my hyphenated last name

POSER

2010-07-14T13:13:00.005-04:00

Posing for pictures can be awkward even at the best of times. Now, imagine you were told to take it all off and pose. Not even pose. To take it all off and just be. Be normal? Be shy? Be playful? Be aloof? Be yourself? And what exactly does that mean, to be yourself, when you're standing before a lens? In a way that's not sickeningly philosophical, Caitlin Cronenberg, daughter of David, effectively considers these questions by placing regular people in that very position, stripping them of their clothing, and seeing what shines through.

In her new book, entitled Poser, Cronenberg offers her subjects no direction, leaving them to posture themselves however they feel most comfortable, or uncomfortable. Each photograph was framed the same, and lit the same, and the only variation from image to image is the subject, and their expression. Somehow, though, each photograph seems drastically discrete. Although the book (which took a surprising amount of time to be completed and published) seems at first a symphony of tits and ass, it's something much, much more sexy.

And you should have a flip.

R.I.P.

2010-07-13T13:09:00.004-04:00

Is it bad that when I heard the news, my first instinct was to text back: THERE WON'T BE ANY MORE CURB?!

George Steinbrenner 1930-2010

kitsch + kitchen + klothes

2010-07-12T21:41:00.005-04:00

Two years ago, doing my second annual run (or should I say teetering hobble) down the runway at Fashion Alternative Toronto, or [FAT], that I thought to myself: Whose actually going to buy these shorts?

Not because the shorts weren't nice. They were gorgeous, highly high wasted and hand-made by the lovely Diepo duo. And not because the shorts weren't shorts. They were more like glorified panties. But because these shorts were barely-there, and far from forgiving. So much camel toe you'd think you were on Birthright. In short, wearing them made my legs look like cased sausage. And who wants that?

In any event, shorts and sausage are two things that don't often go together - naturally or successfully - until now. NYC boy's brand Outlier has found a way to marry the two, in a marketing marvel that could have easily crossed the border to tacky-town, but didn't. It's a meaty alliance between Wurst Editions and Emily's Pork Store, and they're calling it The Wurst Outlier Sausage Pack. Yes, the gentleman's togs will temporarily be sold in a landmark butcher shop in Brooklyn. Designers Abe Burmeister and Tyler Clemens boast that the very limited edition shorts (only 45 pairs are presently available) have "an elegant folded cuff, front watch pocket, and sausage toned rear pocket button."

I don't really know what that last part means, all I know is that some people love a sausage near the rear pocket, and guys (mine especially) like Outlier, and I love this idea all together. And that's that.

will write for food

2010-07-06T15:46:00.003-04:00

The word rolls less lovingly off the lips today. Internship. If you were born after 1985 and pursued any sort of post-secondary trade degree, odds are you've done one. You've likely made coffee, and licked envelopes until your tongue turned white and raw. Or, if you're one of the lucky ones, or unlucky ones maybe, you've actually gotten your feet wet, for some soaked, and have done it all for the recompense of a reference. Experience builds character. Experience builds resumes. But it doesn’t buy dinner, or pay rent, or erase student loans. Graduates of this year, and already a few years past, have had the misfortune of throwing their four-cornered caps into oblivion, shouting "we did it!" only to later ask, "what did we do?" That dreaded ten-letter "R" word hangs above our heads where our roofs should be, but for most of us, it's where our parent's roofs are. Unable to find work, and sick of working for free, a generation of qualified 20-somethings loose entry level positions to disgruntled 40-somethings who were previously replaced by other 20-somethings that were willing to work for less… two years ago. So we accept another internship, add another bullet to our resumes, and continue to wonder what the hell happened to the Simcoe Act.

on cool

2010-07-06T10:44:00.005-04:00

"This one girl who I had been watching most of the night stood squashed in the middle of the front row, and when she caught me looking at her, I gave her a smile. She made a gagging look and turned back to the band, swaying her head to the beat. And I got really disgusted and started thinking, what was this girl's problem? Why couldn't she have been nice and smiled back? Was she worried about imminent war? Was she feeling real terror? Or inspiration? Or passion? That girl, like all the others, I had come to believe, was terminally numb. The Talking Heads record was scratched maybe, or perhaps Dad hadn't sent the check yet. That was all this girl was worried about. Her boyfriend was standing behind her, a total yuppie with Brylcreamed hair and a very thin tie on. Now what was this guy's problem? Lost I.D.? Too many anchovies on his pizza? Broken cigarette machine? And I keep looking back at the girl - had she forgotten to tape her soap this afternoon? Did she have a urinary tract infection? Why did she have to act so fucking cool? And that's what it all came down to: cool. I wasn't be cynical about that bitch and her asshole boyfriend. I really believed that the extent of their pitiful problems exceed to far from what I thought. They didn't have to worry about keeping warm, or being fed, or bombs, or lazers, or gunfire. Maybe their lover left them, maybe that copy of "Speaking in Tongues" was really scratched. But I came to understand, standing there, the floor vibrating beneath me, the band blaring in my head, that these problems and the pain they felt were genuine. I mean, this girl probably had a lot of money, and so did her dumb-looking boyfriend. Other people might not sympathize with this couple's problems and maybe they didn't really matter in the larger realm of things - but they still mattered to Jeff and Susie; these problems hurt them, these things stung... and that's what struck me as really pathetic. But, I forgot about her and those other geeks, and did the last of the coke Lars was offering me."

