This transpired over the weekend:
Papa Len and I were driving in the car with my mother, en route for dinner. My father began talking about a recent Globe and Mail article about how people were starting to feel trapped by suburbia because of the lack of culture, transit and other urban amenities.
"Thank god we didn't buy that house up north." Sim Sim Sima declared.
"What? How could I have a blog if we lived up north?" I was shocked and imagined us living in Yorkmills or even worse - Thornhill. "Where did you almost buy a house?"
"Lawrence Park." My mother deadpanned. No not deadpanned. She meant it seriously - Yonge and Lawrence is considered north of the city for Portand's favourite princess.
Sima though, is nothing but frank in her opinions. Why just the other day she went on a rant about Stephen Harper's budget.
"I just don't get it - I thought this budget was supposed to appeal to Middle American's; working class Canadians like you and I." She said to my father last night. "I'm not getting any of these tax breaks, this is just so unfair." I looked at her and tried to explain how she wasn't considered a working class Canadian, but she would have none of it. She works so considers herself working class; Harper just doesn't understand her needs.
I offered her a bit of consolation:
Last week Holt Renfrew had their private shopping night - those invited were given a consumption based rebate on purchases; spend $1000.00 receive a $100.00 gift certificate, spend $5000.00 get a $500.00 certificate. Tax break right there, right?
My mother's reply: I don't shop at Holt Renfrew.
Hmm... maybe she truly is a middle class Canadian?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Won't You be my Neighbour?
This morning at breakfast Sim Sim Sima went on a bit of a rant about our next door neighbour, Gail, until Papa Len interupted her and said - "we could have worse neighbours - like the ones across the street." You get down with your bad self Papa Len.
We don't like the neighbours across the street, because they leave their dog outside on the front porch, park their car in front of our house and blah blah blah. These aren't things that ONE does in the Village, FYI. According to street gossip: they moved down from Thornhill after a family windfall. How dismissive is that?
On the surface the Village is a seemingly bucolic place of tidy lawns, botoxed beauties and SUV's. Walk into Banfi on a Saturday night and you'll be greeted with a chorus of "You who! Sandra, how are you? How was Florida?" It's almost like they care about your trip to Florida. When they don't. They just ask you about it, so they can make sure that their trip to Florida was both better, longer and more expensive then yours. This also allows them to talk about how their children are smarter and prettier [and less gay!] then yours. It's a cruel cruel world over here. Dripping below the surface of such friendlness is the constant fear of one-up-manship and SUV jealousy. Literally Gail once knocked on our door to show my mother her new vintage planters. Sima didn't know what to say except to trott out her new tropical planter in retaliation. Yikes, bring home the troops please, I'm sensing a domestic.
Such simple one-upmanship is nothing compared to some of the other shit that goes on round here. Just the other day, as I ran into the local subway station, I spotted an old classmate from elementary school. Seeing as most of the people who I spent nine years with in jewish day school live in the Village or in the Other Hill, this is no big surprise. It's also no big surprise to find someone my age still living at home as why move out unless you're getting married?
Well hello Ilana Lipman! I stopped to say hello and ask the patented, "So how are you doing?" Ilana smiled, nodded her head and told me how great she was doing, before turning away and opening her book. No asking how I was. No nothing.
Woah you might say, well isn't that a bit cold? And you'd be right, especially, since not a year ago - I was Ilana Lipman's newest bestie. One year ago, I sat, unemployed and in the Village Starbucks thinking about my life, when she ran up to me and started telling me about her boyfriend who really wanted to work at my brother in laws firm, and maybe I could set something up. Not a big deal, I was particularly happy to help a fellow job seeker thinking that by paying it forward Karma would come back to reward me.
You'd think after all of that - she'd have been happy to see an old friend on the St Clair West subway platform. No dice. All of this would have been fine, had I had the time to move past her on the platform. Alas, as she turned, fate interveened, the subway arrived and fearing missing the train, I got on to the same, empty car, that she did. So there we sat, across the way from each other, not talking.
Lovely. What would Mr. Rogers say?
We don't like the neighbours across the street, because they leave their dog outside on the front porch, park their car in front of our house and blah blah blah. These aren't things that ONE does in the Village, FYI. According to street gossip: they moved down from Thornhill after a family windfall. How dismissive is that?
On the surface the Village is a seemingly bucolic place of tidy lawns, botoxed beauties and SUV's. Walk into Banfi on a Saturday night and you'll be greeted with a chorus of "You who! Sandra, how are you? How was Florida?" It's almost like they care about your trip to Florida. When they don't. They just ask you about it, so they can make sure that their trip to Florida was both better, longer and more expensive then yours. This also allows them to talk about how their children are smarter and prettier [and less gay!] then yours. It's a cruel cruel world over here. Dripping below the surface of such friendlness is the constant fear of one-up-manship and SUV jealousy. Literally Gail once knocked on our door to show my mother her new vintage planters. Sima didn't know what to say except to trott out her new tropical planter in retaliation. Yikes, bring home the troops please, I'm sensing a domestic.
Such simple one-upmanship is nothing compared to some of the other shit that goes on round here. Just the other day, as I ran into the local subway station, I spotted an old classmate from elementary school. Seeing as most of the people who I spent nine years with in jewish day school live in the Village or in the Other Hill, this is no big surprise. It's also no big surprise to find someone my age still living at home as why move out unless you're getting married?
Well hello Ilana Lipman! I stopped to say hello and ask the patented, "So how are you doing?" Ilana smiled, nodded her head and told me how great she was doing, before turning away and opening her book. No asking how I was. No nothing.
Woah you might say, well isn't that a bit cold? And you'd be right, especially, since not a year ago - I was Ilana Lipman's newest bestie. One year ago, I sat, unemployed and in the Village Starbucks thinking about my life, when she ran up to me and started telling me about her boyfriend who really wanted to work at my brother in laws firm, and maybe I could set something up. Not a big deal, I was particularly happy to help a fellow job seeker thinking that by paying it forward Karma would come back to reward me.
You'd think after all of that - she'd have been happy to see an old friend on the St Clair West subway platform. No dice. All of this would have been fine, had I had the time to move past her on the platform. Alas, as she turned, fate interveened, the subway arrived and fearing missing the train, I got on to the same, empty car, that she did. So there we sat, across the way from each other, not talking.
Lovely. What would Mr. Rogers say?
Thursday, March 08, 2007
FST: Faux Hill Sales Tax
Generally I'm a pretty nice person. I like to buy tulips and I used to have a pet rabbit. And with the exception of a couple of months in fourth year when I certifiably went nuts (total crazy), I'm generally pretty reasonable. There are, however, certain things in this world that I have no time or patience for.
Beyond the usual suspects, such as Uggs and dogs that aren't allowed to walk on sidewalks, I also have no time for closeted celebrities and politicians. I also reserve my real wrath for the few retail establishments that are on my "bring down" list. Actually for awhile, there was only one such store I've been planning to destroy: Forest Hill Tutoring [don't even get me started on the troll woman who rips off parents by charging $55.00 an hour for tutoring and pays her high school student tutors $15.00 an hour, I've thought about unionizing them]; thankfully I have a new nemesis: Parker's Cleaners.
What pretell - has brought about this particular rage attack?
The following:
Because I'm not a particularly real person (I don't buy groceries, pay rent and sometimes I borrow twenty bones from my father to buy gin-martini's from Habitat on Queen Street) my new years resolution was to act more adult-like.
As part of this attempt to take on more responsibilities imagine how proud I was, of myself, just the other day, when I walked down into the Village to drop off a pair of pants that I needed to dryclean. Thanks for the clapping. Huge step right? I thought so.
It reached the denoument when I was chatting with my coworker about the salt stains on my new suit, facetiously joking: "Fuck, I hate winter- I don't know how the hell my father affords my dry cleaning bills." Deciding that I was bordering a bit too much on being a Faux Hillary for my own good - I marched straight from work to Parker's thinking to myself: I'm not even going to charge the cost of the pants on my father's tab, which, to be honest, was my original intention (don't judge).
I walked right up to the woman behind the counter, gave her my slip, and watched her ring up my total.
Cost: $10.33
Let me repeat: ten dollars and thirty three cents to clean a pair of wool pants from Banana Republic. Shocked, I gave her, begrudgingly, my interac card calculating other things I could do with ten bones: latte's, food, porn. Deciding that this was way too much to pay for dry cleaning, I found my inner Sima and did a little comparison shopping. The dry cleaning place by work, at Yonge and Bloor, charges $4.99 for a pair of pants. Nuff said.
Realizing that I was victimized, by what Sim Sim Sima calls, FST or Forest Hill Sales Tax, I from this day on vow to bring down the oligopoly that Parker's has. Viva la revolution.
