Why I love the Village? Let me count the ways...
Because while studying at Starbucks you run into Theo - the girl who was your friend from your Bronze Cross class at Zodiac Swim School, which you attended when you were 12/13. And both of you look at each other and think, "I know this person. But I'm not going to say because that would be incredibly awkward. The last time I saw him/her I was pretending to do mouth-to-mouth at our qualifying exam. My how things have changed... a) she now has tits or b) he has facial hair."
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Endangered Species
I feel like the blog has gotten a bit heavy of late, what with me comparing myself to F. Scott, making fun of everyone who is in law school, mild self-loathe and anti-semitism coupled with a mass "cry for me" as I lamented the lifestyle of the Not Quite Rich. You'd think the world was ending, or at least Starbucks was going bankrupt... so today, a more light-hearted approach to living.
Every winter zoologists are drawn to the Village in order to track the re-ermegence from hibernation of the one of the Village's native species: Uggus Normalicis Ubiqutous (popular name: Ugg).
Scientists are prone to examining if the Ugg population will return in full-force or if summer has taken a particularly hard toll on its reproductive rates.
The strength of this years flock is unknown; will the Uggs be placed on the Village's endagered species list (along with highlights, french pedicures and second cup?) or will Uggs once again remain supreme in Village fashion. Only time will tell my friends. Only time will tell.
Every winter zoologists are drawn to the Village in order to track the re-ermegence from hibernation of the one of the Village's native species: Uggus Normalicis Ubiqutous (popular name: Ugg).
Scientists are prone to examining if the Ugg population will return in full-force or if summer has taken a particularly hard toll on its reproductive rates.
The strength of this years flock is unknown; will the Uggs be placed on the Village's endagered species list (along with highlights, french pedicures and second cup?) or will Uggs once again remain supreme in Village fashion. Only time will tell my friends. Only time will tell.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Rich Are Different Then You and I... tales from the Not Quite Rich
F. Scott (as in Fitzegerald, natch), who I like to model myself after (caustic observations of the wealthy, check; gay love affair with raiffish Hemingway-esque character [i'm still working on Andrew Coyne]; writer of great American novel, writer of great Village blog) wrote the above line in his 1926 short story, the Rich Boy. In actuality the original quotation is slightly different, but the infamous and wildly used quote, is as per the above.
I had a reason to contemplate Scott's intentions of late while flaneuring my way through the Village lifestyle.
While traveling across the pond (birthright summer Vacay in Europe) - I found myself walking through Harrods when I randomly ran into an old friend, Oscar. Oscar, a private schooled Old Boy, is working in private wealth management for a large European bank. This should be no surprise for anyone who knows anything about London - the entire city is filled with investment bankers and hedge fund workers; its sorta like trying to find a lawyer in Faux Hill. Chances are you either are one, you’re schtupping one, or your dating someone in law school.
"Hows your job?" I asked as we snacked on chocolate samples from the food hall.
"I hate it." He answered. This came as a complete surprise. Oscar, throughout our friendship, had always dreamed about being a banker. And really is there more fitting of an ending for a WASP old boy?
I realized Oscar's problem though - on one hand he managed hundreds of millions of dollars for oil-rich sheiks from the UAE, yet at the end of the day, he was about as well regarded as their cleaning lady. Your personal wealth manager may wear a Hugo Boss suit and have a Prada wallet, but at the end of the day he’s still paid to count someone else’s money.
Such a story leads, like all roads, back to the Village where I sat with a friend at the Burger Shack - the defacto greasy spoon for the Faux Hillary set - even if the Shack is the antithesis of the actual Village - there ain't no Spa Salad here.
Topic turned to a father of a mutual friend, who was recently deposed from his position as VP of some private equity company. No malice was intended when he was let go; in today’s terminology “Bruce” wasn’t really fired. He was paid to leave. Bruce had reached that stage in his career when the company board had decided it was easiest to offer up stock options and a buy out to thank his years of servitude.
The Faux Hill gossip train was, however, very much concerned as to how much money said father had received as per the buy-out and more importantly how much money the family needed to sustain the all important lifestyle. When we started bandying about figures - we realized, as wealthy as the family was - this was not the start of a Weston-esque family dynasty. The buy-out was "here and now" money to cap a very successful career. What was going to be left for the children? Well... I'll leave you with a riddle: pray the housing market doesn't cut out...
A similar situation has befallen the Whiterock household. The parents, flush from selling their successful company, had gone on an art-buying spree, even as their only son was scrambling to put together a down payment on his first house. To quote their son Ben, "the way my parents spend money - there will be none left for me." Pish posh talk at the Rosh Hashana dinner table, right? How can we cry for someone who is set to inherit a centre-hall Georgian on a sought after street in the lower village? However, Ben's right - there won't be anything left over for him or for most of us. And that's the thing about most of my contemporaries - we are children of The Not Quite Rich. Who are the Not Quite Rich? The Not Quite Rich are baby boomers who have worked their way up the corporate ladder, successfully, pulling in six figures and are statistically in the top ten percent of Canadian families in terms of wealth. [A statistical background, the average household income in the Faux is over $180,000.00, while the Canadian average household income is just over $60,000.00. According to Statistics Canada the top 5% of Canadian wage earners make $89,000+ while only 1% of Canadians earn an income of $181,000+ ; so I’m not exactly talking about a poverty stricken postal code]. But the Not Quite Rich, for all of our money and affordable luxury purchases are poseurs. We’re just like Oscar – we’re the working wealthy, which is, as ever an important distinction. And more importantly – the working wealthy, are only as good as their last pay-cheque, hence the fear of future generations, who can be heard crying about their lack of inheritence…
This of course brings me to lunch with my dear friend LV. Those are her actual initials, and although a child of the Village – she shockingly owns nothing with her own monogram on it, “it is sorta weird,” she once admitted, “I guess I just prefer Gucci.” LV and I had a lovely catch-up lunch at Holt’s Café the other day and as she described her wedding preparations, (vintage cut 2 carat diamond, FYI), she told me that while her wedding, to be held at one of the nicest church’s with the reception at one of the city’s best hotels, was going to be lovely, it would pale in comparison to her best friends wedding. Her best friends bi-national wedding (vows in France, reception in Toronto for 440 people) was a whole other kettle of fish. (As for who I’m talking about, I’ll give you a veiled hint, he’s the scion of a retail dynasty and she’s the progeny of a shoe empire… do a Google) Bottom line: when you’re Not Quite Rich, you can’t really compete when you’re your father is ONLY a Senior VP at Bell Canada Enterprises but your best friend’s father is the majority shareholder of Rogers. Know what I mean?
The plight, if you will, of the Not Quite Rich, is really at the heart of the Village. One of Canada’s wealthiest zip codes, yet in actuality divided by an aspirational class of high-income baby boomers (upper level management) and their children and a landed gentry whose wealth is so astronomically larger that it makes the rest of us look downright dowdy in comparison. Welcome the generation of the Not Quite Rich, don’t cry for us, though we still make more money then 95% of the Canadian population… Ok… ok… single tear.
I had a reason to contemplate Scott's intentions of late while flaneuring my way through the Village lifestyle.
While traveling across the pond (birthright summer Vacay in Europe) - I found myself walking through Harrods when I randomly ran into an old friend, Oscar. Oscar, a private schooled Old Boy, is working in private wealth management for a large European bank. This should be no surprise for anyone who knows anything about London - the entire city is filled with investment bankers and hedge fund workers; its sorta like trying to find a lawyer in Faux Hill. Chances are you either are one, you’re schtupping one, or your dating someone in law school.
"Hows your job?" I asked as we snacked on chocolate samples from the food hall.
"I hate it." He answered. This came as a complete surprise. Oscar, throughout our friendship, had always dreamed about being a banker. And really is there more fitting of an ending for a WASP old boy?
I realized Oscar's problem though - on one hand he managed hundreds of millions of dollars for oil-rich sheiks from the UAE, yet at the end of the day, he was about as well regarded as their cleaning lady. Your personal wealth manager may wear a Hugo Boss suit and have a Prada wallet, but at the end of the day he’s still paid to count someone else’s money.
Such a story leads, like all roads, back to the Village where I sat with a friend at the Burger Shack - the defacto greasy spoon for the Faux Hillary set - even if the Shack is the antithesis of the actual Village - there ain't no Spa Salad here.
Topic turned to a father of a mutual friend, who was recently deposed from his position as VP of some private equity company. No malice was intended when he was let go; in today’s terminology “Bruce” wasn’t really fired. He was paid to leave. Bruce had reached that stage in his career when the company board had decided it was easiest to offer up stock options and a buy out to thank his years of servitude.
The Faux Hill gossip train was, however, very much concerned as to how much money said father had received as per the buy-out and more importantly how much money the family needed to sustain the all important lifestyle. When we started bandying about figures - we realized, as wealthy as the family was - this was not the start of a Weston-esque family dynasty. The buy-out was "here and now" money to cap a very successful career. What was going to be left for the children? Well... I'll leave you with a riddle: pray the housing market doesn't cut out...
A similar situation has befallen the Whiterock household. The parents, flush from selling their successful company, had gone on an art-buying spree, even as their only son was scrambling to put together a down payment on his first house. To quote their son Ben, "the way my parents spend money - there will be none left for me." Pish posh talk at the Rosh Hashana dinner table, right? How can we cry for someone who is set to inherit a centre-hall Georgian on a sought after street in the lower village? However, Ben's right - there won't be anything left over for him or for most of us. And that's the thing about most of my contemporaries - we are children of The Not Quite Rich. Who are the Not Quite Rich? The Not Quite Rich are baby boomers who have worked their way up the corporate ladder, successfully, pulling in six figures and are statistically in the top ten percent of Canadian families in terms of wealth. [A statistical background, the average household income in the Faux is over $180,000.00, while the Canadian average household income is just over $60,000.00. According to Statistics Canada the top 5% of Canadian wage earners make $89,000+ while only 1% of Canadians earn an income of $181,000+ ; so I’m not exactly talking about a poverty stricken postal code]. But the Not Quite Rich, for all of our money and affordable luxury purchases are poseurs. We’re just like Oscar – we’re the working wealthy, which is, as ever an important distinction. And more importantly – the working wealthy, are only as good as their last pay-cheque, hence the fear of future generations, who can be heard crying about their lack of inheritence…
This of course brings me to lunch with my dear friend LV. Those are her actual initials, and although a child of the Village – she shockingly owns nothing with her own monogram on it, “it is sorta weird,” she once admitted, “I guess I just prefer Gucci.” LV and I had a lovely catch-up lunch at Holt’s Café the other day and as she described her wedding preparations, (vintage cut 2 carat diamond, FYI), she told me that while her wedding, to be held at one of the nicest church’s with the reception at one of the city’s best hotels, was going to be lovely, it would pale in comparison to her best friends wedding. Her best friends bi-national wedding (vows in France, reception in Toronto for 440 people) was a whole other kettle of fish. (As for who I’m talking about, I’ll give you a veiled hint, he’s the scion of a retail dynasty and she’s the progeny of a shoe empire… do a Google) Bottom line: when you’re Not Quite Rich, you can’t really compete when you’re your father is ONLY a Senior VP at Bell Canada Enterprises but your best friend’s father is the majority shareholder of Rogers. Know what I mean?
The plight, if you will, of the Not Quite Rich, is really at the heart of the Village. One of Canada’s wealthiest zip codes, yet in actuality divided by an aspirational class of high-income baby boomers (upper level management) and their children and a landed gentry whose wealth is so astronomically larger that it makes the rest of us look downright dowdy in comparison. Welcome the generation of the Not Quite Rich, don’t cry for us, though we still make more money then 95% of the Canadian population… Ok… ok… single tear.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Getting my Master's on...
I owe Sim Sim Sima about 500 bucks. This is from the money she sent my way to London town, via Western Union, after I lost my wallet in a drunken stupor at club G-A-Y. (Faux Hill upside: bought myself a fancy new Paul Smith wallet!) Papa Len finds Western Union simply amazing, "I walked into a convenience store - and the next day - you had money! Amazing."
Although I owe Sim Sim Sima said big bucks - anytime she mentions payment - I talk about getting my MBA. No three words have as much power over the old girl as the three non-sensical words as a master's in business administration. Sim Sim Sima simply loves the MBA. Why? Its unclear, because I'm not sure what one does with an MBA. Administer some biz-nass? And besides who wants an MBA for a son when you can have a doctah or a lawyah?
