies of the Faux Hill (ya know the kind who don't work, don't need to work). They have Blackberries. I used to ask myself why until I witnessed something so enlightening I practicaly expected JC to walk in off the street and ask for a no foam, extra hot latte.
Here's what happened to Prada (so named because of her lovely Prada rain jacket) and so overheard by yours truly as Prada happened to tell her bff Gucci (so named because of her lovely Gucci rain hat).
P: "I'm sorry I'm late. I just hit another car."
G: "What happened."
Que some story about how Prada tried to deflty manouever new suv into too small parking space with bad results.
P: "We're going to be late for our mani's." (Mani's = Manicure in Faux Hillish - the local dialect)
G: "Let's call the Spa. I need a coffee before we go."
P: "But I don't have the number!"
And to save the day, wouldn't you know it, Gucci swoops into the Louis and pulls out the Blackberry. Mani's saved... soy latte's drunk. Pay it forward, non?

But really the ultimate in cell phone antics is the cell phone bill argument. I arrived to witness Ms CEO (short blond hair, white pearl studs, tailored tasteful power suit) sitting have a morning coffee with daughter. In front of them were Roger's cell phone bills. I knew as soon as I saw them that this was going to end in disaster.
"It is your duty, as my parent, to pay for my cell phone." The daugther yelled.
"Why do you think you get an allowance?" Asked the mother.
"But I spend it on other things."
"Like what?"
"Dinner. Out. With friends."
Que argument over cell phone bills, which escalated, and I shit you not dearest readers, into tears. The daughter actually cried and accused her mother of being a bad parent. I mean my god! Instilling financial lessons in our spawn. Won't somebody please think of the children?

Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to my right...

They're filming a movie in the Faux Hill. This means that there are mildly attractive men in diesel's lurking about.
Now that summer is about to get into full gear the Village is kicking it up a notch, BAM. The patio is back to its usual display of mummies, teenagers, and the oddity who buys lunch at EdoKo, but has to have a cup of java with her tempura (Don't even get me started about this trend - something I'm closely watching and have taken to calling these women Starbetic's. AKA... they're like diabetic, but instead of glucose shots they need shots of Starbucks bevies...)
Inside Starbucks however is a completely different story. Inside, where I've taken to sitting in the laptop aisle, has almost become an office of diligent worker's who have made Starbucsk the Pomo cubicle.
The usual suspects are a convoluted group that are potentially the basic skeleton shell of a Fortune 500 Company (just ask Ken Lay).
They (We) include:
1) Donna... gotta love Donna. Donna apparently is a consultant for gender equality. She lives part time in Switzerland. Donna is fabulous.
2) The Day Traders - Nebish Jewish fellows who are learning how to day trade while living off of family income, I suspect. They're an odd sort, late thirties, who seem to flock to a much older man who is inherently more succesful then them and acts as their guru. They do, however, provide variety to the Bucks... and subsequently you get to hear lines like, "start shortrading gold; its heading for a freefall." It makes me feel like an extra in Michael Douglas's Wall Street.
3) Metrosexual Mike - I don't know Mike's real name. Mike isn't even that attractive in a conventional way... but man o' man... does Mike fill out a skimpy white v-neck t-shirt really fucking well. What does Mike do? I'm not sure to be honest. I worry that Mike could be me in the future (but with A LOT of trips to the gym to work on my biceps)... he seems to have a lot of ideas (he told Donna he was going to start a restaurant that only sold barbecue related things, it was going to be called Que. I wish him all the best.

Lost Souls - Finding a Protege

I havne't blogged in over a week. Intrepid readers may have concluded that I have a job. They'd be wrong.
Yesterday I spent five hours sitting at Starbucks with my Village informant Cam. Cam's sorta a lost soul, amongst a sea of lost souls these days... We shot the shit for hours upon end, discussing what used to be where What a Bagel is (Bayshore Trust), Bank of Montreal (Paper Ideas) the Second Cup (CC-ookies, they only sold cookies; surprise it didn't last very long). Cam then suggested that I become the Village historian... something that well... has crossed my mind once before. Once when he was drunk (which is an occurance that occurs more often then not) Cam suggested that they construct a traffic circle with a statue of me in the middle of Spadina and Lonsdale.
As more and more coffee was ingested topics veered from Faux Hill to various antics of our youthful years and we began to attract the attention of the only other patio dweller... (at 10 degrees it was rather chilly for the botoxed beauties with their bugagboo's) a 15 year-old student at the Collegiate. And in this lovely 15 year-old... I may have found myself a protege. For who else besides yours truly sits at the Starbucks patio with a leather bound journal eavesdropping on other peope's conversations? Just me... and now I may have found my straight female counterpart. The good news: she got kicked out of camp and will be around for the entire summer. The even better news - she was wearing a Forest Hill hoodie - does it get any better then that? I don't think so.

Faux in the Faux

Fine... I'll admit that I'm a complete poser whose landed in the Faux Hill by accident of his parent's good fortune to purchase in the hood pre tullip craze.
When I look around the Starbucks patio I do wonder if it's at all noticible that I'm not quite as rich as the Upper Canada old boy next to me. I mean my jeans are designer, but my Ipod's a black and white model (how embarassing).