Beyond the usual suspects, such as Uggs and dogs that aren't allowed to walk on sidewalks, I also have no time for closeted celebrities and politicians. I also reserve my real wrath for the few retail establishments that are on my "bring down" list. Actually for awhile, there was only one such store I've been planning to destroy: Forest Hill Tutoring [don't even get me started on the troll woman who rips off parents by charging $55.00 an hour for tutoring and pays her high school student tutors $15.00 an hour, I've thought about unionizing them]; thankfully I have a new nemesis: Parker's Cleaners.
What pretell - has brought about this particular rage attack?
The following:
Because I'm not a particularly real person (I don't buy groceries, pay rent and sometimes I borrow twenty bones from my father to buy gin-martini's from Habitat on Queen Street) my new years resolution was to act more adult-like.
As part of this attempt to take on more responsibilities imagine how proud I was, of myself, just the other day, when I walked down into the Village to drop off a pair of pants that I needed to dryclean. Thanks for the clapping. Huge step right? I thought so.
It reached the denoument when I was chatting with my coworker about the salt stains on my new suit, facetiously joking: "Fuck, I hate winter- I don't know how the hell my father affords my dry cleaning bills." Deciding that I was bordering a bit too much on being a Faux Hillary for my own good - I marched straight from work to Parker's thinking to myself: I'm not even going to charge the cost of the pants on my father's tab, which, to be honest, was my original intention (don't judge).
I walked right up to the woman behind the counter, gave her my slip, and watched her ring up my total.
Cost: $10.33
Let me repeat: ten dollars and thirty three cents to clean a pair of wool pants from Banana Republic. Shocked, I gave her, begrudgingly, my interac card calculating other things I could do with ten bones: latte's, food, porn. Deciding that this was way too much to pay for dry cleaning, I found my inner Sima and did a little comparison shopping. The dry cleaning place by work, at Yonge and Bloor, charges $4.99 for a pair of pants. Nuff said.
Realizing that I was victimized, by what Sim Sim Sima calls, FST or Forest Hill Sales Tax, I from this day on vow to bring down the oligopoly that Parker's has. Viva la revolution.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
My Two Villages
Hilary Rodham Clinton infamously published a book a couple of years ago entitled “It Takes a Village.” Lifted from the African proverb, “It Takes a Village to raise a child” Clinton espoused her unique vision about how to parent a gawky red head in America (loves ya Chelsea!). The Village she was talking about, I suspect was NOT Forest Hill. Here it takes one immigrant nanny to raise a child, yet an entire Village to corrupt said child into a bitchy sixteen year-old wearing $90.00 sweatpants. Sigh. [Sidenote: how much do you love the fact that Old School Roots Sweatpants are back?]
Toronto, in true Clinton esque fashion, is however city defined by its villages, neighborhoods and nabes. At the recent Toronto City Summit, the health of our neighborhoods was on par with discussions on transportation, economy and even topic du jour, the environment. In fact “Strong Neighbourhoods, Stronger Toronto Region” was one of the most dynamic and provocative session of the summit; more attendees wanted to talk about Toronto neighborhoods with Frances Laskin then those who humored Mayor Miller’s frenetic One Cent Now campaign.
In Toronto – communities and villages represent a rather simplistic, yet provocative, version of identity. Neighborhoods are instant generalized value judgments. Annex = hippie. Rosedale = WASP establishment. This list could go on and on and like any sweeping generalization there are I’m sure exceptions to the rule; that being said you can bet your Holt Renfrew Amex card that the McGregor Smith’s outnumber the Singh’s on Binscarth Avenue, Rosedale.
As a gay and Jewish man who grew up in the Faux Hill my community based identity should be pretty clear. I oscillate between two of the city’s most infamous villages: the Gay Village at Church & Wellesley is where I indulge in my love of non-kosher meat, and in the Faux Hill Village at Spadina-Lonsdale, I can wolf down a chopped egg salad sandwich from What a Bagel. Sometimes it’s hard to choose.
In funneling between these two villages I’ve realized however that I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in either. Sometimes when I go to Woody’s [That would be a gay bar for those not in know, because yes – gays love phallic gay bar names] I feel like a 14 year-old twink awkwardly venturing downtown for his first taste of homosexuals. A friend looked at me recently and said, “you really don’t like either of your identities, do you?” I stonewalled for a second before looking at him and argued, “Its not that I reject who I am,” I love being gay, and like some aspects of being Jewish, “I just reject the popular connotations of my identities.” What I meant, when I took some time to actually examine my use large, multi-syllabic words, was that I hated the public connotations of my two villages. As a happy fag and embittered Jew I don’t particularly associate or feel represented by the popular connotations of my identity groups, which in Toronto is best personified by the their respective Villages.
When I went to Puerta Vallarta over Christmas (yes - that would have been a vacation I took WITH my parents) I ended up in a hotel about a stones throw away from the Puerta Vallarta gay village. Same rainbow flags, same sex shop, phallic based bar names – and same sense of not belonging. I don’t particularly like the popularized image of the gay village for some reason – perhaps best represented by an inverse graph to the number of times I’ve been asked to “join me and my boyfriend for some hot three way action.” I’m more of a love the dick, hate the Village kinda guy. As if to exacerbate my views on gay villages, one relatively infamous Canadian fag I know had this to say about PV, “I can’t believe you went there with your folks – there are so many men there; Martin [boyfriend of ten years] really loves the Latin men.” Did you just vomit in your mouth, because I did. And as for the other village in my life – Faux Hill, my distaste with these parts has an entire blog devoted to its Lululemon clad ass so really nothing more to say there.
Too often I get accused of some form of self loathe. Gay friends accuse me of being a bad gay, Jews accuse me of being a self-loathing Philip Roth lite; and maybe they’re all correct in their assumption. Maybe I should accept who I am and get myself a nice set of Burberry earmuffs. Don’t worry – I’m not going to. I realize the problem though: at base we all love to belong. We all love to be amongst peers who we recognize and who we can borrow from a Coach purse now and again. For example, there is even a group for people ‘like myself’, Jewish-Fags, which attempts to bridge the cultural gap between uptown middle class Judaism and downtown hardcore faggotry. One could argue even that the success of Toronto is inherently tied to its Village structure and the sense of belonging it imbues. Residents feel an intense sort of pride in the common sense of identity that their neighborhood provides.
The bigger problem though beyond this sense of belonging, or in my case, lack there of is that the Village creates a sort of identity that sometimes is often more stereotypical then real. I.E. all gay men aren’t obnoxious pigs, no matter how many times the bisexual tells me that over the phone [that is called self-loathe sweetie] and no matter how many times I leave a gay bar shaking my head in revulsion. And not all Village residents are Faux Hillary’s – remember Bold doesn’t own anything from Tiffany’s.
My friend Kitty often introduces me as Jewish Jon to her friends. When I came out we discussed adding the additional adjective before deciding that one derogatory nickname was enough. The rather intelligent joke of course is that by calling me Jewish Jon, she was in fact making fun of that particularly stereotype, that Village mentality if you will, wherein cultural identity is trump. And more then that, cultural identity is a broad stereotype that everyone gets. “Oh you’re Jewish?” Her friends would say. “I love latke’s! I love hanging out in the Forest Hill Village!” Jewish Jon was a motif for the fact that for the most part the people that we associate with are happy to loudly and proudly declare their minority status. I’m gay! I’m Jewish! I’m Asian! I blame the whole multi-cultural mosaic concept; either way, welcome to Village Pride baby.
Ghettoization has never been so vogue.
Toronto, in true Clinton esque fashion, is however city defined by its villages, neighborhoods and nabes. At the recent Toronto City Summit, the health of our neighborhoods was on par with discussions on transportation, economy and even topic du jour, the environment. In fact “Strong Neighbourhoods, Stronger Toronto Region” was one of the most dynamic and provocative session of the summit; more attendees wanted to talk about Toronto neighborhoods with Frances Laskin then those who humored Mayor Miller’s frenetic One Cent Now campaign.
In Toronto – communities and villages represent a rather simplistic, yet provocative, version of identity. Neighborhoods are instant generalized value judgments. Annex = hippie. Rosedale = WASP establishment. This list could go on and on and like any sweeping generalization there are I’m sure exceptions to the rule; that being said you can bet your Holt Renfrew Amex card that the McGregor Smith’s outnumber the Singh’s on Binscarth Avenue, Rosedale.
As a gay and Jewish man who grew up in the Faux Hill my community based identity should be pretty clear. I oscillate between two of the city’s most infamous villages: the Gay Village at Church & Wellesley is where I indulge in my love of non-kosher meat, and in the Faux Hill Village at Spadina-Lonsdale, I can wolf down a chopped egg salad sandwich from What a Bagel. Sometimes it’s hard to choose.