Truthfully (and I'd like to keep this on the Down Low; as DL as the LL Cool J gay thing, k?) this Faux Hillary is actually in the process of selling himself out - by applying to do his MBA. Fingers cross I don't fail my GMAT's. I know it’s a shocker and I could spend an entire lifetime over-analyzing this most recent cop-out - however, I'm pretty sure my neuroses are what prompted the last BF to dump yours truly - and the over analytical thought process of a 24 year-old gay man would digress too far from the point of this original blog. Suffice to say that after living like a complete artiste for two years in Montreal, I graduated McGill wrote a screenplay and realized that I happen to like cashmere and buying things that come in pink paper bags a bit too much to sit on a street corner peddling narcissistic poetry for the rest of my life. There - I said what everyone is thinking: why be a starving artist - when you can make money? And with that I guess I'm just like the rest of my spoiled brethren [we'll call this blog the facade remover].
So what does a MBA have anything to do with the Faux, gentle reader is undoubtedly asking? Well I'm reaching a bit today... or at least making a statement so bold that it would put Bold to shame - who is very well, thanks for asking.
As part of my high and mighty approach to living, I've been pretty proud of not applying to Default School, rebelling against my God-given right to get into Osgoode and generally protesting most of what the Faux has taught me (Do you hear the people sing, singing the songs of angry men! [men who didn't get into law school]). Realistically, however, I'm just as conformist as the best of them, only with a slightly more fabulous side (the side the sucks the penis), and so... as I near my mid-twenties and contemplate buying that semi-detached Victorian in the Annex I've always wanted - I've had that zen-like moment: so this is why everyone is in law school. Throw in an adopted child from Africa and I'm living the gay version of my parents, with an Angelina Jolie footnote.
Once I had settled on a future life-route, a career and a couple of additional letters to add to my name [MBA - what!] I thought, very proudly, ha ha!, what Faux Hillary does a MBA? Way to ditch the Village populists on this one. It may come as a surprise really, but the Faux Hillary and MBA mix don’t really match (or so I thought). Why, I’m not really sure – although I’m guessing it has something to do with the guilt factor. Now in the schematic overview of Jewish guilt a child with an MBA will provoke less maternal guilt then let's say a child with an engineering degree; but you can bet your last shekle an MBA provides less naches then dentistry and will definitely provide your folks less of a reason to kvell at synagogue then your acceptance into Med or Law School (the platinum defense against Jew guilt - let's not even talk about the JD/Doctorate Combo).
I'm pretty sure most people look at me and think I totally generalizing Faux Hill culture. It can't be that stereotypical all the time? Is everyone really in law school? And sometimes may critics may in fact be right - on a dry month - when the Faux Hill gossip train eases up like the smooth ride of a Porsche SUV illegally parking in front of the Village Market, I think that perhaps its time to start my new blog: nogaysexinthecity.blogspot.com (coming soon! promise). Yet then... it happens: full-circle moment. The Faux is as psychotic as I've always imagined.
Full-circle moment of this week: realizing that the MBA is climbing up the hierarchy of anti-guilt defense mechanisms. We can now see the MBA as part of the ultimate troika in Jew guilt protection (Doctor, Lawyer, MBA). Who knew?
Case in point: while applying to the Rotman School of Business I email the student association to try and talk to some current students. I get an email back from Jordana Silverstein (fake name, but the real one was just as Jewy). She says she remembers me from high school - I realize she's confused me with my cousin, hilarity ensues and in the course of our convo she decides I should talk to one of her colleagues (Jessica Cohen, again fake name, but the real one is just as Jewy). Sure this is a random sample - but I mean - this is Canada - surely someone whom I can't easily connect myself via Six Degrees of the Polish Shtetle could potentially answer my question? I mean doesn't some kid from Brampton want an MBA too? When I told El Huerd (of the Thornhill El Huerds) my new Rotman friends, he replied: Jordana lives on my street. Fancy that.
So essentially I realize attending the Rotman School of Business wis actually like attending Faux Hill Collegiate, only perhaps, with a bit more backstabbing. Instead of fighting for ranking in JAP cliques (please we all remember the year when the ruling clique excommunicated their bestie, right?) people are now jockeying for prime placements at investment banks. God what have I gotten myself into?
Enter Kitty Kat. A chance encounter at the Montreal Bread Company in Yorkville, pre film-festival madness. We grab latte's in order to discuss a partnership with my current job. Eventually we discuss our backgrounds… We both grew up in Toronto, undergraduate degrees from good schools etc... (Its the same conversation you can have with most people who grew up here: you went to Snowhawks?!! I went to snowhawks!! You had a nanny??!! From the Philippines?!! Wow... its like we lived the same life.)
Then Kitty Kat dropped the wild card, "And then I did my MBA at Columbia."
"Get out." I responded. If we were standing I would have pushed her, Elaine styles.
"How come you didn't stay in Toronto?"
"I grew up here. Felt like it was time to leave." And where did dearest Kitty Kat grow up? Round the corner from the Two-Fer. "Toronto just started to feel incredibly small."
"Maybe it was just your slice of Toronto?" I offered. “Well,” she said, "all of my friends were in law school."
"So things don't really change then," I laughed.
"Listen - everyone you know is shitting their pants about the future. Law school, MBA, you still have to define yourself at some point outside of academia."
And with that we start a new year – a new year of new definitions and with a modicum of less guilt… how intriguing!
~ ~ ~
Happy New Year Bitches. let's bring on 5768 and party like it's fifty seven sixty eight.
Although I owe Sim Sim Sima said big bucks - anytime she mentions payment - I talk about getting my MBA. No three words have as much power over the old girl as the three non-sensical words as a master's in business administration. Sim Sim Sima simply loves the MBA. Why? Its unclear, because I'm not sure what one does with an MBA. Administer some biz-nass? And besides who wants an MBA for a son when you can have a doctah or a lawyah?
Truthfully (and I'd like to keep this on the Down Low; as DL as the LL Cool J gay thing, k?) this Faux Hillary is actually in the process of selling himself out - by applying to do his MBA. Fingers cross I don't fail my GMAT's. I know it’s a shocker and I could spend an entire lifetime over-analyzing this most recent cop-out - however, I'm pretty sure my neuroses are what prompted the last BF to dump yours truly - and the over analytical thought process of a 24 year-old gay man would digress too far from the point of this original blog. Suffice to say that after living like a complete artiste for two years in Montreal, I graduated McGill wrote a screenplay and realized that I happen to like cashmere and buying things that come in pink paper bags a bit too much to sit on a street corner peddling narcissistic poetry for the rest of my life. There - I said what everyone is thinking: why be a starving artist - when you can make money? And with that I guess I'm just like the rest of my spoiled brethren [we'll call this blog the facade remover].
So what does a MBA have anything to do with the Faux, gentle reader is undoubtedly asking? Well I'm reaching a bit today... or at least making a statement so bold that it would put Bold to shame - who is very well, thanks for asking.
As part of my high and mighty approach to living, I've been pretty proud of not applying to Default School, rebelling against my God-given right to get into Osgoode and generally protesting most of what the Faux has taught me (Do you hear the people sing, singing the songs of angry men! [men who didn't get into law school]). Realistically, however, I'm just as conformist as the best of them, only with a slightly more fabulous side (the side the sucks the penis), and so... as I near my mid-twenties and contemplate buying that semi-detached Victorian in the Annex I've always wanted - I've had that zen-like moment: so this is why everyone is in law school. Throw in an adopted child from Africa and I'm living the gay version of my parents, with an Angelina Jolie footnote.
Once I had settled on a future life-route, a career and a couple of additional letters to add to my name [MBA - what!] I thought, very proudly, ha ha!, what Faux Hillary does a MBA? Way to ditch the Village populists on this one. It may come as a surprise really, but the Faux Hillary and MBA mix don’t really match (or so I thought). Why, I’m not really sure – although I’m guessing it has something to do with the guilt factor. Now in the schematic overview of Jewish guilt a child with an MBA will provoke less maternal guilt then let's say a child with an engineering degree; but you can bet your last shekle an MBA provides less naches then dentistry and will definitely provide your folks less of a reason to kvell at synagogue then your acceptance into Med or Law School (the platinum defense against Jew guilt - let's not even talk about the JD/Doctorate Combo).
I'm pretty sure most people look at me and think I totally generalizing Faux Hill culture. It can't be that stereotypical all the time? Is everyone really in law school? And sometimes may critics may in fact be right - on a dry month - when the Faux Hill gossip train eases up like the smooth ride of a Porsche SUV illegally parking in front of the Village Market, I think that perhaps its time to start my new blog: nogaysexinthecity.blogspot.com (coming soon! promise). Yet then... it happens: full-circle moment. The Faux is as psychotic as I've always imagined.
Full-circle moment of this week: realizing that the MBA is climbing up the hierarchy of anti-guilt defense mechanisms. We can now see the MBA as part of the ultimate troika in Jew guilt protection (Doctor, Lawyer, MBA). Who knew?
Case in point: while applying to the Rotman School of Business I email the student association to try and talk to some current students. I get an email back from Jordana Silverstein (fake name, but the real one was just as Jewy). She says she remembers me from high school - I realize she's confused me with my cousin, hilarity ensues and in the course of our convo she decides I should talk to one of her colleagues (Jessica Cohen, again fake name, but the real one is just as Jewy). Sure this is a random sample - but I mean - this is Canada - surely someone whom I can't easily connect myself via Six Degrees of the Polish Shtetle could potentially answer my question? I mean doesn't some kid from Brampton want an MBA too? When I told El Huerd (of the Thornhill El Huerds) my new Rotman friends, he replied: Jordana lives on my street. Fancy that.
So essentially I realize attending the Rotman School of Business wis actually like attending Faux Hill Collegiate, only perhaps, with a bit more backstabbing. Instead of fighting for ranking in JAP cliques (please we all remember the year when the ruling clique excommunicated their bestie, right?) people are now jockeying for prime placements at investment banks. God what have I gotten myself into?
Enter Kitty Kat. A chance encounter at the Montreal Bread Company in Yorkville, pre film-festival madness. We grab latte's in order to discuss a partnership with my current job. Eventually we discuss our backgrounds… We both grew up in Toronto, undergraduate degrees from good schools etc... (Its the same conversation you can have with most people who grew up here: you went to Snowhawks?!! I went to snowhawks!! You had a nanny??!! From the Philippines?!! Wow... its like we lived the same life.)
Then Kitty Kat dropped the wild card, "And then I did my MBA at Columbia."
"Get out." I responded. If we were standing I would have pushed her, Elaine styles.
"How come you didn't stay in Toronto?"
"I grew up here. Felt like it was time to leave." And where did dearest Kitty Kat grow up? Round the corner from the Two-Fer. "Toronto just started to feel incredibly small."
"Maybe it was just your slice of Toronto?" I offered. “Well,” she said, "all of my friends were in law school."
"So things don't really change then," I laughed.
"Listen - everyone you know is shitting their pants about the future. Law school, MBA, you still have to define yourself at some point outside of academia."
And with that we start a new year – a new year of new definitions and with a modicum of less guilt… how intriguing!
~ ~ ~
Happy New Year Bitches. let's bring on 5768 and party like it's fifty seven sixty eight.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
So What Are You Doing This Summer? Part Two...
A child of the village spends his or her summer in Europe, as already stated in an earlier post, and so like the rest of my spoiled brethern, August has found me typing away from an internet cafe in London. Spent my plane ride with a bunch of Canada's future Jewish lawyers. Anyway - not much to report - although I'm not sure how the Faux Hillary jet set handle European Starbucks, a much more plebian experience. Made an ass of myself in one today, when after ordering my classic grande non fat one raw sugar latte, the Barista responded succinctly, "we don't put in the sugar. You do. It's over there."
If he thought my order was a bit over the top, I'd have loved to have seen how he would have responded to his face at some of the more complicated orders down Spadina and Lonsdale way; there's more comma's down there then you shake your gucci at.
Latah suckers this Faux Hillary has a pile of bags from Selfridges at my feet.
If he thought my order was a bit over the top, I'd have loved to have seen how he would have responded to his face at some of the more complicated orders down Spadina and Lonsdale way; there's more comma's down there then you shake your gucci at.
Latah suckers this Faux Hillary has a pile of bags from Selfridges at my feet.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Won't Somebody Please Think of the Children
When you're an Upper Canada Old Boy with a decent pedigree (ie someone in your family was a member of the Family Compact); you drive a hand-me down late model German sedan, you have no student debt and you still remember the family password to your account at Summerhill Market (ie your street address, them RosedAliens are smart, eh?) what exactly do you do with your life besides fuck your waife, blond and blase girlfriend?
