23 reasons to eat breakfast together

Sometimes the day gets wasted on a weekend when the weather is grey, and there are no obligations. There are Saturdays, and Sundays, and sometimes even Mondays when sleeping through lunch (sometimes unequivocally) seems like the better alternative. But it's nice, every once in a while, to see what your weekend friends look like in broad daylight.

Sarah's birthday has somehow turned into an entire birthweek, what with everyone vying to show their friendly colours. Birthday coffee, and birthday gifting, birthday dining, birthday drinking, birthday dancing, birthday emails, birthday ecards, birthday texts, birthday sex, and then, of course, belated birthday breakfast.

Friday night was spent elbow deep in cookie dough and muffin gunk.

Saturday, a small, humble, albeit hungry crowd piled into my small, humble yet accommodating apartment, and waited to surprise the birthday girl with one last birthday revelry.

Consumed at leisure were croissants, tea, apple torts a la Moskal, champagne, champagne, champagne, and pastries from Sobey's that Genna "handpicked herself!"

A perfect day, all that was missing was the sushine and our sickly little AV. (get well soon).

How will we ever top this next year?

dream catch me

Fun Fact: The dream catcher is said to have originated in the Ojibwa culture, long before the whiteman invented the rear-view mirror in which to hang it on.

But before it was a hood ornament, it was an operative artefact. The myth states that the feathered apparatus should be hung over one's bed. If assembled property, it will catch the bad dream spirits in its web, and let the good ones pass through. It promises an undisturbed, concentrated and lasting snooze – sort of like lorazepam, but without the prescription.

Pretty and functional, and now, fashionable. Michelle Kuran's unique designs are a derivative of her home-town pedigree. Born and raised in Peace River, Alberta, nearly 300 kilometres north of Edmonton, aboriginal mysticism is just as much a part of her culture as vanity is ours.

When you combine the two cultural landmarks, the spiritual and the superficial, what will be?

Her inspired jewellery line, Ladies of Canyon.

Yes, like the Joni Mitchell album.

Here are just a few sweet samples of her work, graciously gifted to us by the very hands that made them.

If you are interested in one of her pieces, or would like her to custom design one that is just right for you, contact the mastermind herself: mkuran@ryerson.ca

hbd bff

xo.

it's two in the afternoon, so get over it already.

Portmanteau. There's a fun little word that you might remember from grade seven. It would have followed "anagram" in your text book.

It means to combine the spelling and the meaning of two pre-existing words to create a proper-name for something entirely new.

Brunch. The combination of breakfast and lunch, and the bane of my very existence.

For some time now, I have been engaged in an ongoing debate with friends pertaining to the misuse, overuse, and trend abuse associated with the word brunch.

Where I'm from, brunch is a meal eaten later than breakfast and earlier than lunch. It may or may not include, and is not limited to, eggs, pancakes, fruit, oatmeal, breads, cheeses, salads, sandwiches, juice, coffee, or tea.

Often, brunch is reserved for special occasions like weddings (Bridal Brunches), annual celebrations (Birthday Brunches), or haughty Jewish events where people wear designer pant suits and talk about the diminishing quality of the Hebrew parochial program in their respective neighbourhoods (My Bat Mitzvah Brunch, CanWest Media Events).

Somehow, the term 'brunch' has been perverted and exploited by pretty people who don't work on weekends. If brunch is really what they say it is -- a lazy meal of lighter fodder eaten in the company of others on any given Sunday, at any given hour, purely because HBO made it trendier to say that rather than the alternative -- then perhaps the "B" stands not for breakfast, but rather for "bourgeois".

My mother, bless her little, angry heart, would often be too tired to make a meat and potatoes kinda meal for the family. So, she'd scramble some eggs and burn up some toast and call us down for dinner. However, despite the IHOP inspired spread, she didn't stand at the bottom of the stairs, at 6:30 PM, still in her work clothes, and yell "BRRRRRRUNCH!!!"

She said dinner. Because that’s what it was. Not brunch.

And certainly not brinner-- although it does have a snappy ring to it.

shut up and dance

This just in, Lindsay Lohan wants to talk politics.