In funneling between these two villages I’ve realized however that I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in either. Sometimes when I go to Woody’s [That would be a gay bar for those not in know, because yes – gays love phallic gay bar names] I feel like a 14 year-old twink awkwardly venturing downtown for his first taste of homosexuals. A friend looked at me recently and said, “you really don’t like either of your identities, do you?” I stonewalled for a second before looking at him and argued, “Its not that I reject who I am,” I love being gay, and like some aspects of being Jewish, “I just reject the popular connotations of my identities.” What I meant, when I took some time to actually examine my use large, multi-syllabic words, was that I hated the public connotations of my two villages. As a happy fag and embittered Jew I don’t particularly associate or feel represented by the popular connotations of my identity groups, which in Toronto is best personified by the their respective Villages.
When I went to Puerta Vallarta over Christmas (yes - that would have been a vacation I took WITH my parents) I ended up in a hotel about a stones throw away from the Puerta Vallarta gay village. Same rainbow flags, same sex shop, phallic based bar names – and same sense of not belonging. I don’t particularly like the popularized image of the gay village for some reason – perhaps best represented by an inverse graph to the number of times I’ve been asked to “join me and my boyfriend for some hot three way action.” I’m more of a love the dick, hate the Village kinda guy. As if to exacerbate my views on gay villages, one relatively infamous Canadian fag I know had this to say about PV, “I can’t believe you went there with your folks – there are so many men there; Martin [boyfriend of ten years] really loves the Latin men.” Did you just vomit in your mouth, because I did. And as for the other village in my life – Faux Hill, my distaste with these parts has an entire blog devoted to its Lululemon clad ass so really nothing more to say there.
Too often I get accused of some form of self loathe. Gay friends accuse me of being a bad gay, Jews accuse me of being a self-loathing Philip Roth lite; and maybe they’re all correct in their assumption. Maybe I should accept who I am and get myself a nice set of Burberry earmuffs. Don’t worry – I’m not going to. I realize the problem though: at base we all love to belong. We all love to be amongst peers who we recognize and who we can borrow from a Coach purse now and again. For example, there is even a group for people ‘like myself’, Jewish-Fags, which attempts to bridge the cultural gap between uptown middle class Judaism and downtown hardcore faggotry. One could argue even that the success of Toronto is inherently tied to its Village structure and the sense of belonging it imbues. Residents feel an intense sort of pride in the common sense of identity that their neighborhood provides.
The bigger problem though beyond this sense of belonging, or in my case, lack there of is that the Village creates a sort of identity that sometimes is often more stereotypical then real. I.E. all gay men aren’t obnoxious pigs, no matter how many times the bisexual tells me that over the phone [that is called self-loathe sweetie] and no matter how many times I leave a gay bar shaking my head in revulsion. And not all Village residents are Faux Hillary’s – remember Bold doesn’t own anything from Tiffany’s.
My friend Kitty often introduces me as Jewish Jon to her friends. When I came out we discussed adding the additional adjective before deciding that one derogatory nickname was enough. The rather intelligent joke of course is that by calling me Jewish Jon, she was in fact making fun of that particularly stereotype, that Village mentality if you will, wherein cultural identity is trump. And more then that, cultural identity is a broad stereotype that everyone gets. “Oh you’re Jewish?” Her friends would say. “I love latke’s! I love hanging out in the Forest Hill Village!” Jewish Jon was a motif for the fact that for the most part the people that we associate with are happy to loudly and proudly declare their minority status. I’m gay! I’m Jewish! I’m Asian! I blame the whole multi-cultural mosaic concept; either way, welcome to Village Pride baby.
Ghettoization has never been so vogue.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Bard of the Village - Fifth Times a Charm
Perfect gift for your
ten year old daughter: braces
and a gucci purse.
ten year old daughter: braces
and a gucci purse.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Fajitas
Things have gone from good to worse over at the Two-Fer.
My parents, god blessim, have long since entertained the idea of moving to Mexico. They have a dream of being served margharita's by someone named Lupita as they ride off into the sunset of their lives. Papa Len has even started taking Spanish lessons; so far, he's mastered "Una Cerveza per favor." As a result of the pending move down Mexico way - Sim Sim Sima has become obsessive about packing. Moving is frightening because leaving Faux Hill is tantamount to suicide. To quote, pre anti-Semitic Mel GIbson, in his Oscar winning movie, Braveheart - "They may take my classic centre-hall mansion, but they may never take my right to sit on the Starbucks patio!"
Sim Sim Sima has subsequently taken it upon herself to get rid of most things in our basement. WWSD right? Well what would Sima do? I can tell you that she'd sell the crap in your basement instead of giving it to charity. That's what she would do and that's what she's currently doing. Profit darling.
Well imagine reading the Saturday Globe and Mail, trying to get angry about Leah Mclaren's narcissism, and having your mother shove a silver serving platter in your face: "do you ever think you'll want this?" Having neither apartment nor home I can't imagine needing sterling silver crockery. Besides... perhaps Liam, my future husband, will come with his own monogrammed set of dishes, right? WASP gentry has shit like that, non? Bottom line: the consistent talk of moving, coupled with people shoving serving platters into my face, has put me a little on edge.
Tensions reached their denoument over dinner - when the family decamped to partake in some supper at the Hope Street Diner - right at the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. [First, dearest readers - a tip - there is a plethora of hot men serving tables at the Hope Street Diner. One looks like Wentworth Miller. Go. Go now.]
So, Sim Sim Sima opens up the menu, takes a glance and says this:
"Oh, Faux Hillary, they' have Fajita's." She said, pronouncing the j, as in Fa-gee-tas.
"Ah yes, Fahitas - the national cuisine of Mexico. Perhaps you've heard of the country, just south of America. Oh wait - I believe you were planning on moving there."
I guess it makes sense though - Faux Hill, is one of the least multi-cultural nabes in the city. Sure the Village may have two Italian Resto's, but that's pretty much it for ethnicity. Other then Sotto Sotto and Banfi it's Mangia Cake city coupled with a sushi place - which doesn't really count; it's the harajuku girl of the intersection. So don't blame Sim Sim Sima for not knowing how to pronounce Fajita's - we don't really do ethnic in the Village. Starbucks anyone?
My parents, god blessim, have long since entertained the idea of moving to Mexico. They have a dream of being served margharita's by someone named Lupita as they ride off into the sunset of their lives. Papa Len has even started taking Spanish lessons; so far, he's mastered "Una Cerveza per favor." As a result of the pending move down Mexico way - Sim Sim Sima has become obsessive about packing. Moving is frightening because leaving Faux Hill is tantamount to suicide. To quote, pre anti-Semitic Mel GIbson, in his Oscar winning movie, Braveheart - "They may take my classic centre-hall mansion, but they may never take my right to sit on the Starbucks patio!"
Sim Sim Sima has subsequently taken it upon herself to get rid of most things in our basement. WWSD right? Well what would Sima do? I can tell you that she'd sell the crap in your basement instead of giving it to charity. That's what she would do and that's what she's currently doing. Profit darling.
Well imagine reading the Saturday Globe and Mail, trying to get angry about Leah Mclaren's narcissism, and having your mother shove a silver serving platter in your face: "do you ever think you'll want this?" Having neither apartment nor home I can't imagine needing sterling silver crockery. Besides... perhaps Liam, my future husband, will come with his own monogrammed set of dishes, right? WASP gentry has shit like that, non? Bottom line: the consistent talk of moving, coupled with people shoving serving platters into my face, has put me a little on edge.
Tensions reached their denoument over dinner - when the family decamped to partake in some supper at the Hope Street Diner - right at the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. [First, dearest readers - a tip - there is a plethora of hot men serving tables at the Hope Street Diner. One looks like Wentworth Miller. Go. Go now.]
So, Sim Sim Sima opens up the menu, takes a glance and says this:
"Oh, Faux Hillary, they' have Fajita's." She said, pronouncing the j, as in Fa-gee-tas.
"Ah yes, Fahitas - the national cuisine of Mexico. Perhaps you've heard of the country, just south of America. Oh wait - I believe you were planning on moving there."
I guess it makes sense though - Faux Hill, is one of the least multi-cultural nabes in the city. Sure the Village may have two Italian Resto's, but that's pretty much it for ethnicity. Other then Sotto Sotto and Banfi it's Mangia Cake city coupled with a sushi place - which doesn't really count; it's the harajuku girl of the intersection. So don't blame Sim Sim Sima for not knowing how to pronounce Fajita's - we don't really do ethnic in the Village. Starbucks anyone?
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
S.O.S. - Save Our St Clair
I recently had the pleasure of having dinner with our family friends - the Whiterock's. The Whiterock's used to live near the Two-Fer until they moved to the other [ie the wealthier] side of Faux Hill, to the east side of the Village's dividing line - Spadna Road. The Whiterock's are typical Faux Hillary's, so gotta love em. They have an art collection valued at a couple of million dollars (some of it is total crap though... beauty in the eye of the beholder, blah blah blah), and Mr Whiterock drives a vintage 1960's Mercedes 300SL convertable (ya this fag knows about cars). I always enjoy dinner chez Whiterock because a) Mrs. Whiterock is a fine cook, she makes a mean ratatouille, and b) the conversation, which for the most part, borders on the offensive and judgemental. Just my specialty. Also the Whiterock's have 5000 bottles in their wine cellar so I generally I can get blato pretty easily on expensive red wine, and walk home drunk. WHEE!!!