Said Upper Canada Old Boy is wearing:
Nike Shox Sneakers: $200.00
UCC Sweatpants: approx $50.00 bucks? However... there is no way anyone can simply wear Upper Canada sweatpants unless they a) go there [tuition is $23,475.00 a year] or b) their boyfriend goes there. I attempt to make eye contact with my mark to assess if he actually goes there or if the pants belong to his boyfriend. No dice. He goes there.
Burberry Rain Jacket: $500.00
Motorolla RAZR: $400.00
Ipod 30GB Video: $379.00
Louis Vuitton Ipod case: $250.00 (although its a bit embarassing to have a Louis Vuitton ipod case)
Polo hat: $45.00

Alas... I'm just not quite as bling. I walked home in shame.

It's My Anniversary

Astute readers will have realized that it's my one year anniversary! Yes it has been only a year since this blog began out of sheer boredom and out of complete hilarity at Faux Hill; yet what a year it has been! In fact this anniversary is almost as important to me as my BirthGay (yes... I came out around my birthday and hence the two are combined into one super duper holiday!).
I'm going to try and create a year in review or something to try and help newfound readers figure out what a Gaygetz is, who exactly the Rama is and what WWSD means. We'll see if I don't find a job before this all happens.

And on that note, I gotta be in the Village for coffee. Toodles!

Mayfair

Today I travelled from the confines of the Faux Hill down to Rosed Ale... Rosed Ale is the alternate Faux Hill - pretty much the same place but without a Starbucks (Egads!) but with more WASP's. It's a trade off I guess... and sometimes to be honest I'd trade Starbucks for a Gaygetz. But I digress... as a Faux Hill boy sometimes you gotta check out the rival 'hoods and see what all the fuss is about.
Mayfair is the annual Springtime Fair held by the RosedAliens to celebrate their good fortune and raise money for local sports teams (no not for the nearby slum St Jamestown, but for themselves. Afterall Holden's hockey team needs new practice gear!). I went along with Kitty and her entire family for a day of good natured establishment fun, basically hung out with the mayor, drank beer and hung out with the future business leaders of Canada (remember that these were the same idiots that did bong hit after bong hit in university; the lines of establishment run about as deep as the Canadian Shield that your cottage sits on in Muskoka). I'll admit that I'm always a bit enamoured with Rosed Ale. I love that at the Summerhill Market you can simply say, "162 Binscarth" and sign a receipt and daddy pays for it all. It's beautiful and small-town esque and something that Faux Hill for all of our private school's and coffee shops just can't compete with. Something else the Faux Hill can't compete with - the Gaygetzym... I mean where else is yours truly going to swoon at this sentence:
"Ya Queen's has been really good for law school. It's quiet so I can practice my squash game." Jake McMaster... you had me at squash.

*

In other news A Nax, the unemployed Faux Hill cousin, will be home shortly. Antics will ensue I'm sure.
She also put a gun to my head and made me write that. Bitch.

Shhh Gossip

As Faux Hill Celebrity (TM) and general know it all... I happen to privy to much of Faux Hill Gossip. I have a team of minions who comb the Forests and Hills of the region looking for smutt on which I can report. Actually I have one friend who works at a resto in the Village and he feeds me shit about his clients. Other stuff I pick up at Starbucks.
So the latest goods and people this is hot off the press is that a certain rakish gentleman habituates the Village on certain nights with his mistress and on other's with his wife...
And for those who think the Faux Hill is too harsh a name for these parts - I suggest you reconsider.

The Bible

Sociologically... the Village is odd. 50% yid and 50% WASP the two solitudes are neatly divided by the regions only thoroughfare, Spadina, which cuts a broad swath down the middle of Faux Hill separating the upwardly mobile Yids to the West and the Landed Gentry WASP's on the Eastside. Both groups mingle sans much trouble in the Village; there was one time when I thought a group of WASP's and JAP's were going to recreate a scene from West Side Story (When you're a JAP you're a JAP all the way, from your first Louis Vuitton to your last dyin' day), but then I realized they were politely waiting for the light to change. In fact I'm propossing someone dispatch me to Northern Ireland to help with peace talks... there hasn't been an uprising round these parts since the great Botox Scare of 1999. This cultural sensitivity is perhaps best personified by Starbucks, which round 'Holiday' sells both Christmas themed shortbread cookies AND some which commmemorate the Eight Crazy nights...
The proliferation of Jews in the Village isn't a shocker... read any good book on Modern American Jewish history and what will you find? Well round the fifties upwardly mobile Jewish practitioners, second generation doctor's and lawyers began settling in establishment neighbourhoods as a sign of newfound wealth, and desire to escape from the Ghetto while emulating North America's WASP Gentry. As a product of this is it any wonder of my own obsession with the Gaygetz (old habits die hard dahlink's).
Philip Roth's Goodbye Columbus portray's this obsession with establishment prep in a rather popcorn-esque fashion as nouveau suburbanized Jews form country clubs and "have their noses fixed". In one particularly telling scene Roth describes the family's bar stocked with the best bottles of whiskey and champagne, all unopened of course (because in emulating the landed Gentry... we Jews don't drink - note the absence of a bar in Faux Hill - it's like prohibition here).
And so I present to you my latest purchase, pink and green argyle vans. Because does anything say establishment prep more then pink and green? Add in argyle and you have yourself establishment prep with a British flair... these shoes aren't just a purchase y'all they are a statement.