You start a not for profit! Trust me. This is done all the time.
Seeing as I have a decent pedigree, but no late model German sedan and definately no waiffish girlfriend [although I would like a boyfriend if someone can find me one], I thought - I'd also start my own not for profit. And so I present the world: Won't Somebody Please Think of the Children.
Backgrounder: Won't Somebody Please Think of the Children (WSPTOTC) is a Canadian registered charity that was founded on the basis of helping the underclass of twenty-somethings in Canada. Too often we pay attention to hot topics, such as "Global Warming" and the "HIV Pandemic" yet in our own backyard there are children and young adults who have needs too. WSPTOTC was established in order to help this hidden and growing underclass. We provide both financial support through direct capacity building grants and also emotional support, by organizing social functions to provide much needed emotional counselling for Canadian youth who feel that they are not reaching their potential. One example of our capacity to create moral support for needy children is our wildly succesful "Fun and Firkin" evening. Our Firkin evenings bring together groups of Canada's newest underclass at various Firkin pubs, across Canada, allowing for peer support and mutual misery. Thanks to the bottlers at Alexander Keith for their strong corporate support over the years.
Capcity grants are directed through our networks of needy children that need YOUR help. Consider the following:
1) David McMulkin - David has dreamed of going to U of T law school since he shadowed his father Patrick McMulkin, a senior partner at Tory's, during career day at Upper Canada. After writing the LSAT's four times he has yet to crack the 70th percentile. With no hope of getting into a Canadian law school David is situationally depressed and continues to spend his summers getting drunk at the Key to Bala in Muskoka.
For:
$20.00 you can buy him a hamburger and pint of stella at the Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club
$100.00 you can sponsor him a new lacoste polo
$100,000 you can sponsor his entrance fee, via legacy commitments, into an ivy
league law school in the States
2) Joshua Borenstein - Joshua has wanted to be a doctor ever since his mother sat him down at his Bar Mitzvah and let him know that he had two options in life: doctor or lawyer. After seeing how happy his father, Dr. Borenstein, made his mother Joshua knew he would follow in the "family business" and become a doctor. After failing the MCAT's and causing a complete shunda for his family, Joshua has finally been accepted into medical school in Australia.
For
$30,000 you can cover rent for his Sydney apartment
$15,000 you can sponsor Joshua to come home for Rosh hashannah alleviating him from his mother's Jewish guilt. To quote Mrs. Borenstein: "What? You're not going to come home and visit your mother? I made your favourite honey cake."
WSPTOTC Mission Statement: Screw the kids dying in Africa. Won't somebody please think of the children?
Quote: "While Angelina Jolie are busy adopting children from Africa - I've been able to fulfill the dreams of children living right here in Canada. Because of my work through WSPTOTC - Miriam Birnbaum got to finish her master's in psychology at the University of New South Wales. Miriam was unable to do her Master's here in Canada because her humanistic studies BA from McGill wasn't deemed appropriate for
acceptance to the University of Toronto." - Mildly Famous Canadian Television Celebrity
You start a not for profit! Trust me. This is done all the time.
Seeing as I have a decent pedigree, but no late model German sedan and definately no waiffish girlfriend [although I would like a boyfriend if someone can find me one], I thought - I'd also start my own not for profit. And so I present the world: Won't Somebody Please Think of the Children.
Backgrounder: Won't Somebody Please Think of the Children (WSPTOTC) is a Canadian registered charity that was founded on the basis of helping the underclass of twenty-somethings in Canada. Too often we pay attention to hot topics, such as "Global Warming" and the "HIV Pandemic" yet in our own backyard there are children and young adults who have needs too. WSPTOTC was established in order to help this hidden and growing underclass. We provide both financial support through direct capacity building grants and also emotional support, by organizing social functions to provide much needed emotional counselling for Canadian youth who feel that they are not reaching their potential. One example of our capacity to create moral support for needy children is our wildly succesful "Fun and Firkin" evening. Our Firkin evenings bring together groups of Canada's newest underclass at various Firkin pubs, across Canada, allowing for peer support and mutual misery. Thanks to the bottlers at Alexander Keith for their strong corporate support over the years.
Capcity grants are directed through our networks of needy children that need YOUR help. Consider the following:
1) David McMulkin - David has dreamed of going to U of T law school since he shadowed his father Patrick McMulkin, a senior partner at Tory's, during career day at Upper Canada. After writing the LSAT's four times he has yet to crack the 70th percentile. With no hope of getting into a Canadian law school David is situationally depressed and continues to spend his summers getting drunk at the Key to Bala in Muskoka.
For:
$20.00 you can buy him a hamburger and pint of stella at the Toronto Lawn and Tennis Club
$100.00 you can sponsor him a new lacoste polo
$100,000 you can sponsor his entrance fee, via legacy commitments, into an ivy
league law school in the States
2) Joshua Borenstein - Joshua has wanted to be a doctor ever since his mother sat him down at his Bar Mitzvah and let him know that he had two options in life: doctor or lawyer. After seeing how happy his father, Dr. Borenstein, made his mother Joshua knew he would follow in the "family business" and become a doctor. After failing the MCAT's and causing a complete shunda for his family, Joshua has finally been accepted into medical school in Australia.
For
$30,000 you can cover rent for his Sydney apartment
$15,000 you can sponsor Joshua to come home for Rosh hashannah alleviating him from his mother's Jewish guilt. To quote Mrs. Borenstein: "What? You're not going to come home and visit your mother? I made your favourite honey cake."
WSPTOTC Mission Statement: Screw the kids dying in Africa. Won't somebody please think of the children?
Quote: "While Angelina Jolie are busy adopting children from Africa - I've been able to fulfill the dreams of children living right here in Canada. Because of my work through WSPTOTC - Miriam Birnbaum got to finish her master's in psychology at the University of New South Wales. Miriam was unable to do her Master's here in Canada because her humanistic studies BA from McGill wasn't deemed appropriate for
acceptance to the University of Toronto." - Mildly Famous Canadian Television Celebrity
Monday, July 30, 2007
In the Ghetto
Sometimes when I walk home from work I call my friend El Huerd. He usually picks up the phone around the time that I've made it to the corner of Bay and Bloor where there is usually a Scottish bag piper playing the bagpipes.
"Where the fuck are you calling me from?" He asks.
"Scotland. I flew over on the concorde." I usually answer and then we laugh before acknowledging how lovely it is to live in Toronto, the city that is THE most multi-cultural city known to man, sans hyperbole. Toronto - a world within a city; Toronto - a city of neighbourhoods; are some cliched Torontoisms that the tourist board likes to sprout.
Most people will lambast Toronto for being a concrete monstrosity. Montrealers decry its lack of soul. Vancouverites decry its lack of natural beauty and Europeans simply laugh at the city's many faults - like our two subway lines. For years I have vehemently warded off such Toronto hatred. Every leafy tree in the Annex, every stone cut mansion in Rosedale has for me - been part of my Toronto love affair. How can you not love its odd built form, quirky markets and navel gazing neuroses. I've made an unsuccesful side-venture of taking friends on walking tours of the city's boho west end, pointing out some of the city's best features, vainly trying to convince prospective residents just how amazing Toronto is.
Now - i'll also admit its a lot easier to love Toronto when you've grown up in the Faux. My Toronto is clean, safe, verdant and the people are generally well put together. Ande even if the people are not quite right, at least you gripe about their Tiffany jewelery.
I have been Toronto's number one fan up until recently - then I looked around and thought: maybe Toronto isn't really New York run by the Swiss, as Peter Ustinov once infamously declared.
My current Torontonian lamaise has sadly nothing to do with being caught in a too-tight pair of Lululemon pants, swishing a frapuchino at the patio - rather - I've spent the past two weeks on an odd cross-city extravaganza. The past two weeks has seen Faux Hillary so far out of his league, I feel like I've been on one of those international contiki tours - fourteen countries in six days.
Last Friday evening Kitty invited me to a white and champagne party in RosedAle. "It's a white party because you're supposed to wear white," she said before adding, "Not white because of the people." I interjected.. "So who there is not going to be white? We're talking RosedAle private schoolies?" As I got drunk off of bottles of Veuve that the underemployed future of this great city stole from their parents (because we all still live at home and get paid around $35-40k a year, a salary which while isn't below the povery line doesn't allow for the disposable income to buy bottles of veuve now does it?) I looked around and thought - perfect - everyone here is white, might as well have shown up naked.
Saturday was an even greater, "Toto we're not in Kansas anymore" moment. Found myself at MP Nav Bains bbq on Saturday - 1500 Liberals from Brampton's Indo canadian community stood in a giant field getting excited by Liberal leader Stephane Dion (at least someone is excited about him) and party saviour, Justin Trudeau. Brampton and parts of Missisaugua make up the burgeoning centure of the city's large Indo-Canadian community. It is a completely different world of strip-malls with Indo-Canadian groceries, Hindu temples and other ethnic establishments.
Just north of Brampton begins the rolling hinterlands of Caledon. Caledon is for white people who raise ponies. I'm serious. Oddly enough there is such a strong demarcation between Bramtpon and Caledeon that as you drive north its almost as if Rutherford Road is the city's Mason Dixon line. The strip malls and Hindu temples end and the Olde Towne's begin. Having been at the Indo-CDN bbq figured, my friend Caitling, we may as well rejoin "our people" so we spent the late afternoon - sunning and swimming myself in a property formerly owned by the Eatons. Yes those Eatons.
Between the swim in Caledon and the white party, I was on wasp overload - so Sunday I ended up deep in the city's north west end attending the viewing of a friends father. It was my first Italian viewing - and uptown, with six of the city's finest politico fags, we schlepped up in a veritable two car pride parade. Roman Catholic church here we come! The drive - through neighbourhoods undoubtedly listed as part of the United Way's "priority neighbourhood" list, were a shock to the downtown elite. "never seen so many Coffee Time's," someone admitted. Welcome to Toronto I thought as I regailed them with my bizarre knowledge of the Village of Weston, Mount Denis and the Jane corridor. I admitted that as a youth I used to drive out to the inner suburbs in an attempt to understand the vast unyielding suburban landscape of Tarawna. Prufrock would, however, have be proud at our excursion.
Colour me Mr. Toronto right? Faux Hillary spreads his wings, learns how to fly, and realizes there's a big big world west of Bathurst. Sigh. Not really. I spent Monday at lunch sitting on a patio with my friend Sante in yorkville. The news of the day was sad: an 11 year-old child had been gunned down in Jane Shepperd, one of the city's poorest neighbourhoods. And there in white upper class Yorkville we sat amidst a sea of Gucci lamenting increasing violence in the city. Lamenting violence as if it actually effected us. Gun violence and most recent shooting has received major coverage, for obvious reasons. Politico's have been clicking their tongues about the need for gun control, your parents and my parents have shook their heads wandering what is going in their city [wasn't like this when we grew up here], Bill Blair can talk about more police officers on the city streets, but psychologically Jane and Shepperd may as well be Khandahar.
See In Toronto - shootings at Jane and Finch don't really feel like the city's problem. They feel like Jane and Finch's problem. We all care. We really really do. But Torontonian's also care about Israel, France, Russia and India. And sure Faux Hillary can attend the largest indo-Canadian bbq on the weekend, but come Monday - where could I be found? Sitting on a patio in Yorkville (essentially downtown Faux Hill) talking about a problem, not as if it was my own - but as if it was someone else's. I emphatize truly I do. And so as Sante and I sat having lunch amidst the afternoon suits in my very narrow view of Toronto thinking that sadly, the city of Toronto, as a populist macro image actually doesn't exist. Faux Hillary first, Torontonian second.
Toronto - a city of 'ghettoized' neighbourhoods?
Toronto - the world most multi-cultural city and also the most segregated.
"Where the fuck are you calling me from?" He asks.
"Scotland. I flew over on the concorde." I usually answer and then we laugh before acknowledging how lovely it is to live in Toronto, the city that is THE most multi-cultural city known to man, sans hyperbole. Toronto - a world within a city; Toronto - a city of neighbourhoods; are some cliched Torontoisms that the tourist board likes to sprout.