So this time around - we had ten Faux Hillary's gathered around the dining room table, pleasnatly being served by the Maybe Gaybe butler (not that anyone would ever mention cock sucking at the dinner table). At some point conversation veered to something we all had intimate knowledge of. Stocks? Bonds? Racial degradation of Philipino house workers? Nope. Why - Public Transit of course (note my sarcasm). Apparently an elder member of the family had had a rude interaction with a TTC driver and was just completely turned off the not so better way.
"You're quite right," agreed Mr. Whiterock with his great aunt. "I also had a rude bus driver the other day." At this I almost spit up my French Bourdeaux all over the Frette Linen table cloth.
"When was the last time you took the bus?" I asked.
"I take the buss all the time." He answered. This was a bold-faced lie, because Mr Whiterock does not take the bus. Mr Whiterock has probably never taken a bus in his life - Whiterock grew up with my father in Montreal and was given a red sportscar when he was 16. Please. Don't bullshit a bullshitter.
Anyways conversation shifted from the bus, how plebian, to the St Clair Streetcar Reconstruction. The St Clair Streetcar is a construction project on the south end of the Faux, on - St Clair Ave. I won't bore anyone with details but blah blah blah it has caused a lot of construction and discussion amongst neighbourhood residents. The rich people don't like construction because it interferes with their lifestyle. Subsequently no one at the Whiterock's was a fan of the construction project. The noise! The cement harms their SUV's! It interferes with their driving routes! Everyone universally demeaned the project which will eventually provide reliable and faster streetcar service to thousands of communters a day, communters who happen to not live in Faux Hill, but travel through the Village to get to the subway. Not that any of this is of any consequence to those sitting around the table last week. No one at the Whiterock's actually takes the streetcar. I mean - how does one schlep 500 wine bottles on a streetcar? Oh you can't. Right.
So this time around - we had ten Faux Hillary's gathered around the dining room table, pleasnatly being served by the Maybe Gaybe butler (not that anyone would ever mention cock sucking at the dinner table). At some point conversation veered to something we all had intimate knowledge of. Stocks? Bonds? Racial degradation of Philipino house workers? Nope. Why - Public Transit of course (note my sarcasm). Apparently an elder member of the family had had a rude interaction with a TTC driver and was just completely turned off the not so better way.
"You're quite right," agreed Mr. Whiterock with his great aunt. "I also had a rude bus driver the other day." At this I almost spit up my French Bourdeaux all over the Frette Linen table cloth.
"When was the last time you took the bus?" I asked.
"I take the buss all the time." He answered. This was a bold-faced lie, because Mr Whiterock does not take the bus. Mr Whiterock has probably never taken a bus in his life - Whiterock grew up with my father in Montreal and was given a red sportscar when he was 16. Please. Don't bullshit a bullshitter.
Anyways conversation shifted from the bus, how plebian, to the St Clair Streetcar Reconstruction. The St Clair Streetcar is a construction project on the south end of the Faux, on - St Clair Ave. I won't bore anyone with details but blah blah blah it has caused a lot of construction and discussion amongst neighbourhood residents. The rich people don't like construction because it interferes with their lifestyle. Subsequently no one at the Whiterock's was a fan of the construction project. The noise! The cement harms their SUV's! It interferes with their driving routes! Everyone universally demeaned the project which will eventually provide reliable and faster streetcar service to thousands of communters a day, communters who happen to not live in Faux Hill, but travel through the Village to get to the subway. Not that any of this is of any consequence to those sitting around the table last week. No one at the Whiterock's actually takes the streetcar. I mean - how does one schlep 500 wine bottles on a streetcar? Oh you can't. Right.
Friday, January 26, 2007
All Politics is Local
Talk to any old political hack, and being employed by a politician, I talk to many, all will tell you that at the end of the day there is one truism in politics - all politics is local. The veracity of such an outlandish generalization was indeed proven to be true when I became a good friend with the infamous New Brunswick Moose Lady while working on a [National] political campaign. The Moose Lady's political endorsement was to be given to the politico who supported her bid to fence in the New Brunswick highway system [shout out to my peeps Cathy "moose lady" McCollum, what up sistah?!]. Foreign policy? She didn’t really care. Quebec as a nation? Even less interest… Mention the moose campaign to the participants of the 9:30 spin class at the Village Fitness and the most likely reply would be: "Moose? You're talking about the yoga pose right?" Uhm… sure.
Every so often the Globe and Mail and Toronto Star, the two major papers of note in this berg, devote a fair bit of coverage to the city's homeless problem. Following said expose [perhaps Jan Wong embedded as a panhandler at King and Bay? Royson James squatting underneath the Gardiner!?] the chattering classes will click their tongues at dinner party's, Margaret Wente will write a column about how she couldn't care less about the homeless because as a Baby Boomer blah blah blah, and some local celebrity, perhaps the wife of a prominent business person, will show up at a soup kitchen and lend her name to a new save the homeless mission. WHEE!!
In the long-term no one gives two shits and the city's homeless problem becomes an endemic feature to the downtown landscape, because the people with political clout in Toronto live in the Faux and or RosedAle. There are no homeless people in these two affluent neighborhoods - they are on the fringe of the downtown and as such exist as manicured bubbles cut off from the urban environment, isolated from the social woes South of Bloor.
For the first time in my memory, however, I have noticed a [disturbing] trend. There are now two panhandlers who sit on opposite sides of Spadina and Lonsdale asking passerby’s for spare change. The juxtaposition between the morning spin classes at the Village Fitness, where one can hear shouts of: "give it one more shot ladies, push it harder!" interspersed with Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous, and a the cries of a panhandler, "spare some change" is jarring. So jarring that I've seen a couple of people spill some non-fat latte on their lulu's.
The first morning I noticed the newest Faux Hillary's, my preliminary and honest reaction, was: "homeless people? in the Village? how disturbing". But why disturbing? Disturbing because there are homeless people in general, or disturbing because there are homeless people in my pristine hamlet of society. Truthfully, I'll admit it was the latter. I’m pretty awful.
If all politics is local - and I venture to say it is - then looks like we're bound for the next round of homelessness exposes [someone get me Christie Blatchford please]. With both the editor in chief of the Globe and Mail and Andrew Coyne, National Post columnist, frequent fliers at the village Starbucks, the two panhandlers in the Village may prove to have the biggest impact on the collective conscious of this city, after all homeless people don’t raise property values.
Every so often the Globe and Mail and Toronto Star, the two major papers of note in this berg, devote a fair bit of coverage to the city's homeless problem. Following said expose [perhaps Jan Wong embedded as a panhandler at King and Bay? Royson James squatting underneath the Gardiner!?] the chattering classes will click their tongues at dinner party's, Margaret Wente will write a column about how she couldn't care less about the homeless because as a Baby Boomer blah blah blah, and some local celebrity, perhaps the wife of a prominent business person, will show up at a soup kitchen and lend her name to a new save the homeless mission. WHEE!!
In the long-term no one gives two shits and the city's homeless problem becomes an endemic feature to the downtown landscape, because the people with political clout in Toronto live in the Faux and or RosedAle. There are no homeless people in these two affluent neighborhoods - they are on the fringe of the downtown and as such exist as manicured bubbles cut off from the urban environment, isolated from the social woes South of Bloor.
For the first time in my memory, however, I have noticed a [disturbing] trend. There are now two panhandlers who sit on opposite sides of Spadina and Lonsdale asking passerby’s for spare change. The juxtaposition between the morning spin classes at the Village Fitness, where one can hear shouts of: "give it one more shot ladies, push it harder!" interspersed with Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous, and a the cries of a panhandler, "spare some change" is jarring. So jarring that I've seen a couple of people spill some non-fat latte on their lulu's.
The first morning I noticed the newest Faux Hillary's, my preliminary and honest reaction, was: "homeless people? in the Village? how disturbing". But why disturbing? Disturbing because there are homeless people in general, or disturbing because there are homeless people in my pristine hamlet of society. Truthfully, I'll admit it was the latter. I’m pretty awful.