No one really cares, Lindsay. We'd all rather watch you get naked and destroy your career.

The stripping isn't even that good, and that thing with the cigarette? Just unsanitary.
The only redeeming quality about this video is the Out Hud song.

Now back to our regular scheduled programming.

plenty of rest and fluids (from friends)

I learned at a very young age that a fever gets you back rubs, a sore throat gets you ice cream, a broken arm gets you attention, and a stomach ache gets you crackers and a day on the couch.

Sick days used to translate to holidays.

Now, I have to look at them as wasted days. Throw-away days. Lonely days spent in bed and online, looking at things on eBay that I can't afford. Things that I can't afford, much like the class that I'm missing, that I can't afford to miss. These things that I can't afford to miss, and thinking about things that I miss already, like the back rubs, ice cream, and my Mum's attention from when I was a kid at home on a sick day.

But, it's strange how sick days, sad songs, and other cheerless things make me remember the times when I was the happiest. And how sad days, bad days and long, stressful, taxing days can suddenly put things into perspective with just a simple gesture, one surprise visitor, with one little latte, and one quick anecdote about two Sarah's and a Freudian slip.

On a day like today, where I feel much worse than I look, and I feel like I look much worse than I am, it's nice to know that someone cares. Even if they don't have time to feed me crackers.

cum-pulsion

Tough times for Tea Leoni. Not only does her acting career suck, but so does her married life.

I realise that I'm a little slow on the uptake, being that this news is now about four weeks rotting in the compost, but in defence, err, response to a fellow blogger's post, I feel the issue needs to be addressed.

David Duchovny, my personal favourite TV hunk, reportedly checked in to rehab on August 26^th for an addiction to sex. Like the Twinkie Defence, I like to call this one the Clinton Defence.

For some reason, I have always had difficulty understanding the idea behind a sex addiction. Suppose we took any frequent occurrence that is remotely pleasant, and attached the word "addiction" to the end of it. Suddenly, we would have our tax dollars spilling into puppy dog support groups, and daily bowel movement rehabilitation centres. Just because you like it doesn’t mean you're hooked.

Dictionary.com (you know you use it) describes addiction like so:

noun: to cause one to become physiologically or psychologically dependent on an addictive substance, such as alcohol or a narcotic.

Notice how it does not mention a compulsion toward blow jobs.

I have always been sympathetic to addiction, as it is an illness, and one that is quite difficult to overcome. To say that a rigorous appetite for sex can qualify as an addiction is an insult to the men and women who have to struggle everyday to stay clean in order to keep a job, not the men and women who want to get down and dirty with their coworkers on their lunch hour.

Duchovny was quoted in a statement released shortly after he was admitted to the rehab facility saying:

"I ask for respect and privacy for my wife and children as we deal with this situation as a family."

His wife? His children? I say, call a spade a spade.

This doesn't sound like rehab. This sounds like a timeout called on account of infidelity. Sure. It makes sense. You do one too many lines, and you go to rehab. You do one too many women while your wife's at home with your babies, and I guess you do the same.

swallowing your pride

What is it about free shit that flips the greedy switch on? Why is it that our acquisitive nature becomes far more apparent when the act of acquiring requires, well, little work at all? Moreover, what has happened to the idea that something so dearly bought is so fiercely kept? (PHL 707, anyone?)

Apparently these concepts were given the red card this week, as everyone I know has been counting their gratis gifts in plain view, and drinking, and dancing like no one is watching. Or rather, like no one is paying.

On the nights when the cover is imaginary, capacity is elevated, and of course, the booze is free, why is it that we act less like ourselves, and more like...oh, I don't know, say, Brigitte Nielsen?

People can be senseless when the liquor is on the house. Some people will pick fights with those that they love. Some will give their numbers to those that they don't, and wont ever. Some people will point across a room on Queen West and say, "see that guy in the red plaid and thick black glasses?" and actually expect you to be able to use that description to identify any one single person.