Most people will lambast Toronto for being a concrete monstrosity. Montrealers decry its lack of soul. Vancouverites decry its lack of natural beauty and Europeans simply laugh at the city's many faults - like our two subway lines. For years I have vehemently warded off such Toronto hatred. Every leafy tree in the Annex, every stone cut mansion in Rosedale has for me - been part of my Toronto love affair. How can you not love its odd built form, quirky markets and navel gazing neuroses. I've made an unsuccesful side-venture of taking friends on walking tours of the city's boho west end, pointing out some of the city's best features, vainly trying to convince prospective residents just how amazing Toronto is.
Now - i'll also admit its a lot easier to love Toronto when you've grown up in the Faux. My Toronto is clean, safe, verdant and the people are generally well put together. Ande even if the people are not quite right, at least you gripe about their Tiffany jewelery.
I have been Toronto's number one fan up until recently - then I looked around and thought: maybe Toronto isn't really New York run by the Swiss, as Peter Ustinov once infamously declared.
My current Torontonian lamaise has sadly nothing to do with being caught in a too-tight pair of Lululemon pants, swishing a frapuchino at the patio - rather - I've spent the past two weeks on an odd cross-city extravaganza. The past two weeks has seen Faux Hillary so far out of his league, I feel like I've been on one of those international contiki tours - fourteen countries in six days.
Last Friday evening Kitty invited me to a white and champagne party in RosedAle. "It's a white party because you're supposed to wear white," she said before adding, "Not white because of the people." I interjected.. "So who there is not going to be white? We're talking RosedAle private schoolies?" As I got drunk off of bottles of Veuve that the underemployed future of this great city stole from their parents (because we all still live at home and get paid around $35-40k a year, a salary which while isn't below the povery line doesn't allow for the disposable income to buy bottles of veuve now does it?) I looked around and thought - perfect - everyone here is white, might as well have shown up naked.
Saturday was an even greater, "Toto we're not in Kansas anymore" moment. Found myself at MP Nav Bains bbq on Saturday - 1500 Liberals from Brampton's Indo canadian community stood in a giant field getting excited by Liberal leader Stephane Dion (at least someone is excited about him) and party saviour, Justin Trudeau. Brampton and parts of Missisaugua make up the burgeoning centure of the city's large Indo-Canadian community. It is a completely different world of strip-malls with Indo-Canadian groceries, Hindu temples and other ethnic establishments.
Just north of Brampton begins the rolling hinterlands of Caledon. Caledon is for white people who raise ponies. I'm serious. Oddly enough there is such a strong demarcation between Bramtpon and Caledeon that as you drive north its almost as if Rutherford Road is the city's Mason Dixon line. The strip malls and Hindu temples end and the Olde Towne's begin. Having been at the Indo-CDN bbq figured, my friend Caitling, we may as well rejoin "our people" so we spent the late afternoon - sunning and swimming myself in a property formerly owned by the Eatons. Yes those Eatons.
Between the swim in Caledon and the white party, I was on wasp overload - so Sunday I ended up deep in the city's north west end attending the viewing of a friends father. It was my first Italian viewing - and uptown, with six of the city's finest politico fags, we schlepped up in a veritable two car pride parade. Roman Catholic church here we come! The drive - through neighbourhoods undoubtedly listed as part of the United Way's "priority neighbourhood" list, were a shock to the downtown elite. "never seen so many Coffee Time's," someone admitted. Welcome to Toronto I thought as I regailed them with my bizarre knowledge of the Village of Weston, Mount Denis and the Jane corridor. I admitted that as a youth I used to drive out to the inner suburbs in an attempt to understand the vast unyielding suburban landscape of Tarawna. Prufrock would, however, have be proud at our excursion.
Colour me Mr. Toronto right? Faux Hillary spreads his wings, learns how to fly, and realizes there's a big big world west of Bathurst. Sigh. Not really. I spent Monday at lunch sitting on a patio with my friend Sante in yorkville. The news of the day was sad: an 11 year-old child had been gunned down in Jane Shepperd, one of the city's poorest neighbourhoods. And there in white upper class Yorkville we sat amidst a sea of Gucci lamenting increasing violence in the city. Lamenting violence as if it actually effected us. Gun violence and most recent shooting has received major coverage, for obvious reasons. Politico's have been clicking their tongues about the need for gun control, your parents and my parents have shook their heads wandering what is going in their city [wasn't like this when we grew up here], Bill Blair can talk about more police officers on the city streets, but psychologically Jane and Shepperd may as well be Khandahar.
See In Toronto - shootings at Jane and Finch don't really feel like the city's problem. They feel like Jane and Finch's problem. We all care. We really really do. But Torontonian's also care about Israel, France, Russia and India. And sure Faux Hillary can attend the largest indo-Canadian bbq on the weekend, but come Monday - where could I be found? Sitting on a patio in Yorkville (essentially downtown Faux Hill) talking about a problem, not as if it was my own - but as if it was someone else's. I emphatize truly I do. And so as Sante and I sat having lunch amidst the afternoon suits in my very narrow view of Toronto thinking that sadly, the city of Toronto, as a populist macro image actually doesn't exist. Faux Hillary first, Torontonian second.
Toronto - a city of 'ghettoized' neighbourhoods?
Toronto - the world most multi-cultural city and also the most segregated.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Village Nights
I've decided the Village is missing something. A soul. No I kid. The Village is missing perhaps the greatest cultural barometer of the twenty first century; a cultural barometer so huge it signals that indeed a place has arrived in the mass consciousness of society. What is this barometer you may ask? A Laguna Beach reality TV show. However, seeing as that apparently isn't going to happen for a bevy of reasons - I've decided the Village needs its own rock opera and who better then the bard of the Village to pen said rock opera?
I'm figuring the story will be about a girl from East of Spadina macking a boy from West of Spadina. What will the neighbours say? Shunda indeed.
I've been busy at work and have already written the first song. It's to the tune of Summer Loving, from Grease.
[Benji]
Village loving had me a blast
[Jessica]
Village loving happened so fast
[Benji]
I met a JAP mishugenah for me
[Jessica]
Met a boy cute as can be
[Both]
Village days drifting away, to oh oh the Village nights
[YIDS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Did you get very far?
[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Like does he have a starbucks card?
[Benji]
She cruised by me, sipping her latte
[Jessica]
He ran by me, wearing some Louis
[Benji]
I saved her Gucci, it nearly broke
[Jessica]
He showed off, smokin some dope
[Both]
Village sun, something's begun, but oh oh the Village nights
[JAPS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Was it love at her curls?
[YIDS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Like can she bring her girls?
[Benji]
Took her out to the Village Freeze
[Jessica]
We went strolling, life seemed a breeze
[Jessica]
We made out at Davids by Day
[Benji]
We stayed up at the Hope Street Cafe
[Both]
Village fling, don't mean a thing, but oh oh the Village nights
[YIDS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
But you don't gotta brag
[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Cause he sounds like a drag
[Jessica]
He got friendly, bought me a frap
[Benji]
She got friendly with her hand in my lap
[Jessica]
He was sweet just graduated from CHAT
[Benji]
Well she was good, not your typical JAP
[Both]
Villave heat, boy and girl meet, but oh oh the Village nights
[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
How much Gucci did he own?
[YIDS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Was her hair in a messy bun?
[Jessica]
It turned colder - she went to Camp Gesher
[Benji]
So I told her we'd still be Beshert
[Jessica]
Then we made our true love vow
[Benji]
Wonder what she's doing now
[Both]
Village dreams ripped at the seams, but oh those Village nights
[All]
Tell me more, tell me more
I'm figuring the story will be about a girl from East of Spadina macking a boy from West of Spadina. What will the neighbours say? Shunda indeed.
I've been busy at work and have already written the first song. It's to the tune of Summer Loving, from Grease.
[Benji]
Village loving had me a blast
[Jessica]
Village loving happened so fast
[Benji]
I met a JAP mishugenah for me
[Jessica]
Met a boy cute as can be
[Both]
Village days drifting away, to oh oh the Village nights
[YIDS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Did you get very far?
[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Like does he have a starbucks card?
[Benji]
She cruised by me, sipping her latte
[Jessica]
He ran by me, wearing some Louis
[Benji]
I saved her Gucci, it nearly broke
[Jessica]
He showed off, smokin some dope
[Both]
Village sun, something's begun, but oh oh the Village nights
[JAPS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
Was it love at her curls?
[YIDS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Like can she bring her girls?
[Benji]
Took her out to the Village Freeze
[Jessica]
We went strolling, life seemed a breeze
[Jessica]
We made out at Davids by Day
[Benji]
We stayed up at the Hope Street Cafe
[Both]
Village fling, don't mean a thing, but oh oh the Village nights
[YIDS]
Well-a well-a well-a huh
Tell me more, tell me more
But you don't gotta brag
[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Cause he sounds like a drag
[Jessica]
He got friendly, bought me a frap
[Benji]
She got friendly with her hand in my lap
[Jessica]
He was sweet just graduated from CHAT
[Benji]
Well she was good, not your typical JAP
[Both]
Villave heat, boy and girl meet, but oh oh the Village nights
[JAPS]
Tell me more, tell me more
How much Gucci did he own?
[YIDS]
Tell me more, tell me more
Was her hair in a messy bun?
[Jessica]
It turned colder - she went to Camp Gesher
[Benji]
So I told her we'd still be Beshert
[Jessica]
Then we made our true love vow
[Benji]
Wonder what she's doing now
[Both]
Village dreams ripped at the seams, but oh those Village nights
[All]
Tell me more, tell me more
Monday, July 09, 2007
The Feminism Star
There's nothing like a gay effete to pronounce feminism dead, but, months ago I declared that 2007 was the year of living dangerously [so dangerous that I spent an afternoon at the Finch Subway Station park and ride on Friday...] so straight from the horses mouth: is feminism still alive? Does anyone still care?
I spent a fair bit of time thinking about feminism over the weekend as I sat entrapped on a "boys-only" bonding trip with my dad and his high school buddies. Let me tell you - my concept of boys only and bonding includes less flatulence, less bleching and more gay sex.
But back onto feminism... for those who have been reading the Globe and Mail, the paper is practically tripping over itself to report on the grusome death of a family from Medicine Hat, purportedly murdered by their 12 year-old daughter and her twenty-something year-old boyfriend. The defense, as is their want, have chosen to portray J.R. (the daughter protected by the young offenders act) as the victim of the persuasive power of her much older boyfriend. No matter that witnesses have stated that J.R. was overheard as saying that she murdered her family for her boyfriend. Shades of Karla Homolka have obviously been drawn. Yet the overarching theme of the defense is quite clear: the woman in question is portrayed as a defenceless victim ruined by her unscrupulous older boyfriend.
Now that, one may argue, is a Medicine Hat murder trial, where an intelligent lawyer is simply trying to get his client, a poor defenceless victim herself, off. And certainly a poor and innocent female is better representation then the press portraying her as evil Eve to a hapless Adam. But wait... can't we be equal opportunists when it comes to serial killer's too?
But back to the Faux, where the bra burning ancestors of yesteryear reside in their "what me worry?" state.
Recently the Globe and Mail featured an unintentionally hilarious story about a missing 16 year-old. The teen supposedly a distant daughter of the city's beloved robber barron Eaton family. There are hundreds of missing people a year in Canada [ I actually looked at the stats can statistics before I almost got fired for not doing work at work...], over 40 missing females were killed by a serial killer in Vancouver, however, they were prostitutes so who the fuck cares, right? But the case of a missing teen and a distant relative of Canadian retail royalty gets a full page story in the Globe and Mail. Hilarious!
Even better were the accompanying quotes. The missing teen's father was quoted as saying about her apparent hideout at Bathurst and Steeles, "That's a long, long way from Forest Hill in more ways than one." He said he and his wife, Mary, were worried that someone might prey on his daughter because of her family's wealth. "Fifteen-year-old girls from this part of town are vulnerable." Once again: poor, innocent defenceless female, bad bad men.
So if teenage girls around the Faux are vulnerable because of their wealth and sex, then what are their mothers like? Well - if the mummies I see lingering round the ravine every morning are any indication - vulnerability isn't a word I'd use to describe them, and I'm not sure Gloria Steinham would be a huge fan either.
To call a spade a spade - woman (and heck a lot of men in the Faux) don't work. This is fine. The old adage being that parenthood is the most important job of your life and blah blah blah. Feminism of course taught us all that women could be just as powerful and important as men in whatever their chosen field.
But what if their chosen field is sitting at Starbucks? Isn't that indicative that Faux Hill Feminism is DOA?