If all politics is local - and I venture to say it is - then looks like we're bound for the next round of homelessness exposes [someone get me Christie Blatchford please]. With both the editor in chief of the Globe and Mail and Andrew Coyne, National Post columnist, frequent fliers at the village Starbucks, the two panhandlers in the Village may prove to have the biggest impact on the collective conscious of this city, after all homeless people don’t raise property values.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Living the Dream
A young boy growing up in the Faux has two options in life: Doctah, or Lawyah. I am neither. Not only that but I have sex with men. I'm my own walking and talking shunda [ scandal]. I've managed to not go back to school for almost two years now, and family friends are starting to talk, "Nu... so when are you going to school law school?" Lord knows I'm not a doctah like Bold. The fact that a person can be succesful without a law degree doesn't really dawn on the clucking masses of botoxed beauties, who see the world in black and white (or Gucci versus Louis). One family friend caught me running out the door to a meeting and asked when I was going back to school; not 'if' mind you, but when! "You're going to law school eventually, right?" She asked. When I said No, she looked ashen, near tears and probably thought about how best to consol my mother. [Did I mention the gay sex thing? Sim Sim Sima's got bigger worries then me going to law school; I can tell you, she's giving herself ten years to process the eventuality of me introducing her to her cambodian granddaughter, then we'll talk consoling her, ok?]. Law school and a Faux Hill centre hall home is essentially the local version of the American dream.
For me, however, not so much. As such my job in politics - the one that I really like and doesn't involve lawyering or doctoring- has, however, recently provided me with the last laugh. The Chief Financial Officer of my campaign is a partner in a large downtown law firm. The campaign office closed down recently due to campaign transition but I've been given a nice office at the CFO's firm in order to finish up campaign related business. So I'm now faking it. Every day I wake up, subway downtown, sit in the office, stare out my window and wait for my thank you letters to print. When I'm bored I walk through the hallways nod at my "fellow" staff, wink at the receptionist and make a latte at the firm's esperesso machine. Living the dream, sans law degree and also paying law school tuition. WWSD indeed.
For me, however, not so much. As such my job in politics - the one that I really like and doesn't involve lawyering or doctoring- has, however, recently provided me with the last laugh. The Chief Financial Officer of my campaign is a partner in a large downtown law firm. The campaign office closed down recently due to campaign transition but I've been given a nice office at the CFO's firm in order to finish up campaign related business. So I'm now faking it. Every day I wake up, subway downtown, sit in the office, stare out my window and wait for my thank you letters to print. When I'm bored I walk through the hallways nod at my "fellow" staff, wink at the receptionist and make a latte at the firm's esperesso machine. Living the dream, sans law degree and also paying law school tuition. WWSD indeed.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
It's Because I'm Jewish. Jewish and Gay.
One of my best friends, El Huerd, has decided to take up squash. I got a bit excited as well... I happen to play a bit of squash.
"Are you any good?" He asked over the phone. "We can't play if you're very good. You'll beat me."
"El Huerd," I said, "I'm jewish and gay... what do you expect?"
Unfortunately I rarely play squash, for both of the above reasons, but also because I don't have access to a court. Brynnah, however, was in from New York and she is a member at the very tony Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club (established 1876). It's an old boys Toronto club. Read WASP. I love when Brynnah takes me there because I feel like establishment Toronto and because I'm hoping to meet my gaygetz there. In theory I picture something like this happening:
~
Int - Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club Bar
In walks Faux Hillary. He is sweaty from a game of squash. He orders a post-game drink, sits at the bar, and turns face-to-face with Caleb, a blue-eyed scion of Toronto society.
Caleb
Quite the game you've got. You really know how to handle a ball.
F.H.
Well then you should see me work my wonders on a raquet.
~
The wedding would be a tasteful affair in one of the adjoining Toronto Lawn banquet rooms, overlooking the squash court. Perfect no?
Early last week Brynnah and I arrived at the Toronto Lawn and started warming up. About one point into our game someone knocked on the glass door. Success I thought! I've been noticed already. It was the squash pro. Hot.
"You can't wear grey shorts in here. All squash players must wear all white."
"Mine were dirty." I lied. I don't own white shorts, because Sim Sim Sima always argued that white shorts were impractical. Which they are. You think we have a maid to do our laundry? What do you think we are rich?
"You'll have to wear the loner shorts, or we'll have to ask you to leave." The pro stayed in the doorway, pointing to the reception desk, watching and waiting.
And so... as I walked back to the court, wearing a pair of shorts tagged with the word: Loner (aka loser) I thought, part jokingly, part seriously - "it's like they knew I was Jewish. Jewish and gay."
"Are you any good?" He asked over the phone. "We can't play if you're very good. You'll beat me."
"El Huerd," I said, "I'm jewish and gay... what do you expect?"
Unfortunately I rarely play squash, for both of the above reasons, but also because I don't have access to a court. Brynnah, however, was in from New York and she is a member at the very tony Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club (established 1876). It's an old boys Toronto club. Read WASP. I love when Brynnah takes me there because I feel like establishment Toronto and because I'm hoping to meet my gaygetz there. In theory I picture something like this happening:
~
Int - Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club Bar
In walks Faux Hillary. He is sweaty from a game of squash. He orders a post-game drink, sits at the bar, and turns face-to-face with Caleb, a blue-eyed scion of Toronto society.
Caleb
Quite the game you've got. You really know how to handle a ball.
F.H.
Well then you should see me work my wonders on a raquet.
~
The wedding would be a tasteful affair in one of the adjoining Toronto Lawn banquet rooms, overlooking the squash court. Perfect no?
Early last week Brynnah and I arrived at the Toronto Lawn and started warming up. About one point into our game someone knocked on the glass door. Success I thought! I've been noticed already. It was the squash pro. Hot.
"You can't wear grey shorts in here. All squash players must wear all white."
"Mine were dirty." I lied. I don't own white shorts, because Sim Sim Sima always argued that white shorts were impractical. Which they are. You think we have a maid to do our laundry? What do you think we are rich?
"You'll have to wear the loner shorts, or we'll have to ask you to leave." The pro stayed in the doorway, pointing to the reception desk, watching and waiting.
And so... as I walked back to the court, wearing a pair of shorts tagged with the word: Loner (aka loser) I thought, part jokingly, part seriously - "it's like they knew I was Jewish. Jewish and gay."
"What is this? The corner of Spadina and Lonsdale?"
I've often tried to paint a portrait of the Village. I hope its been a vivid one. As I've said before the Village it is really constructed of one intersection - the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale. Spaddin and Lonsdale, as the centre of the village, is like the Portage and Main of the Faux Hill; it is the place where Philipino nannies would go riot, the place where a spontaneous show of affection for Lululemon may occur, if the men and women of the Faux weren't so concerned about rising house prices. [ "Did you see what that hole sold for on Vesta? 1.2."]
The corner is also where the youts of the neighbourhood go to hang out. On a typical Friday or Saturday night the benches outside of Royal Bank see more action then Paris Hilton (so sue me if that was an easy joke...). The action isn't really relegated to a particular restaurant or bar or even a coffee shop - people simply stand on the corner, clicking away at their cell phones and shouting at friends and foes across the street.
Anyway, I found myself down in Puerto Vallarta for a week trying to escape my life - while reconnecting, in a big, big way, with Sim Sim Sima and Len. Bold stayed home. [Here's a piece of advice: you wanna escape gay men and jews, don't go to Puerto Vallarta.] Luckily a good friend of mine from high school was also there with her parents and we were each other's sanctuary for the week. A couple of nights her younger sister (who was completely schooled in the Village and thus knows everyone) dragged us out to this tiny hole in the wall bar. Shockingly as I looked around, damn near blinded by copious amounts of Tiffany Jewellery, I realized that the place was mobbed with the denizens of the Faux and York Mills. I hadn't seen that many Jews in one place since my bar-mitzvah. It was the type of seen where boys I went to elementary school climbed outta the wood work. After about an hour of watching people stand around and shout across the street at each other I asked if we were actually going to move to a bar; "why would we do that?" Was the reply.
So I looked around, realized I was spending my night on a street corner, and thought, "what is this? The corner of Spadina and Lonsdale?"
The corner is also where the youts of the neighbourhood go to hang out. On a typical Friday or Saturday night the benches outside of Royal Bank see more action then Paris Hilton (so sue me if that was an easy joke...). The action isn't really relegated to a particular restaurant or bar or even a coffee shop - people simply stand on the corner, clicking away at their cell phones and shouting at friends and foes across the street.
Anyway, I found myself down in Puerto Vallarta for a week trying to escape my life - while reconnecting, in a big, big way, with Sim Sim Sima and Len. Bold stayed home. [Here's a piece of advice: you wanna escape gay men and jews, don't go to Puerto Vallarta.] Luckily a good friend of mine from high school was also there with her parents and we were each other's sanctuary for the week. A couple of nights her younger sister (who was completely schooled in the Village and thus knows everyone) dragged us out to this tiny hole in the wall bar. Shockingly as I looked around, damn near blinded by copious amounts of Tiffany Jewellery, I realized that the place was mobbed with the denizens of the Faux and York Mills. I hadn't seen that many Jews in one place since my bar-mitzvah. It was the type of seen where boys I went to elementary school climbed outta the wood work. After about an hour of watching people stand around and shout across the street at each other I asked if we were actually going to move to a bar; "why would we do that?" Was the reply.