Apparently, everyone left their scruples at home with their wallets this week. I think that from now on, I'd best pay my tab myself. But then again, it's hard to think strait on a Wednesday morning while your head is still pounding from Monday, which was still Thumping from Thursday, and with forty dollars that you didn't spend sitting neatly in your pretty back pocket.

nine-oh-two-one-black-guy-only

Whether you're prepared to admit it or not, you watched the rebirth of 90210 last night. And if you didn't, you're likely cursing the day that the VCR died.

Torontonian Shenae Grimes was darling and tiny as usual, and the characters were, for the most part, representative of the original "dramatis personae" - even some of the primary cast members were, very ineptly, written into the script. A geriatric Joe E. Tata fumbles with an espresso machine, and reminisces about the days when regular potted coffee kept the rich kids at bay, while Jennie Garth finally gets her shit together and finds a real job.

However, on the flip side, many things are quite obviously changed - and, I'm not referring to the breadth of Shannon Doherty's waistline.

In July of 1999, CNN reported that as a response to complaints made by various equal opportunity groups as well as the NAACP, most major networks, including CBS, NBC, ABC and FOX, started making moves to broaden the racial spectra of their casts. Only a year later, Spelling's first gaggle of girls and boys said goodbye to Beverley Hills and pursued made-for-TV-movie careers and rehab. As the series was already drawing to a close, not much effort to diversify was made on part of the soon-to-be-jobless writers during their last year with the show.

So, it would only make sense that the second time around would be different. Bring in the bruthas! However, something just didn't feel right last night in the city of Angels. Rich white neighbourhood, rich white school, rich white parents, and rich white...black kid...

...who was adopted…

...and whose sole friend is the only other ethnic character on the roster?

A 17 year old with a Bentley and private jet is believable, but an entire, self-sufficient black family living in Beverly Hills would have just been asking the audience too much, I suppose.

This script seems to have been written by the confederate army.

Maybe I'm reading too far into things, I am a pisces, but if you ask me, the creators were so concerned with updating the show that they followed a few trends too many in order to appeal to the new generation of idiot-boxers. Corey Kennedy. Tillie and The Wall. American Apparel. And then, of course, the next natural choice would be adopting black babies. Because everyone knows that adopting black, is well, the new black. Just ask David Ritchie.

And this was supposed to be the evolution of TV.

voicemail confessional

Message Left at 2:33 AM, Tuesday:

"I guess you’re asleep, but I have to confess something, even if it's just to your voicemail…"

Few things are better than coffee first thing in the morning. This would be one of them.

the Marc of a Madfan

We're often told: Write what you know.

But flipping through Russ's page-protected portfolio Sunday night, we laughed together about how it was more a researched anthology of "things I like" and less about what he actually knows.

Stories about Timbits, Andy Warhol, and other well-written, well-developed, and well, Russ-like things make up his present collection. And as we spoke more on what he likes, this week's New Yorker article on Marc Jacobs came up – so that night I read it.

As it turns out, Ariel Levy, the lass who penned the article, prefers to write about what she likes versus what she knows too. Fancy that.

The article, which I have been hearing so much about, falls flat on facts and reads more like a love letter than an editorial. Not until page two are we offered any form of real quotation, and up until that point, all we get is a diction hand-job. Not to mention the unnecessary and nonsensical Carrie Bradshaw references that are woven throughout the seven flip feature.

Contradicting her own creative clichés, Levy starts off by saying that "Jacobs used to be a chubby Jewish guy, with long hair and glasses…" and four pages later suggests that young Jacobs spent his youthful years at Studio 54, taking his notebooks with him so that Mr. Scene could morph into Mr. School come daybreak.

I was never there myself, but I don't think that fat, unfortunate looking Jewish teens were commonplace at the Studio.

I read once that color advertisements in the New Yorker run upwards of a million a piece. With seven pages, sixteen photographs and a whole lot of fluffing, one can only guess what an ad like that would have cost.

Obviously written by a fan, this article reeks of commercial incentive, and was likely fuelled by the writer's desire to meet the mogul himself, and maybe get a bag out of the deal.

I guess the difference between Russ and Ariel is that Russ likes what he knows, and likes to know what he can know with a bit of searching, while Ariel only knows what she likes, which is Sex and The City, Fran Lebowitz, and big, sloppy, glossy, guilty paycheques.