Once I overheard a group of mothers sit on the patio describing their disastisfaction with the lunch served at their children's private school. "You should see the crap they're serving at lunch."
Hmm... here's a thought, actually two suggestions:
1) You make the lunch yourself
2) Your child makes their own lunch
This was the same group that offered this nugget of wisdom: "Judith, hire your nanny before you give birth. It's easier to train them when you're still pregnant. Once the baby comes you won't have to do anything."
Am I being jaded or has privilege killed the Femisinism Star, we can't rewind we've gone to far.
(please direct hate mail to my manager Sarah Gold)
I spent a fair bit of time thinking about feminism over the weekend as I sat entrapped on a "boys-only" bonding trip with my dad and his high school buddies. Let me tell you - my concept of boys only and bonding includes less flatulence, less bleching and more gay sex.
But back onto feminism... for those who have been reading the Globe and Mail, the paper is practically tripping over itself to report on the grusome death of a family from Medicine Hat, purportedly murdered by their 12 year-old daughter and her twenty-something year-old boyfriend. The defense, as is their want, have chosen to portray J.R. (the daughter protected by the young offenders act) as the victim of the persuasive power of her much older boyfriend. No matter that witnesses have stated that J.R. was overheard as saying that she murdered her family for her boyfriend. Shades of Karla Homolka have obviously been drawn. Yet the overarching theme of the defense is quite clear: the woman in question is portrayed as a defenceless victim ruined by her unscrupulous older boyfriend.
Now that, one may argue, is a Medicine Hat murder trial, where an intelligent lawyer is simply trying to get his client, a poor defenceless victim herself, off. And certainly a poor and innocent female is better representation then the press portraying her as evil Eve to a hapless Adam. But wait... can't we be equal opportunists when it comes to serial killer's too?
But back to the Faux, where the bra burning ancestors of yesteryear reside in their "what me worry?" state.
Recently the Globe and Mail featured an unintentionally hilarious story about a missing 16 year-old. The teen supposedly a distant daughter of the city's beloved robber barron Eaton family. There are hundreds of missing people a year in Canada [ I actually looked at the stats can statistics before I almost got fired for not doing work at work...], over 40 missing females were killed by a serial killer in Vancouver, however, they were prostitutes so who the fuck cares, right? But the case of a missing teen and a distant relative of Canadian retail royalty gets a full page story in the Globe and Mail. Hilarious!
Even better were the accompanying quotes. The missing teen's father was quoted as saying about her apparent hideout at Bathurst and Steeles, "That's a long, long way from Forest Hill in more ways than one." He said he and his wife, Mary, were worried that someone might prey on his daughter because of her family's wealth. "Fifteen-year-old girls from this part of town are vulnerable." Once again: poor, innocent defenceless female, bad bad men.
So if teenage girls around the Faux are vulnerable because of their wealth and sex, then what are their mothers like? Well - if the mummies I see lingering round the ravine every morning are any indication - vulnerability isn't a word I'd use to describe them, and I'm not sure Gloria Steinham would be a huge fan either.
To call a spade a spade - woman (and heck a lot of men in the Faux) don't work. This is fine. The old adage being that parenthood is the most important job of your life and blah blah blah. Feminism of course taught us all that women could be just as powerful and important as men in whatever their chosen field.
But what if their chosen field is sitting at Starbucks? Isn't that indicative that Faux Hill Feminism is DOA?
Once I overheard a group of mothers sit on the patio describing their disastisfaction with the lunch served at their children's private school. "You should see the crap they're serving at lunch."
Hmm... here's a thought, actually two suggestions:
1) You make the lunch yourself
2) Your child makes their own lunch
This was the same group that offered this nugget of wisdom: "Judith, hire your nanny before you give birth. It's easier to train them when you're still pregnant. Once the baby comes you won't have to do anything."
Am I being jaded or has privilege killed the Femisinism Star, we can't rewind we've gone to far.
(please direct hate mail to my manager Sarah Gold)
Monday, July 02, 2007
Living Beyond Ones Means
There was a great article in Toronto Life about a year ago entitled "Faking It". Faking It described the scads of RosedAliens and Faux Hillary's whom had big homes, big salaries and great big scads of debt. The accompanying article interviewed desparate housewives crying about having to cut down on fresh flower delivery, moving into "smaller" centre hall houses in their attempting to downsize, running up enormous tabs at Pusateri's, while cutting out a family trip to their favourite five star resort in Jamaica. Cue violins.
Now the residents of the Village aren't exaclty scraping by like the lovely woman who makes latte's in the morning at Starbucks (I've heard her complain about her poor wages during smoke breaks, so I'm not making a snap judgement about how people who work at Starbucks may be financially marginalized - this is a fact, reserve your judgements for when I'm actually being a hypocritical judgemental asshole, k?), but in the minds of the article subjects - they were indeed just scraping by. And really, Faking It, may as well be the license plate inscription, were the Faux to become its own province or state.
The Village of Forest Hill
Motto: Living Life in Luon
Creed: Faking It!
Faking it, is in many ways a class disease. My boss at work, who grew up in a nice suburban housing tract of North York and her husband (from somewhere OOT (outside of Toronto) both probably make as much as my parents do, difference being - she's a WalMart shopper, Sima as you may or may not have guessed has never been to WalMart. Boss's motto - why pay more if you can get it for cheap at Wal Mart? Same distinction found Sima spending the GDP of Lesotho on a hand made leather sofa from a store on King East, when Boss found something similar at Ikea. Now Sima may never have been to Wal Mart, but she has, of course, been to a Target. In fact she loves Target. They do have cashmere at Target if that's a barometer of anything. And really... that's what the Faux is all about. The supposedly 'finer' things in life. I bought really nice beef ribs for my ex at Pusateri's for a BBQ, prompting my boss to ask, "who buys meat at pusateri's?" I do... and so do my neighbours? In Toronto it seems that your postal code determines your shopping habbits.
Family friends the Silverstein's (not their real name) have a huge house a couple of blocks away. They drive two late model Mercedes Benz's, she has a Cartier watch encrusted with diamonds... yet their house, according to one contractor, is "one snowstorm short of falling apart." It's completely empty inside, devoid of furniture - see as long as the flower planter is the biggest on the street no one realizes you can't afford to furnish the place. And certainly - the Silverstein's aren't poor, nor are they close to filing for bankruptcy - in fact should they sell the house, move into a smaller place they'd be laughing all the way to the proverbial bank. But - remember people, life in the Village is all about showing and not telling.
But faking it is not just about class, it's also genetic. Luckily enough though my peers have learned such valuable lessons of show and tell from our rents.
Take Pat who decided to move out of the family house near Summerhill. Fair enough right? Eventually every Alien must leave the nest of roses, but must every Alien run up a monthly tab at Summerhill Market? Claiming poor to their father at the end of the month? No spouse not.
And on to myself... like father, like son indeed. I've recently found myself an apartment to live in (yes I know... I'm moving, another post my friends, another post). The apartment, an overpriced shoe box, happens to reside on a pretty tree-lined street in the city's faux hippie enclave of the Annex. Renovated turn of the century houses, stained glass windows and crown mouldings... where else would a son of the Village find himself? Cityplace? The Bloor West Village? Cabbagetown. Please. Why would I find a cheaper apartment a little bit further away from downtown? Why would my parents buy a house a little bit further north, cutting down on their mortgage? Because that is who, for better or worse, we all are.
Point being? My carpets may be threadbare and I may only be buying myself tulips once every month but my apartment will be located on the right street in the right neighbourhood and I will be overpaying beyond my means for that right, and that my friends, is how its done in the Village (or in the Annex), bitch.
Now the residents of the Village aren't exaclty scraping by like the lovely woman who makes latte's in the morning at Starbucks (I've heard her complain about her poor wages during smoke breaks, so I'm not making a snap judgement about how people who work at Starbucks may be financially marginalized - this is a fact, reserve your judgements for when I'm actually being a hypocritical judgemental asshole, k?), but in the minds of the article subjects - they were indeed just scraping by. And really, Faking It, may as well be the license plate inscription, were the Faux to become its own province or state.
The Village of Forest Hill
Motto: Living Life in Luon
Creed: Faking It!
Faking it, is in many ways a class disease. My boss at work, who grew up in a nice suburban housing tract of North York and her husband (from somewhere OOT (outside of Toronto) both probably make as much as my parents do, difference being - she's a WalMart shopper, Sima as you may or may not have guessed has never been to WalMart. Boss's motto - why pay more if you can get it for cheap at Wal Mart? Same distinction found Sima spending the GDP of Lesotho on a hand made leather sofa from a store on King East, when Boss found something similar at Ikea. Now Sima may never have been to Wal Mart, but she has, of course, been to a Target. In fact she loves Target. They do have cashmere at Target if that's a barometer of anything. And really... that's what the Faux is all about. The supposedly 'finer' things in life. I bought really nice beef ribs for my ex at Pusateri's for a BBQ, prompting my boss to ask, "who buys meat at pusateri's?" I do... and so do my neighbours? In Toronto it seems that your postal code determines your shopping habbits.
Family friends the Silverstein's (not their real name) have a huge house a couple of blocks away. They drive two late model Mercedes Benz's, she has a Cartier watch encrusted with diamonds... yet their house, according to one contractor, is "one snowstorm short of falling apart." It's completely empty inside, devoid of furniture - see as long as the flower planter is the biggest on the street no one realizes you can't afford to furnish the place. And certainly - the Silverstein's aren't poor, nor are they close to filing for bankruptcy - in fact should they sell the house, move into a smaller place they'd be laughing all the way to the proverbial bank. But - remember people, life in the Village is all about showing and not telling.
But faking it is not just about class, it's also genetic. Luckily enough though my peers have learned such valuable lessons of show and tell from our rents.
Take Pat who decided to move out of the family house near Summerhill. Fair enough right? Eventually every Alien must leave the nest of roses, but must every Alien run up a monthly tab at Summerhill Market? Claiming poor to their father at the end of the month? No spouse not.
And on to myself... like father, like son indeed. I've recently found myself an apartment to live in (yes I know... I'm moving, another post my friends, another post). The apartment, an overpriced shoe box, happens to reside on a pretty tree-lined street in the city's faux hippie enclave of the Annex. Renovated turn of the century houses, stained glass windows and crown mouldings... where else would a son of the Village find himself? Cityplace? The Bloor West Village? Cabbagetown. Please. Why would I find a cheaper apartment a little bit further away from downtown? Why would my parents buy a house a little bit further north, cutting down on their mortgage? Because that is who, for better or worse, we all are.
Point being? My carpets may be threadbare and I may only be buying myself tulips once every month but my apartment will be located on the right street in the right neighbourhood and I will be overpaying beyond my means for that right, and that my friends, is how its done in the Village (or in the Annex), bitch.
Friday, June 29, 2007
From Shirtsleeves to Shirtsleeves in Three Generations
Tuesday found Faux Hillary out of his league. Or not quite out my league, but certainly far away from my comfort zone (read Spadina and Lonsdale).
I found myself attending a function at the city's much vaunted Drake Hotel. The Drake is a bar, come hotel, come scene in and of itself. It's opening is credited with transforming a once wayward stretch of Queen Street into hipster central. The beautiful patio opening one summer when we were all watching the OC and everyone was adding the word "the" in front of everything, hence the obsiqutous, the Drake. Remember that summer; thank god that's over. For a summer everyone and their monther (except for Sim Sim Sima, she's has NO time for bars) was talking about how much of a genius Jeff (owner of the Drake) Stober was.
The Drake is one of those places that isn't actaully cool anymore (some may argue it was never 'cool' at all). The Hipsters have moved on from Queen and Ossington, further west, and wouldn't be caught dead inside of the Drake; regardless though there's enough of grit left on the streets surrounding for the city's I-Banker crowd to feel like they're doing something unusual rather then spending yet another evening staring at the fake titties and faux hair at Hemingways. That's the thing about the Drake, it provided a nice bit of cleanliness in an otherwise dirty area. It was never really marketted to actual hipsters - instead it's sorta like Main Street USA in Disney Land - come be a hipster for a night, but with clean bathrooms, more cocaine and less incense. Drake owner Jeff Stober even lives in the Village if you really want to understand his headspace about the whole thing.
But back to the event...