So I looked around, realized I was spending my night on a street corner, and thought, "what is this? The corner of Spadina and Lonsdale?"
Monday, December 11, 2006
Talk of the Town
Amazingly after not posting for a whole month I'm coming back with such a duzie of a tale that it may have entered itself into Faux Hill Folklore.
Imagine - a European scion of society engaged to a local heiress, what more could the Faux ask for before annointing our very own Charles and Diana, or at least are very own TomKat?
The wedding - attended by over 600 hundred of the city's wealthiest at one of the loveliest halls in the city. Dancing ended at 3:00 am, only to be followed by an anulment at 5:00 am, the next day. This, my friends, is the definition of gossip. Such gossip, such a guilty pleasure, has rendered almost every Faux Hillary near speechless. For once - the proverbial cat - does have everyone's tongue. Even those who wouldn't be caught dead speaking about their neighbours have become so fascinated by the demise of this couple that it literaly is the talk of the town. Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima protestant with her work ethic (she's from New England remember) have themselves bought into this rather sordided tale. The type of tale that you feel awful about repeating but at the same time is just too good to not stop talking about.
Here's what we do know: She - a retail heiress and He - of European stock (both in heritage, breeding and finances) have been together for awhile, cohabitating over the past 8 months in a shared condo. The families never got along; while her family isn't exactly counting their shekels their wealth pales in comparison to his.
Apparently both families got into a large-scale tiff the night before the wedding. Some say this led to the split post nuptuals; however, reports at the scene describe the wedding kiss as "one of the longest" they had ever seen. Between the hours of 3:00 am and 5:00 am, something happened. Again speculation seems to think that with the marriage annuled and not consumated any financial renumeration would not be an issue - annulment nulls and voids whatever pre-nup was signed. What we do know is that the morning after brunch was cancelled by the lawyers of both parties who spent hours calling guests advising them to make their own eggs benedict.
At this point plebes are simply left to speculate and speculate is what Lululemon wearers do best. It's the same type of speculation that occures amongst women of a certain age when discussing whose face has been plumped with restalyne, doesn't really matter if they're right or wrong, the fact that the discussion is occuring is of much larger consequence.
Imagine - a European scion of society engaged to a local heiress, what more could the Faux ask for before annointing our very own Charles and Diana, or at least are very own TomKat?
The wedding - attended by over 600 hundred of the city's wealthiest at one of the loveliest halls in the city. Dancing ended at 3:00 am, only to be followed by an anulment at 5:00 am, the next day. This, my friends, is the definition of gossip. Such gossip, such a guilty pleasure, has rendered almost every Faux Hillary near speechless. For once - the proverbial cat - does have everyone's tongue. Even those who wouldn't be caught dead speaking about their neighbours have become so fascinated by the demise of this couple that it literaly is the talk of the town. Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima protestant with her work ethic (she's from New England remember) have themselves bought into this rather sordided tale. The type of tale that you feel awful about repeating but at the same time is just too good to not stop talking about.
Here's what we do know: She - a retail heiress and He - of European stock (both in heritage, breeding and finances) have been together for awhile, cohabitating over the past 8 months in a shared condo. The families never got along; while her family isn't exactly counting their shekels their wealth pales in comparison to his.
Apparently both families got into a large-scale tiff the night before the wedding. Some say this led to the split post nuptuals; however, reports at the scene describe the wedding kiss as "one of the longest" they had ever seen. Between the hours of 3:00 am and 5:00 am, something happened. Again speculation seems to think that with the marriage annuled and not consumated any financial renumeration would not be an issue - annulment nulls and voids whatever pre-nup was signed. What we do know is that the morning after brunch was cancelled by the lawyers of both parties who spent hours calling guests advising them to make their own eggs benedict.
At this point plebes are simply left to speculate and speculate is what Lululemon wearers do best. It's the same type of speculation that occures amongst women of a certain age when discussing whose face has been plumped with restalyne, doesn't really matter if they're right or wrong, the fact that the discussion is occuring is of much larger consequence.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
"Stars! They're Just Like Us"
My favourite section of celeb magazine juggernaut US Weekly is "Stars! They're Just Like Us". It's the section wherein celebrities are photographed doing everyday things including shopping at Whole Foods, pumping gas and picking they're wedgies! It's all very pedestrian, mass-market Americana, melting pot - GO! America! - type of thing. It's the type of image which, at base, is what America does best, giving hope to the starving, homeless, medicare-less masses: you too can one day be photographed pumping gas (pumping gas into a Bently more like-it).
As I was walking to work (!) through the Faux the other day, I couldn't happen but notice Ted Rogers flitting about his garage. In one hand a litter tray, in the other a garbage bag. As I stealthily watched him dump the litter into the garbage bag I couldn't help but think - "Faux Hillary's! They're Just Like Us!" Rogers is after all, one of the richest men in Canada - yet apparently he has the time to deal with his cats crap.
Of course the bigger question is perhaps examining the cultural differences between scions of American society versus Canadian ones. I would never expect Gloria Vanderbilt to cut an apple let alone clean up after her cat. And don't even get me started on her wayward son Anderson Cooper. Down in America they've got illegal immigrants for that shit. Celebrities may give hope to the American masses, but never assume that celebrities are American Royalty. America is all about the illusion of hope y'all [sic]; and NOT about the actuality of it. J. Lo may be spotted pumping her own gas, but she I'm still fooled by the rocks that she's got if you get my drift.
Anyways I've been invited to a BYOBlow Party [in the Faux] for Halloween, tales from the front next week.
As I was walking to work (!) through the Faux the other day, I couldn't happen but notice Ted Rogers flitting about his garage. In one hand a litter tray, in the other a garbage bag. As I stealthily watched him dump the litter into the garbage bag I couldn't help but think - "Faux Hillary's! They're Just Like Us!" Rogers is after all, one of the richest men in Canada - yet apparently he has the time to deal with his cats crap.
Of course the bigger question is perhaps examining the cultural differences between scions of American society versus Canadian ones. I would never expect Gloria Vanderbilt to cut an apple let alone clean up after her cat. And don't even get me started on her wayward son Anderson Cooper. Down in America they've got illegal immigrants for that shit. Celebrities may give hope to the American masses, but never assume that celebrities are American Royalty. America is all about the illusion of hope y'all [sic]; and NOT about the actuality of it. J. Lo may be spotted pumping her own gas, but she I'm still fooled by the rocks that she's got if you get my drift.
Anyways I've been invited to a BYOBlow Party [in the Faux] for Halloween, tales from the front next week.
Friday, October 13, 2006
LOL: Love Over Lonsdale
I've said it before and I'll say it again: the Faux is a bubble in which to promote mono-cultural fraternization. Choosing to live here is all about keeping it all in the family - or for the Yiddish inclined: Mishpacha. See my ramblings about wanting a Shaygetz many moons ago...
Picture this:
INT - Beth Jacob Synagogue - Evening
The Engagement Partyof Jordana Shapiro and Mark Shefman
Jordana:
I first saw Mark at the Village Freeze. It was love at first site over a lick of a chocolate/vanilla fat free swirl.
Mark:
I saw her in her uggs and I just knew. Jordana was THE one. She is my MASHIACH.
This occurs amongst the help as well. Witness the EXTREMELY close relationships some of the philipino nannies have with each other. It's a bit odd don't you think? Have you ever seen a male philipino nanny? Where are the men?
I grabbed a drink last night with my Village Informant, Upper Canada Old Boy... and server at Village hot spot David's. As per usual Holt and I discussed the latest in Faux Hill Hillarity. It seems as if the current buzz 'round the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale is love amongst the hired help of the Faux - the Village employees.
So what's the only problem with waiters schtuping other waiters? The Village class system is kept in place - Joshua Greenbaum is left to date Miriam Stern without being tempted by the Shiksa waitresses at EdoKo who are dating the hot stock boys at the kitchen table. However, what happens when one of said waiters works at an established Village mainstay, while the other works at the young upstart around the corner?
Picture this:
INT - Beth Jacob Synagogue - Evening
The Engagement Partyof Jordana Shapiro and Mark Shefman
Jordana:
I first saw Mark at the Village Freeze. It was love at first site over a lick of a chocolate/vanilla fat free swirl.
Mark:
I saw her in her uggs and I just knew. Jordana was THE one. She is my MASHIACH.
This occurs amongst the help as well. Witness the EXTREMELY close relationships some of the philipino nannies have with each other. It's a bit odd don't you think? Have you ever seen a male philipino nanny? Where are the men?
I grabbed a drink last night with my Village Informant, Upper Canada Old Boy... and server at Village hot spot David's. As per usual Holt and I discussed the latest in Faux Hill Hillarity. It seems as if the current buzz 'round the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale is love amongst the hired help of the Faux - the Village employees.