First encounter of the third kind, Faux Hillary runs into an old friend. The climber, as we'll call her, is, to put it mildly, intense. A day-trader at a downtown investment banking firm she once drunkenly slapped me with her Gucci bag and slurred, "how much do you make, I can get you a job where you'll be making $2000 a week." The Climber, a beautiful leggy blond, was truly out and about to show off her latest and greatest boyfriend, none other then the unemployed schlub of a very old money Toronto family. The type of family whose name adorns buildings at U of T but whose third generation is known not for their philanthropic spirit or shrewd business decisions... but still, a name is still a name.
Before leaving I had the good fortune to run into an even older friend, apparently a friend of the Climber. The Snob, if you will, works with the Climber at whatever banking firm pays that much money a week. Having not seen the Snob since elementary school we did the brief update on our lives (I enjoy throwing in the gratuitous mention of being gay at this point so as to spread that shit around the gossip world, "Do you know who is gay?" "I'm not surprised, didn't you think he was gay in elementary school?" "Ya but didn't he have a girlfriend?" "Do you think she knows now?" "Well maybe we shouldn't say something?")
The Snob asked me what I was doing, "i work in philanthropy at a not for profit." The Snob smiled... "Oh that's so sweet. I'm working for all the money and you're at a not for profit. That's so... cute."
Cute indeed.
I found myself attending a function at the city's much vaunted Drake Hotel. The Drake is a bar, come hotel, come scene in and of itself. It's opening is credited with transforming a once wayward stretch of Queen Street into hipster central. The beautiful patio opening one summer when we were all watching the OC and everyone was adding the word "the" in front of everything, hence the obsiqutous, the Drake. Remember that summer; thank god that's over. For a summer everyone and their monther (except for Sim Sim Sima, she's has NO time for bars) was talking about how much of a genius Jeff (owner of the Drake) Stober was.
The Drake is one of those places that isn't actaully cool anymore (some may argue it was never 'cool' at all). The Hipsters have moved on from Queen and Ossington, further west, and wouldn't be caught dead inside of the Drake; regardless though there's enough of grit left on the streets surrounding for the city's I-Banker crowd to feel like they're doing something unusual rather then spending yet another evening staring at the fake titties and faux hair at Hemingways. That's the thing about the Drake, it provided a nice bit of cleanliness in an otherwise dirty area. It was never really marketted to actual hipsters - instead it's sorta like Main Street USA in Disney Land - come be a hipster for a night, but with clean bathrooms, more cocaine and less incense. Drake owner Jeff Stober even lives in the Village if you really want to understand his headspace about the whole thing.
But back to the event...
First encounter of the third kind, Faux Hillary runs into an old friend. The climber, as we'll call her, is, to put it mildly, intense. A day-trader at a downtown investment banking firm she once drunkenly slapped me with her Gucci bag and slurred, "how much do you make, I can get you a job where you'll be making $2000 a week." The Climber, a beautiful leggy blond, was truly out and about to show off her latest and greatest boyfriend, none other then the unemployed schlub of a very old money Toronto family. The type of family whose name adorns buildings at U of T but whose third generation is known not for their philanthropic spirit or shrewd business decisions... but still, a name is still a name.
Before leaving I had the good fortune to run into an even older friend, apparently a friend of the Climber. The Snob, if you will, works with the Climber at whatever banking firm pays that much money a week. Having not seen the Snob since elementary school we did the brief update on our lives (I enjoy throwing in the gratuitous mention of being gay at this point so as to spread that shit around the gossip world, "Do you know who is gay?" "I'm not surprised, didn't you think he was gay in elementary school?" "Ya but didn't he have a girlfriend?" "Do you think she knows now?" "Well maybe we shouldn't say something?")
The Snob asked me what I was doing, "i work in philanthropy at a not for profit." The Snob smiled... "Oh that's so sweet. I'm working for all the money and you're at a not for profit. That's so... cute."
Cute indeed.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Third Estate
I went out for frozen yogurt with my friend Momo last night. We had planned to go for drinks, but realized we were both exhausted by our respective jobs. Frozen yogurt seemed to be the best answer.
"Why is there so much garbage here?" Momo asked as we sat on a bench right at Spadina and Lonsdale.
"Because the children don't know how to pick up for themselves. That's what the nanny is for." I replied.
"Or in my case... three philipino's." Momo was referring to her boss's family who has not one, not two, but three nannies (apparently they got the bulk discount at the Philipino Nanny Depot [is that awful of me to say?]).
As Momo and I sat eating our fro-yo witnessing the parade of Channel fanny packs, Gucci aviators and the like I realized I had seen the same characters here before. This makes sense because the Village isn't really a popular destination for most Torontonians or tourists. The Faux is not like the Beaches or Yorkville - you'd never take an out of town guest on a tour unless said out of town guest was a human anthropologist interested in studying the obnoxious behaviours of wealthy Torontonians. Subsequently the Village maintains its sorta introspective bubble. To quote a friend, "I'll cry if I don't live here when I grow up."
Broken down, the Village, much like acien france the Village has three "estates":
1) Residents - the botoxed beauties who live here, the husbands, Andrew Coyne and myself
2) Wannabe residents - these are people who don't really live in the Village but have ingrained themselves into the scene. These people like the Village more then the residents - they LOVE it. They're regulars at Sotto Sotto and pick up their dry cleaning at Parker's even though they live at Yonge and Lawrence.
3) The Help - ie construction workers and nannies, the subdued proletariat if you will.
The third estate is a rather confusing segment.
As I was walking to work the other day, a construction worked stopped me on the sidewalk.
"Is there a Tim Horton's around here?" He asked. I did'nt know what to say beyond... a hell's no. This is Latte Land my friend... ask one of the local Starbetic's what a double double is and you're bond to hear this: "that's the new mani pedi deal they're offering at the Forest Hill Spa right?"
To Quote Abbe Sieyes:
What is the Third Estate? Everything
What has it been hereto in the political order? Nothing
What does it demand? A Tim Hortons!
Marx is probably rolling over in his grave right now.
"Why is there so much garbage here?" Momo asked as we sat on a bench right at Spadina and Lonsdale.
"Because the children don't know how to pick up for themselves. That's what the nanny is for." I replied.
"Or in my case... three philipino's." Momo was referring to her boss's family who has not one, not two, but three nannies (apparently they got the bulk discount at the Philipino Nanny Depot [is that awful of me to say?]).
As Momo and I sat eating our fro-yo witnessing the parade of Channel fanny packs, Gucci aviators and the like I realized I had seen the same characters here before. This makes sense because the Village isn't really a popular destination for most Torontonians or tourists. The Faux is not like the Beaches or Yorkville - you'd never take an out of town guest on a tour unless said out of town guest was a human anthropologist interested in studying the obnoxious behaviours of wealthy Torontonians. Subsequently the Village maintains its sorta introspective bubble. To quote a friend, "I'll cry if I don't live here when I grow up."
Broken down, the Village, much like acien france the Village has three "estates":
1) Residents - the botoxed beauties who live here, the husbands, Andrew Coyne and myself
2) Wannabe residents - these are people who don't really live in the Village but have ingrained themselves into the scene. These people like the Village more then the residents - they LOVE it. They're regulars at Sotto Sotto and pick up their dry cleaning at Parker's even though they live at Yonge and Lawrence.
3) The Help - ie construction workers and nannies, the subdued proletariat if you will.
The third estate is a rather confusing segment.
As I was walking to work the other day, a construction worked stopped me on the sidewalk.
"Is there a Tim Horton's around here?" He asked. I did'nt know what to say beyond... a hell's no. This is Latte Land my friend... ask one of the local Starbetic's what a double double is and you're bond to hear this: "that's the new mani pedi deal they're offering at the Forest Hill Spa right?"
To Quote Abbe Sieyes:
What is the Third Estate? Everything
What has it been hereto in the political order? Nothing
What does it demand? A Tim Hortons!
Marx is probably rolling over in his grave right now.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Village Pride
An anonymous poster a couple of posts down accused me of being a "bad person and class traitor." I don't like to think of myself as a bad person; caustic, yes; embittered at times, sure; emotional, check - but bad person? Them's fighting words.
Today - being father's day, we held a giant brunch. My family friends the Whiterock's - their house a wine cellar - showed up a couple of hours late, hightaling it from Muskoka only to complain about the traffic (I love when people complain about cottage traffic...). Thankfully they brough their son, Whiterock Jr., and his [asian] girlfriend. This is amusing because scandalized guests can turn to my mother only to state the obvious, "Did you see his girlfriend? She's asian." Once, one of my mother's friend used the word Oriental to describe her. It was simultaneously so awkward and so amazing. As I stood in the kitchen washing dishes I thought that the brunch would be a FABULOUS (note the use of the word) time to introduce my non-existent significant other to the extended family. "This is 'so and so...'" I'd say, "we fuck." No amount of Gucci could replicate the look of shock I'd expect from some of my parents friends.
I longed for escape; as the party droned on Whiterock Jr ends up prostelatyzing guests about his weird blend of pseudo populist, neo conservative vision for Canadian politics, while I watched the fresia melt under the sun. Once everyone had left I wound up in the Village, natch, sipping iced tea and sweating. It was a usual sunday in the Village - the fashion monotony was broken up only by a seventeen year old in a black tank top, black shorts and black Uggs. UGGS. WINTER BOOTS. FYI - it's 35 degrees outside.
What happened next is a first for the Village, at least in my own experiences. It was something which actually brought a smile, yes a smile, to my curmudgeonly face: hark, in the distance, appearing almost out of nowhere - two men walked together hand-in-hand, down Spadina cutting a swath through the Village.
And so I thought, maybe the Village has a bit of pride after all?
Happy Pride Week Y'all.
Today - being father's day, we held a giant brunch. My family friends the Whiterock's - their house a wine cellar - showed up a couple of hours late, hightaling it from Muskoka only to complain about the traffic (I love when people complain about cottage traffic...). Thankfully they brough their son, Whiterock Jr., and his [asian] girlfriend. This is amusing because scandalized guests can turn to my mother only to state the obvious, "Did you see his girlfriend? She's asian." Once, one of my mother's friend used the word Oriental to describe her. It was simultaneously so awkward and so amazing. As I stood in the kitchen washing dishes I thought that the brunch would be a FABULOUS (note the use of the word) time to introduce my non-existent significant other to the extended family. "This is 'so and so...'" I'd say, "we fuck." No amount of Gucci could replicate the look of shock I'd expect from some of my parents friends.
I longed for escape; as the party droned on Whiterock Jr ends up prostelatyzing guests about his weird blend of pseudo populist, neo conservative vision for Canadian politics, while I watched the fresia melt under the sun. Once everyone had left I wound up in the Village, natch, sipping iced tea and sweating. It was a usual sunday in the Village - the fashion monotony was broken up only by a seventeen year old in a black tank top, black shorts and black Uggs. UGGS. WINTER BOOTS. FYI - it's 35 degrees outside.
What happened next is a first for the Village, at least in my own experiences. It was something which actually brought a smile, yes a smile, to my curmudgeonly face: hark, in the distance, appearing almost out of nowhere - two men walked together hand-in-hand, down Spadina cutting a swath through the Village.
And so I thought, maybe the Village has a bit of pride after all?
Happy Pride Week Y'all.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Impatients
Impatiens - are flowers that most people plant in their yards come summer. They're cheap and colourful and are easy enough to maintain, with your underground automatic sprinkler and or gardener they're really no trouble for the busy Faux Hill executive. I always thought Impatiens were spelled impatients, as in lack of patience. I imagined that the clever pun loving botanist who named them had a good chorttle at his own expense upon coming up with the name. "By george I'm brilliant - when you plant impatients you don't have to be patient - these flowers provide instant colour!" Have I mentioned that I used to work in advertising? I've never felt so stupid when I looked on wikipedia the other day and realized the error of my ways.
Impatience, however, has been on my brain of late. Having been recently dumped - by someone who argued that he wasn't quite ready to be in the relationship I wanted, arguing I was looking for a husband, he wasn't (don't you love 2007 though, FYI? GAY MARRIAGE!!), was a bit of a harsh blow. When I finally sorted out the emotional upheaval of having my heart broken - the only lingering doubt was a fear for my own future. Why was I so impatient to settle into adulthood?
So like most other things - I blamed the Faux for latent feelings of neuroses. It's cheaper then therapy and really... WWSD? Actually I'll let you know what Sim Sim Sima would say, "therapy? total waste of money." Hi mom!
After much introspection I've identified two problems with the Faux Hill lifestyle and its effects on the spawn of its residents. (I know only two!)
1) The Faux raises the fear of failure [say it ten times really quickly].
Growing up amongst upper middle class affluence is a frightening prospect when you're 25 and trying to figure out your future. A certain fear of never being able to replicate your parents' success and buy the centre hall mock Tudor house you've been raised in is a very cognizant nightmare. Brynnah, now in New York, once wrote me an email when she was interning at a PR firm, "what if I end up making $35,000 for the rest of my life and living in Pickering." I know these aren't huge issues and perhaps sound spoiled (oh wait they are). People are in fact dying in Africa and all... but to quote my mother, "It's easier to have nothing and make something of yourself, then to." A good friend and I were walking in between our respective houses in the Village the other night because yes we both still live at home and as we walked through the manicured streets, we exchanged pleasantries with neighbours, before she finally turned to me in near tears and said: "is this where you thought you'd be at 25?" What she meant was, did you think you'd be living at home and waking up every day wondering if we would ever find happiness and job fulfillment (questionable at 25)? There were no words of comfort of course; what do you say when you're feeling the exact same thing and you realize that at 25 your parents were married and owned a house.
Problemo numero uno leads to the second issue:
2) The indecision of wealth. I sat with my friend Jer at Starbucks the other day. He admitted that at 24 he had no clue what to do with his life. I told him that like everyone else we know he was just indecisive. There were too many options on our table; our cup doth runeth over with suggestions. By the end of our convo he decided to spend a year in Australia, hoping a period of travel would provide some answers or at least delay the inevitable rush to law school. He admitted that everyone we knew was doing "something" travelling or studying abroad that he couldn't quite commit himself to anything.
Indecision is a mark of privilege I realize. And for a generation of youts whose baby boomer parents have indulged our every whim, no wonder why we have no patience for these intermittent years. Making decisions isn't quite so fun and let's face it - Faux Hillary's just want to have fun.
Another friend admitted that he wanted to fast-forward to his thirtieth birthday party. He pictured his wife and baby sitting around a dining room table presenting a cake to him. He actually contemplated dating a thirty year old whose biological clock was ticking so loudly that on their first date she literally asked him to bare her children. That odd sense of him actually found this attractive - instant family; no decisions had to be made.
Before we parted for coffee Jeremy said something mildly profound "ya know - we're lucky we don't have student debt." And he was correct - as Jer and I sat in a coffee shop drinking four dollar latte's wondering what we were going to do with our lives, I could count the number of people I know who were struggling to pay off their student debt wondering why they had to work two jobs to make ends meet.
That's the problem of course when you're part of a decadent generation (of which I'm only too happy to be a part of - no sense being high and mighty today). Money buys trips to Africa, a year or two spent teaching English in Japan as we try and find ourselves, aimlessly fearing the future and our own indecisiveness. But on the flip side, no one's dying, which probably makes matters that much worth. It's hard to feel sorry for yourself, when life isn't that awful.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Africa
"I hear the drums echoing tonight
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She's coming in 12:30 flight
The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation
I stopped an old man along the way
Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies
He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"
CHORUS:
It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I blessed the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had"
Ahh... Toto. Thank you for being a one hit wonder circa 1982. The song Africa, as many people have noted over the years, has little to do with the actual continent. Like most people's fascination with the Dark Continent - Toto's lyrics are really about Toto itself; or about the band's keyboardist missing his woman... and really who I am to judge?
Ahh... Africa. Never been. And yet... I get the sense these days that Africa is a theme park for your average Faux Hillary. Africa is the new Europe.
I got an email from a friend the other day, a self-described, typical Toronto snob. She had been unable to find a "real" job since graduation in Toronto. "I'm bored. So I've decided to go to Africa." Note... I'm not sure which country she's going to (Africa FYI is a pretty big place!). There was never a mention about really wanting to go to Africa. No, "I've always wanted to go to Africa. I've decided to use my undergraduate degree in African Studies with a minor in International Development Studies to actually learn first-hand about Africa." Nope. Nothing. Simply... yawn, Toronto is boring :( Africa is fun!
Another friend - CB is currently in Ghanna. I'm not quite sure what she's doing beyond "saving the children". Every once in a while I get a mass email about CB's latest exploits. The latest, "I now understand real poverty," have seemingly had a profound impact on her own life, "I think I finally understand myself," she writes, "all of my anger, my rage of the years... being hear and faced with such conflict and poverty has made me feel so much more in tune with myself; my own issues."
Just as Toto's Africa wasn't about the actual continent, today's Africa isn't about saving the world, its about saving your parents cash-money in therapy bills. At least there's more room for me at the Starbucks patio!
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She's coming in 12:30 flight
The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation
I stopped an old man along the way
Hoping to find some old forgotten words or ancient melodies
He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"
CHORUS:
It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I blessed the rains down in Africa
Gonna take some time to do the things we never had"
Ahh... Toto. Thank you for being a one hit wonder circa 1982. The song Africa, as many people have noted over the years, has little to do with the actual continent. Like most people's fascination with the Dark Continent - Toto's lyrics are really about Toto itself; or about the band's keyboardist missing his woman... and really who I am to judge?
Ahh... Africa. Never been. And yet... I get the sense these days that Africa is a theme park for your average Faux Hillary. Africa is the new Europe.
I got an email from a friend the other day, a self-described, typical Toronto snob. She had been unable to find a "real" job since graduation in Toronto. "I'm bored. So I've decided to go to Africa." Note... I'm not sure which country she's going to (Africa FYI is a pretty big place!). There was never a mention about really wanting to go to Africa. No, "I've always wanted to go to Africa. I've decided to use my undergraduate degree in African Studies with a minor in International Development Studies to actually learn first-hand about Africa." Nope. Nothing. Simply... yawn, Toronto is boring :( Africa is fun!
Another friend - CB is currently in Ghanna. I'm not quite sure what she's doing beyond "saving the children". Every once in a while I get a mass email about CB's latest exploits. The latest, "I now understand real poverty," have seemingly had a profound impact on her own life, "I think I finally understand myself," she writes, "all of my anger, my rage of the years... being hear and faced with such conflict and poverty has made me feel so much more in tune with myself; my own issues."
Just as Toto's Africa wasn't about the actual continent, today's Africa isn't about saving the world, its about saving your parents cash-money in therapy bills. At least there's more room for me at the Starbucks patio!
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Lawn Bowling
My dear friend Chessy [Yiddishe for Caitlin] the original RosedAlian has recently migrated from the family home on Binscarth to Davisville Village. Here she has alligned herself with the local lawn bowling club, established 1928. I'm still not quite sure what lawn bowling is - but I'm pretty sure it's about as gentry as you can get in Canada without going duck hunting with a member of the Eaton family up in Caledon.
This weekend Chessy roped a bunch of us to spend the afternoon power sanding, power washing and power painting. Power bottom jokes went unnoticed by this crowd of private schoolies and National Post writer's. Gay? I spent most of the day leering at one of Chessy's sisters friends (established 1986) whom in my mind was a repressed Upper Canada old boy waiting for an older man to show him the joys of gay sex... Chessy said I could day dream; just not touch. Sigh. He was wearing a polo and madras shorts... I'm only human.
A friend called me while I was the club, "You're lawn bowling? I didn't know Jews lawn-bowled."
"We don't."
"So why you going?"
"Same reason I go to the Toronto Lawn."
"Find a man?"
"Yup. Where else can I meet my gaygetz?"
"Maybe your WASP boyfriend doesn't lawnbowl?"
Embracing my weekend of extremes I attended a fundraiser for the Sex Professional Workers of Canada on Sunday evening. Bitches are unionizing and if you thought CUPE Local 4400 was militant, I suggest you talk to an angry transvestite prostitute. She knows pain; over paid transit workers, not so much.
As I waited, awkwardly, for my friend to arrive, as videos of boys jerking off played in the background I looked down had a Marisa Tomei, in My Cousin Vinnie moment. Really... did I have to wear a lacoste polo, cardigan and loafers? Contemplating what exactly is the correct outfit to wear to a fundraiser for sex workers I realized that at the end of the day - you can take the boy out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the boy.
This weekend Chessy roped a bunch of us to spend the afternoon power sanding, power washing and power painting. Power bottom jokes went unnoticed by this crowd of private schoolies and National Post writer's. Gay? I spent most of the day leering at one of Chessy's sisters friends (established 1986) whom in my mind was a repressed Upper Canada old boy waiting for an older man to show him the joys of gay sex... Chessy said I could day dream; just not touch. Sigh. He was wearing a polo and madras shorts... I'm only human.
A friend called me while I was the club, "You're lawn bowling? I didn't know Jews lawn-bowled."
"We don't."
"So why you going?"
"Same reason I go to the Toronto Lawn."
"Find a man?"
"Yup. Where else can I meet my gaygetz?"
"Maybe your WASP boyfriend doesn't lawnbowl?"
Embracing my weekend of extremes I attended a fundraiser for the Sex Professional Workers of Canada on Sunday evening. Bitches are unionizing and if you thought CUPE Local 4400 was militant, I suggest you talk to an angry transvestite prostitute. She knows pain; over paid transit workers, not so much.
As I waited, awkwardly, for my friend to arrive, as videos of boys jerking off played in the background I looked down had a Marisa Tomei, in My Cousin Vinnie moment. Really... did I have to wear a lacoste polo, cardigan and loafers? Contemplating what exactly is the correct outfit to wear to a fundraiser for sex workers I realized that at the end of the day - you can take the boy out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the boy.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Lament for a Village
The other day - as I sat on the subway commuting to my place of work... my friend Lobo looked at me and screamed. Little black worms were crawling up and down the neatly pressed sleaves of my oxford shirt (the same shirt that I had Parker's clean for $5.00 after getting into an argument with my cheap downtown dry cleaner... sigh, guess that personal jihad is over).
Suddenly I began to notice the black worms everywhere in the Faux's many ravines. At first I thought the worms, a new species - Faux Vermes - were a possible product of global warming. The longer and hotter spring had perhaps created a larger window for the seemingly innocuous worms to spawn and take over additional territory. However, after jumping down from my Al Gore perch - is it really an inconvenient truth? - I started thinking that Faux Vermes were tied to much more sinister developments round the Faux.
I would argue that there are few binding myth's that hold the Village together as distinct from the rest of the city. Although a love of Starbucks and all things Gucci would seemingly point to a strong sense of common identity these characteristics are at base simply proof of rampant commercialism. Does Lululemon equate the concept of a Village sovereign identity - or is it simply an extension of a pervasive mono-culture?
Yet for all of my attempt to lambast this place - the Village does have its own special physicallity to it. Mostly constructured in the 1920's and 1930's the Village's staid Georgian and Mock Tudor houses provided a welcoming respite for Toronto's emerging upper middle classes. The Faux allowed lawyers and doctors to escape downtown Toronto's cramped Victorian row houses for a life in the suburbs. The Village was and is the original extension of that cliched North American dream. Essentially a early twentieth century garden suburb - there is nothing special about the Faux's geographic plot of land; yet the 'hood is consistently referred to as exclusive or tony in the pages of Toronto's papers. Yet it retains this air of exclusivity regardless of the rather plainess of its natural beauty. The Faux does NOT for example have the geographic splendour of its Montreal equivalent: Outremont and Westmount. No - the Village and its bucolic glory is actually very Torontonian - quiet and efficient - magnificence has never been what the Village is selling; rather, its shiny red brick boxes, gracefully placed behind wide front lawns, each crowned with a large maple tree, have been the key features which have created an image of everlasting elegance.
With sadness, however, this Village is no more. It's Upper Middle Class tax bracket has long since been broken by increasing wealth - doctor's and lawyer's don't live here anymore - inherited wealth, stock broker's and the like have long since moved to town - tearing down vintage 1920's centre hall's to erect faux chateau stone monstrosities, often too big for their plot of land and which lear over their neighbours, with a showy sense of non-modernity, as if proclaiming that, "hey our leaded glass windows and dental moulding makes us look old right?" This is in fact faux on top of faux [remember the tear-down of today is actually a mock tudor]- a concept too difficult for my simple mind to wrap its head around.
I know... this sounds all rather classist of me doesn't it? Decrying the new money that has suddenly usurped my pleasant utopia, as if these "people" don't deserve to experience to the type of lifestyle and serenity that has attracted Toronto's elite for the past several decades. And yet the libertarian in me understands this need for dynamism - stagnancy leads to a slow slow death.