So what's the only problem with waiters schtuping other waiters? The Village class system is kept in place - Joshua Greenbaum is left to date Miriam Stern without being tempted by the Shiksa waitresses at EdoKo who are dating the hot stock boys at the kitchen table. However, what happens when one of said waiters works at an established Village mainstay, while the other works at the young upstart around the corner?
In terms of epicurian options the Village is pretty bleak. Think East Germany circa 1962 around the time that JFK declared that he was a donut. You have ten banks, two coffee shops and until recently the only average priced resto was the rather dimunitive David's by Day, whose rather proliterian food fed the masses of Faux Hillary's starved from daily Yoga classes at the Village Yoga Studio.
David's has ruled the neighbourhood with an epicurian iron fist. It's Maginot Line - the David's Salad - is a nicely sized serving of baby greens topped off with pine nuts and craisons. Fancy... but pretty mediocre at the heart of it. Cracks in this First Line of defence, appeared last summer when a new kid on the block arrived: The Hope Street Cafe. The Hope Street Cafe doesn'thave the prime real-estate of David's... (it's down the block on Lonsdale) but it does have evening jazz... and at the end of the day the eggs are just as squishy and the food just as mediocre. Residents seemed to love the jazz concept, leaving David's suddenly yesterday's girl.
David's has ruled the neighbourhood with an epicurian iron fist. It's Maginot Line - the David's Salad - is a nicely sized serving of baby greens topped off with pine nuts and craisons. Fancy... but pretty mediocre at the heart of it. Cracks in this First Line of defence, appeared last summer when a new kid on the block arrived: The Hope Street Cafe. The Hope Street Cafe doesn'thave the prime real-estate of David's... (it's down the block on Lonsdale) but it does have evening jazz... and at the end of the day the eggs are just as squishy and the food just as mediocre. Residents seemed to love the jazz concept, leaving David's suddenly yesterday's girl.
Complacency doesn't bread company however and apparently it's all out war between Hope Street and David's.
Imagine of course my surprise when I heard that Holt was caught boning one of the prettiest waitresses at Hope Street. In doing so Holt may have crossed the very fine line of tact in the Faux. This coming from a young lad who is well-versed in transgression; he's infamous for doling out a few extra craisons to patrons he's "known" if you get what I'm saying...
So for our star-crossed lovers? Sometimes keeping it in Mishpacha is just as dangerous as not leaving me a bit confused on Village semantics. Is it better to try and make a move on my straight, but Jewish neighbour, or date the cute gay guy at Starbucks? Oy vey... I default to Holt.
The story develops...
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Breaking News: Starbucks Price Increase
Dateline: Forest Hill
My father drove me to work on Sunday... capping a week of 100 plus hours of work, which was personified by some crazy christian calling from Thornhill yelling at me telling me that Liberals are removing God from the country. The irony of me teillng her I had to work on Sunday was entirely lost on her. Jesus Christ Son of God and all that. Whatever... as we drove through the Faux I couldn't help but witness a large number of residents standing outside of Starbucks. The ammount of Lululemon hinted at a commercial or at least public branding... I envisioned some sort of mass collective that would coalesce into the Lulu symbol in the middle of the village as an overhead camera took a panorama shot. Kinda creative non?
I realized today as I walked into Starbucks what the fuss was about. Today Starbucks enacted a price increase. My fake boyfriend and investment banker says the price increase is in line with the CPI (what?) so he's not allarmed... however to the denizens of Faux Hill a price increase is a slap in the face for years of loyalty. Let them drink latte's indeed!
My father drove me to work on Sunday... capping a week of 100 plus hours of work, which was personified by some crazy christian calling from Thornhill yelling at me telling me that Liberals are removing God from the country. The irony of me teillng her I had to work on Sunday was entirely lost on her. Jesus Christ Son of God and all that. Whatever... as we drove through the Faux I couldn't help but witness a large number of residents standing outside of Starbucks. The ammount of Lululemon hinted at a commercial or at least public branding... I envisioned some sort of mass collective that would coalesce into the Lulu symbol in the middle of the village as an overhead camera took a panorama shot. Kinda creative non?
I realized today as I walked into Starbucks what the fuss was about. Today Starbucks enacted a price increase. My fake boyfriend and investment banker says the price increase is in line with the CPI (what?) so he's not allarmed... however to the denizens of Faux Hill a price increase is a slap in the face for years of loyalty. Let them drink latte's indeed!
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Faux Hillary Goes to School
The first time that Papa Len and Sim Sim Sima dropped off Bold at her higher academic institution of choice: McGill - Canada's Harvard, we sat in the car crossing the St Lawrence River and all silently wept as we realized that our beloved Bold was "all grown up." When yours truly arrived at his higher learning instition of choice (also McGill) I was dropped off at the Via train with a sleeping bag strapped to my back. Fer serious...
The right of passage known as university begins anew every year around Labour Day and for the average Faux Hillary university is neatly summed up by a quick decision: Western or McGill - McGill is the choice for the Faux Hillary with a more urban prediliction and who wouldn't be caught dead on Richmond Street in London, while Western is for the more simple of Faux residents i.e. those whose parents have recently inherited some money and subsequently moved into town from Thornhill.
With McGill of course comes yet another right of passage for the well healed spawn of the Faux - an apartment in the Ghetto. The McGill Ghetto, or Little Toronto, as some know it, is a little slice of Forest Hill just to the east of McGill campus. The town houses that line the streets of the Ghetto (and by Ghetto I don't mean poor cramped tenements, I mean restored turn of the century town houses) are filled to the rafters with ex-pat Torontonians who seem to migrate en mass every September for edumacation at McGill, often proclaiming amid cups of Molson Dry at that "Montreal simply has so much more soul then Toronto." Well... MOntreal has more soul then Forest Hill... but that isn't really saying much. The soul of Forest Hill is a two block shopping strip of three coffee shops and eight banks.
A good friend of mine happens to own a condo in the Ghetto, which he used to live in but now rents out to McGill students. Back in Montreal for some rest and relaxation I happened to run into him in the Ghetto. The Deej was forelorn because his new tenants - whom he called "4 assholes from Forest Hill" - were causing a fair bit of grief. No surprises but one of these lads was a cousin of Faux Hill Celebrity Extraordinaire CiCi Cobbstein.
It appears that the 4 Assholes had emailed him a list of demands prior to taking possession of the apartment.
Such demands included:
- all walls repainted white
- light bulbs replaced and a stash of replacement light bulbs left in cupboard
- new carpeting
- new blinds on all the windows
The list went on and on and got more and more ridiculous and more and more beyond Deej's legal responsibilities as a landloard. The Deej thought that these demands were both bizarre and hilarious... until he met the parents of his tenants, whom he attempted to explain that their children were being redonks. It appears, however, that in the Faux the apple doesn't fall far from the tree (Remember this is Forest people!)
As soon as Deej appeared at the condo the mother of the ringleader, who shall remain nameless, motioned for Deej to show her where the dryer to the apartment was. As he showed her the washer and dryer, she looked at the lint trap and asked, "Will you be removing the lint?"
To which Deej responded: "No... but you will."
Snap. You can take the Faux Hillary to McGill... but you can't take the Faux Hillary out of the Hill; or in this case, you can take the Faux Hillary out of the Faux, but you can't take away his philipino nanny. Let's call that lesson 1 in Faux Hill 101. Mid-term next week.
The right of passage known as university begins anew every year around Labour Day and for the average Faux Hillary university is neatly summed up by a quick decision: Western or McGill - McGill is the choice for the Faux Hillary with a more urban prediliction and who wouldn't be caught dead on Richmond Street in London, while Western is for the more simple of Faux residents i.e. those whose parents have recently inherited some money and subsequently moved into town from Thornhill.
With McGill of course comes yet another right of passage for the well healed spawn of the Faux - an apartment in the Ghetto. The McGill Ghetto, or Little Toronto, as some know it, is a little slice of Forest Hill just to the east of McGill campus. The town houses that line the streets of the Ghetto (and by Ghetto I don't mean poor cramped tenements, I mean restored turn of the century town houses) are filled to the rafters with ex-pat Torontonians who seem to migrate en mass every September for edumacation at McGill, often proclaiming amid cups of Molson Dry at that "Montreal simply has so much more soul then Toronto." Well... MOntreal has more soul then Forest Hill... but that isn't really saying much. The soul of Forest Hill is a two block shopping strip of three coffee shops and eight banks.
A good friend of mine happens to own a condo in the Ghetto, which he used to live in but now rents out to McGill students. Back in Montreal for some rest and relaxation I happened to run into him in the Ghetto. The Deej was forelorn because his new tenants - whom he called "4 assholes from Forest Hill" - were causing a fair bit of grief. No surprises but one of these lads was a cousin of Faux Hill Celebrity Extraordinaire CiCi Cobbstein.