As I walk to work every morning my black dress shoes get muddied by the ever marching beat of construction - I can't help but feel a little nostalgic for yesteryear - when the closest thing anyone had to a sport utility vehicle was a Volvo station wagon, which is not only sensible but fuel efficient too.
Suddenly I began to notice the black worms everywhere in the Faux's many ravines. At first I thought the worms, a new species - Faux Vermes - were a possible product of global warming. The longer and hotter spring had perhaps created a larger window for the seemingly innocuous worms to spawn and take over additional territory. However, after jumping down from my Al Gore perch - is it really an inconvenient truth? - I started thinking that Faux Vermes were tied to much more sinister developments round the Faux.
I would argue that there are few binding myth's that hold the Village together as distinct from the rest of the city. Although a love of Starbucks and all things Gucci would seemingly point to a strong sense of common identity these characteristics are at base simply proof of rampant commercialism. Does Lululemon equate the concept of a Village sovereign identity - or is it simply an extension of a pervasive mono-culture?
Yet for all of my attempt to lambast this place - the Village does have its own special physicallity to it. Mostly constructured in the 1920's and 1930's the Village's staid Georgian and Mock Tudor houses provided a welcoming respite for Toronto's emerging upper middle classes. The Faux allowed lawyers and doctors to escape downtown Toronto's cramped Victorian row houses for a life in the suburbs. The Village was and is the original extension of that cliched North American dream. Essentially a early twentieth century garden suburb - there is nothing special about the Faux's geographic plot of land; yet the 'hood is consistently referred to as exclusive or tony in the pages of Toronto's papers. Yet it retains this air of exclusivity regardless of the rather plainess of its natural beauty. The Faux does NOT for example have the geographic splendour of its Montreal equivalent: Outremont and Westmount. No - the Village and its bucolic glory is actually very Torontonian - quiet and efficient - magnificence has never been what the Village is selling; rather, its shiny red brick boxes, gracefully placed behind wide front lawns, each crowned with a large maple tree, have been the key features which have created an image of everlasting elegance.
With sadness, however, this Village is no more. It's Upper Middle Class tax bracket has long since been broken by increasing wealth - doctor's and lawyer's don't live here anymore - inherited wealth, stock broker's and the like have long since moved to town - tearing down vintage 1920's centre hall's to erect faux chateau stone monstrosities, often too big for their plot of land and which lear over their neighbours, with a showy sense of non-modernity, as if proclaiming that, "hey our leaded glass windows and dental moulding makes us look old right?" This is in fact faux on top of faux [remember the tear-down of today is actually a mock tudor]- a concept too difficult for my simple mind to wrap its head around.
I know... this sounds all rather classist of me doesn't it? Decrying the new money that has suddenly usurped my pleasant utopia, as if these "people" don't deserve to experience to the type of lifestyle and serenity that has attracted Toronto's elite for the past several decades. And yet the libertarian in me understands this need for dynamism - stagnancy leads to a slow slow death.
As I walk to work every morning my black dress shoes get muddied by the ever marching beat of construction - I can't help but feel a little nostalgic for yesteryear - when the closest thing anyone had to a sport utility vehicle was a Volvo station wagon, which is not only sensible but fuel efficient too.
Monday, May 28, 2007
I am sixteen going on seventeen
Remember when you were 16? And you thought you were the smartest, most mature person ever. It was the year you probably decided to mix vodka with slushies from Mac's Milk, and then got drunk in your parents basement by downing Mike's Hard Lemonaid, eventually throwing up hot wings while stil repressing your sexuality? (Or was that just me?)
When you're 16 and a daughter of a scion of Toronto's financial world... rebellion doesn't just equate boozing in your parents basement - the act of disobedience is much much worse.
How much worse? How about hot boxing your parents whirlpool, inviting over half the Senior class from Upper Canada College over for some Mary J as the immigrant nanny looks on in horror. Why simply throw tea into the harbour, ya know?
One would think that such acts of civil discord would result in punishment once the parental units returned home. Alas... just last weekend, our Sam Adams of the Village was seen tweaking out about EdoKo. (When you get the munchies in the Faux you eat edameme... please, who orders pizza - think of the carbs!).
Hmm... not too shabby for a 16 year-old you might say. But it gets even better - our very own Faux Hill Village Lohan-Lite was overheard shouting this nuggest of wisdom to her mom: "I saw you at Second Cup in the Village today. You can't ever be seen at the Second Cup. It's embarassing!"
Starbucks anyone? Or would you prefer a vodka slushi and a side of repression?
When you're 16 and a daughter of a scion of Toronto's financial world... rebellion doesn't just equate boozing in your parents basement - the act of disobedience is much much worse.
How much worse? How about hot boxing your parents whirlpool, inviting over half the Senior class from Upper Canada College over for some Mary J as the immigrant nanny looks on in horror. Why simply throw tea into the harbour, ya know?
One would think that such acts of civil discord would result in punishment once the parental units returned home. Alas... just last weekend, our Sam Adams of the Village was seen tweaking out about EdoKo. (When you get the munchies in the Faux you eat edameme... please, who orders pizza - think of the carbs!).
Hmm... not too shabby for a 16 year-old you might say. But it gets even better - our very own Faux Hill Village Lohan-Lite was overheard shouting this nuggest of wisdom to her mom: "I saw you at Second Cup in the Village today. You can't ever be seen at the Second Cup. It's embarassing!"
Starbucks anyone? Or would you prefer a vodka slushi and a side of repression?
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Faux Hill Vanity License Plate of the Week, Part 2
Black Denali SUV (whose owner probably hasn't seen an Inconvenient Truth).
Vanity License Plate: Bukame
And that's the thing about the rich... they don't seem to think puns are as funny as I do. Insert bukkake joke at your own risk.
Vanity License Plate: Bukame
And that's the thing about the rich... they don't seem to think puns are as funny as I do. Insert bukkake joke at your own risk.
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Flock of the Faux Hillary's
The Village has reached its nadir for the summer; all social order has broken down.
Dateline - Victoria Day Weekend, Faux Hill. University students are back from school, european vacations haven't started and high school students have given up of their studies not really caring that weekly tuition at a private school is like $500. If Marie Antoinette were still around she'd probably declare: "Let them drink latte's". Calling Kiki Dunst. Welcome to May, where the Village is overrun by the annual migration of the Village's native species, the Faux Hillary; anthropologists have come to call their movements: "the Flock of the Faux Hillary".
A Flock of Faux Hillary, is a group of 14 - 17 year-old girls who travel together (minimum groups of four) to Starbucks in their parents SUV's, order drinks, chat on their cell phones: "Where are you? I'm with Melissa. We're at Starbucks. Come meet us. Ok we'll meet you at Billy's." The Flock is usually female, the male variant is smaller and stealth. The Flock of the Faux Hillary refers to the increased movement of the pack in May, when the flock comes out from their winter hibernation to wreak havock on the good people of the Faux. (and by good people I mean me)
A Flock of Faux Hillary's are assumed to be armed [the gucci waste sac is their primary weapon] and dangerous. The Flock are known to be rabid Starbucks fans and subside mostly off of over priced sushi from Edo Ko. For the time being it is recommended to travel through the Village with a partner.
Recent reports from this years Flock have not been particularly promissing and appears to be the biggest in recent memory.
While standing in line at Starbucks today Tammy, an apparent Starbucks regular, stood impatiently tapping her foot. [Don't mess with your average Faux Hillary on cafeine withdrawal. They have super human strength.]
"Hello," she randomly shouted [across the coffee shop] at the minimum wage staff, "are there really only three people working here today?" Funny she should ask, because I'm sure there were at least 15 staff doing a civil war re-enactment in the back room smirking to themselves on finally being able to deny Tammy her venti, non-fat, half soy latte. "We really got her this time!"
"I've never see Starbucks so busy." She was right, as in front of both of us, was about twenty tweens. Tammy turned to me for some empathy, not that she got any. Tammy, although a Strarbetic, was unaware of the Flock of the Faux Hillary. Literally 20 girls were standing in front of us ordering latte's and rummaging through Gucci bags bigger then their boobs for change to pay for frappuchino's. It was not a pretty site. Colour Tammy un-amused.
Although this was a day time occurance the Flock of Faux Hillary most often come out at night. They appear out of nowhere, just when the Village appears quit and calm; suddenly, a group of ten girls will depart from black SUV's, run into Starbucks, grab what they want before screeching off in a hurry off to the next house party. Sometimes two separate groups will meet on the street exchange fake pleasantries before juding everyone's legging and RH Vintage Life, Nature, Love sweat combo.
The best way to deal with a Flock of Faux Hillary's is, however, to stand your ground. KB and I did that last night while protecting our own turf from a male pack of Faux Hillary's. The three sixteen year-olds where smoking on the patio (a non-smoking zone). We kindly asked them to stop... however, the one with braces got a bit lippy, referring to yours truly as a homo (damn straight) and KB as a cunt.
"I'm frightened," said KB. "Maybe we should go?"
"No. We can't show weakness." To a flock of Faux Hillary any sense of weakness will be exploited - and enlarge their sense of entitlement. Luckily KB whipped out the trump card: "I have asthma," and the patronizing, "sweetie, your smoking is really bothering me."
Patronization is your only weapon against the Flock. Use it wisely.
Dateline - Victoria Day Weekend, Faux Hill. University students are back from school, european vacations haven't started and high school students have given up of their studies not really caring that weekly tuition at a private school is like $500. If Marie Antoinette were still around she'd probably declare: "Let them drink latte's". Calling Kiki Dunst. Welcome to May, where the Village is overrun by the annual migration of the Village's native species, the Faux Hillary; anthropologists have come to call their movements: "the Flock of the Faux Hillary".
A Flock of Faux Hillary, is a group of 14 - 17 year-old girls who travel together (minimum groups of four) to Starbucks in their parents SUV's, order drinks, chat on their cell phones: "Where are you? I'm with Melissa. We're at Starbucks. Come meet us. Ok we'll meet you at Billy's." The Flock is usually female, the male variant is smaller and stealth. The Flock of the Faux Hillary refers to the increased movement of the pack in May, when the flock comes out from their winter hibernation to wreak havock on the good people of the Faux. (and by good people I mean me)
A Flock of Faux Hillary's are assumed to be armed [the gucci waste sac is their primary weapon] and dangerous. The Flock are known to be rabid Starbucks fans and subside mostly off of over priced sushi from Edo Ko. For the time being it is recommended to travel through the Village with a partner.
Recent reports from this years Flock have not been particularly promissing and appears to be the biggest in recent memory.
While standing in line at Starbucks today Tammy, an apparent Starbucks regular, stood impatiently tapping her foot. [Don't mess with your average Faux Hillary on cafeine withdrawal. They have super human strength.]
"Hello," she randomly shouted [across the coffee shop] at the minimum wage staff, "are there really only three people working here today?" Funny she should ask, because I'm sure there were at least 15 staff doing a civil war re-enactment in the back room smirking to themselves on finally being able to deny Tammy her venti, non-fat, half soy latte. "We really got her this time!"
"I've never see Starbucks so busy." She was right, as in front of both of us, was about twenty tweens. Tammy turned to me for some empathy, not that she got any. Tammy, although a Strarbetic, was unaware of the Flock of the Faux Hillary. Literally 20 girls were standing in front of us ordering latte's and rummaging through Gucci bags bigger then their boobs for change to pay for frappuchino's. It was not a pretty site. Colour Tammy un-amused.
Although this was a day time occurance the Flock of Faux Hillary most often come out at night. They appear out of nowhere, just when the Village appears quit and calm; suddenly, a group of ten girls will depart from black SUV's, run into Starbucks, grab what they want before screeching off in a hurry off to the next house party. Sometimes two separate groups will meet on the street exchange fake pleasantries before juding everyone's legging and RH Vintage Life, Nature, Love sweat combo.
The best way to deal with a Flock of Faux Hillary's is, however, to stand your ground. KB and I did that last night while protecting our own turf from a male pack of Faux Hillary's. The three sixteen year-olds where smoking on the patio (a non-smoking zone). We kindly asked them to stop... however, the one with braces got a bit lippy, referring to yours truly as a homo (damn straight) and KB as a cunt.
"I'm frightened," said KB. "Maybe we should go?"
"No. We can't show weakness." To a flock of Faux Hillary any sense of weakness will be exploited - and enlarge their sense of entitlement. Luckily KB whipped out the trump card: "I have asthma," and the patronizing, "sweetie, your smoking is really bothering me."
Patronization is your only weapon against the Flock. Use it wisely.
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