It appears that the 4 Assholes had emailed him a list of demands prior to taking possession of the apartment.
Such demands included:
- all walls repainted white
- light bulbs replaced and a stash of replacement light bulbs left in cupboard
- new carpeting
- new blinds on all the windows
The list went on and on and got more and more ridiculous and more and more beyond Deej's legal responsibilities as a landloard. The Deej thought that these demands were both bizarre and hilarious... until he met the parents of his tenants, whom he attempted to explain that their children were being redonks. It appears, however, that in the Faux the apple doesn't fall far from the tree (Remember this is Forest people!)
As soon as Deej appeared at the condo the mother of the ringleader, who shall remain nameless, motioned for Deej to show her where the dryer to the apartment was. As he showed her the washer and dryer, she looked at the lint trap and asked, "Will you be removing the lint?"
To which Deej responded: "No... but you will."
Snap. You can take the Faux Hillary to McGill... but you can't take the Faux Hillary out of the Hill; or in this case, you can take the Faux Hillary out of the Faux, but you can't take away his philipino nanny. Let's call that lesson 1 in Faux Hill 101. Mid-term next week.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Bard Acres
Haiku Friday's are back with a total winner!
To the Tune of Green Acres:
North of Bloor is where
I'd rather sit and molt; I
Get allergic south of Holt's.
To the Tune of Green Acres:
North of Bloor is where
I'd rather sit and molt; I
Get allergic south of Holt's.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Birds of a Feather
Today perhaps begins a new chapter of this blog. A chapter which could see me as the next Perez Hilton (only slimmer and better looking) or the newest Lainey (only less Asian). Today I am reporting on actual celebrity gossip (i.e. Hollywood celebrities and NOT just Faux Hill Celebs). Although there are a smattering of Village celebrity residents, the Roots proprieters live on my street, a bunch of Maple Leafs reside on the other side of Spadina (i.e. wealther), Ted Rogers is in fact the neighbourhoods Mr Rogers [sans cardigan but with cable sweater -get it?], nobody as exciting, as say Tom Cruise, actually lives in the hood. The Faux ain't Malibu for example (although Nelly Furtado has apparently bought a house here recently and let's face it, in a post-Promiscuous summer, she is Kinda a Big Deal). Every so often a real celeb does indeed grace the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale wondering what the fuss is all about.
Par example: I once saw Ryan Gosling jaywalk across the street in green pants. He didn't say, "Jonathan: I wrote you 365 letters. A letter for every day of the year." Before cradling my face in his ginormous elongated hands and sticking his tongue down my throat. Having once been in a letter writing affair (one that included three letters a day! Beat that McGoslings.)... I can honestly say the thought is too exhausting to even think about again. Sorry RyGos.
But I've lost the plot to this yarn. Where the fuck am I?
Ah... Mischa Barton: The Most Blase woman to have graced the small screen. MB has had to come up to provincial Toronto to film a movie (the role that she decided to leave the OC for because, if you don't already know, she's a big movie STAH!). Barton, a habitual user of the chronic, was a tad bit worried of where she would score her junk once she arrived in the Great White North. So, while still in LA, she called up her friends boyfriend, who happens to be a Canadian lost in LaLaLand, wherein he refers her to his younger sister, a senior at the Faux Hill Collegiate. As so often happens when you find a smoking posse, the smokers become fast friends (remember that time Lisa said Gargamel!! How fucking funny was that! [ahh... it probably wasn't]). Having scored herself an instant posse Mischa ended up spending a fair bit of time, when not shooting the Academy Award winning opus that will launch her career, running around the Village avec her new found gaggle of girls; think, "Oh my gawd I love your Tiffany accessories!" & "Oh my god I love your flat ironed hair!" Birds of a feather certainly do flock together and for a time, Barton became the resident teen queen round these parts. Sadly Barton is back in LA, with her regular buds, and the rest of us are simply left to take the final toke on the proverbial roach of fame. Sad.
Par example: I once saw Ryan Gosling jaywalk across the street in green pants. He didn't say, "Jonathan: I wrote you 365 letters. A letter for every day of the year." Before cradling my face in his ginormous elongated hands and sticking his tongue down my throat. Having once been in a letter writing affair (one that included three letters a day! Beat that McGoslings.)... I can honestly say the thought is too exhausting to even think about again. Sorry RyGos.
But I've lost the plot to this yarn. Where the fuck am I?
Ah... Mischa Barton: The Most Blase woman to have graced the small screen. MB has had to come up to provincial Toronto to film a movie (the role that she decided to leave the OC for because, if you don't already know, she's a big movie STAH!). Barton, a habitual user of the chronic, was a tad bit worried of where she would score her junk once she arrived in the Great White North. So, while still in LA, she called up her friends boyfriend, who happens to be a Canadian lost in LaLaLand, wherein he refers her to his younger sister, a senior at the Faux Hill Collegiate. As so often happens when you find a smoking posse, the smokers become fast friends (remember that time Lisa said Gargamel!! How fucking funny was that! [ahh... it probably wasn't]). Having scored herself an instant posse Mischa ended up spending a fair bit of time, when not shooting the Academy Award winning opus that will launch her career, running around the Village avec her new found gaggle of girls; think, "Oh my gawd I love your Tiffany accessories!" & "Oh my god I love your flat ironed hair!" Birds of a feather certainly do flock together and for a time, Barton became the resident teen queen round these parts. Sadly Barton is back in LA, with her regular buds, and the rest of us are simply left to take the final toke on the proverbial roach of fame. Sad.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
U R 2 Sexy
So I promised Bold Sharon that I would no longer blog. Luckily for both of us her demand coincided with me finding myself some [un]gainful employment. So I haven't really been able to blog, even if I had wanted to. Today, however, I found myself with a bit of downtime on the old campaign trail (I've gone mildly political) so I'm sitting in the thicket of the Faux blogging away (in like forty degree heat - this ladies and germs is commitment).
As per usual there is so much to say and so little time to do it in. But today's roman a clef is about the red Ferrari that has just parked itself in front of me.
Buying a Ferrari is a statement in and of itself. It says: I make more money by selling stocks, selling shares of my own internet start-up before the tech bubble burst, or blowing away my father's hard earned sheckels, then you will ever see in your entire lifetime (Even if you win the a cash for life payout).
Buying a red Ferrari is taking such a statement and kickin it up a notch. It says: BAM! Look at me! I have more money then you - you lowly wannabe writer, blogger and bard who for some reason has yet to find a boyfriend and who pines sadomasochistically after those who I've broken up by stalking them via the facebook (sorry, personal tangent) AND everyone else around you.
Anyways, the man in front of me has made all of these statement. He bought the Ferarri, by which he has proven his masculinity for the entire Village to see, his penis is clearly HUGE. So what does one do once they have made such a BOLD statement (and your name doesn't end with Sharon?) why you get yourself a personalized license plate that says U R 2 SEXY. Hunh? Here is where you lost me Mr U R 2 SEXY-owitz. Let's examine this plate for a moment shall we? What does it all mean? Is it about the driver: a balding skinny white man whose red hair clashes with the exterior patina of his car? Is it about his botoxed trophy wife with the biggest Coach bag this side of Yorkdale? Is it about me? Is it about driving along Adelaide Street in Little 906 attempting to pick up 19 year-olds visiting from Mississauga?
U R 2 SEXY if you're reading this please contact me. I've got questions. You've got answers!
As per usual there is so much to say and so little time to do it in. But today's roman a clef is about the red Ferrari that has just parked itself in front of me.
Buying a Ferrari is a statement in and of itself. It says: I make more money by selling stocks, selling shares of my own internet start-up before the tech bubble burst, or blowing away my father's hard earned sheckels, then you will ever see in your entire lifetime (Even if you win the a cash for life payout).
Buying a red Ferrari is taking such a statement and kickin it up a notch. It says: BAM! Look at me! I have more money then you - you lowly wannabe writer, blogger and bard who for some reason has yet to find a boyfriend and who pines sadomasochistically after those who I've broken up by stalking them via the facebook (sorry, personal tangent) AND everyone else around you.
Anyways, the man in front of me has made all of these statement. He bought the Ferarri, by which he has proven his masculinity for the entire Village to see, his penis is clearly HUGE. So what does one do once they have made such a BOLD statement (and your name doesn't end with Sharon?) why you get yourself a personalized license plate that says U R 2 SEXY. Hunh? Here is where you lost me Mr U R 2 SEXY-owitz. Let's examine this plate for a moment shall we? What does it all mean? Is it about the driver: a balding skinny white man whose red hair clashes with the exterior patina of his car? Is it about his botoxed trophy wife with the biggest Coach bag this side of Yorkdale? Is it about me? Is it about driving along Adelaide Street in Little 906 attempting to pick up 19 year-olds visiting from Mississauga?
U R 2 SEXY if you're reading this please contact me. I've got questions. You've got answers!
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