From "The Rules of Attraction" by Bret Easton Ellis

this jacket

2010-06-18T11:25:00.004-04:00

and she said it was too warm for a jacket, but I wore one anyway. A light jacket. We had picked it up at the army store, only ten dollars. I hoped no one died in it. Then I see the white maple leaf, patch sewn, small, left shoulder. I feel better. The night was warm, but not "too warm" to my dismay. We walked through the dizzy streets, adding familiars to our marching pack. Now, six people strong. Now seven. A long walk, but it feels good on my feet. We arrive late, and not the kind associated with fashion. Fashion had come and gone, and we've missed most of it. Just three mini women in maxi-dresses stomping their sandals to the oldies upstairs, we don't know them but we watch; in the basement, a heavy base line, it rattles the bathroom mirror(s). The two sounds don't mix. He can only get three of us in, everyone else needs to pay. At a quarter-to too late for a Thursday, I slip off, slipping off my jacket and climbing into the sticky backseat of a stuffy cab. I text a goodbye, but it doesn't go through. Not right away, at least. Despite it, I am happy. Can you roll the windows, down? It's too warm for me back here.

summer makes us want to do the craziest things

2010-06-18T10:42:00.004-04:00

the oldies

2010-05-27T10:42:00.008-04:00

It's recently come to my mother's attention that the yellowing desktop PC in the basement still contains all of our old files; our Microsoft paint creations, our old class projects and papers, and our high scores on Lemmings and Simms. All saved, accurately titled and meticulously archived (that was her doing, of course) and now available for her morbid, late-night amusement.

Last night, while excavating the deep, dark tomb that is the hard drive, she uncovered a real gem. It's my music request list, typed and numbered, and addressed to the DJ who was hired to play my Bat Mitzvah party.

It was to be a joint party had with my childhood bestie, Marli. It would be a coming-of-age extravaganza, not soon to be forgotten by the rest of my pubescent peers. I was going to Israel to become a woman in the eyes of hashem, and everyone else on the LITAL tour bus. But before I left, I would throw the ultimate sock-hop at the all-ages night club in Transcona.

Together, Marli and I composed and printed this letter to the music man:

----------

To the DJ,

This is Marli and Carli's song list for our party. These are just some of the songs we want to hear at our party. Try to cut down all Backstreet Boys, absolutely no S-Club 7, and hardly any slow songs and try to play all of these songs at least once.

1. CARTOON HEROS – BY “AQUA”
2. CAN I GET A… (EDITED VERSION) – BY “J-Z”
3. BAMBALAYO (IS THAT HOW YOU SPELL IT?) – BY “GYPSY KINGS”
4. MARIA MARIA – BY “SANTANA”
5. BAD TOUCH – BY "BLOODHOUND GANG"
6. MO MONEY MO PROBLEMS – BY “MASE”
7. BABY GOT BACK – BY “SIR-MIXALOT”
8. OOPS I DID IT AGAIN – BY “BRITNEY SPEARS”
9. AMERICAN PIE – BY “MADONNA”
10. WAITING FOR TONIGHT (REMIX) – BY "JENNIFER LOPEZ"
11. WHAT A GIRL WANTS (RADIO REMIX) – BY "CHRISTINA AGUILERA"
12. IF YOUR GETTING DOWN – BY “5IVE”
13. CONGA – BY “GLORIA ESTEPHAN”
14. BYE BYE BYE – BY “N*SYNC”
15. I’M 2 SEXY – BY "RIGHT SAID FRED"
16. THONG SONG – BY “SISQO”
17. THIS IS HOW WE DO IT – BY “MONTEL JORDAN”
18. BILLY JEAN – BY “MICHAEL JACKSON”
19. ABC – BY “JACKSON 5” 20. IN THE NAVY – BY “VILLAGE PEOPLE” (WE HAVE BOUGHT SAILOR HATS AND TOYS TO HAND OUT AT THIS TIME)
21. ARIBA – BY “JOEE”
22. MARIA – BY “RICKI MARTIN”
23. CREEP – BY “TLC”
24. LARGER THAN LIFE – BY “BACKSTREET BOY”
25. YOU’LL BE IN MY HEART – BY “PHIL COLLINS”
26. CRAZY (REMIX) – BY “BRITNEY SPEARS"

** PRIZES – HATS, NO INFLATABLE STUFF, GLOW NECKLACES, SHINY WIGS, MAYBE T-SHIRTS, RUB-ON TATTOOS, RING POP CANDY.

Thank you,

Marli & Carli, Bat Mitzvah Girls

----------

We didn't know much about run-on sentences or quotation marks, but we did know our music. As you can imagine, the party was a huge success. All of those shiny wigs we bought really won favour with the popular kids, and the Phil Collins song allowed for that girl from public school (you know, the one from your softball team that your mom made you invite to "diversify the guest list" and ensure your continued placement in post-game carpool...) to have her very first kiss.

Personally, I feel that this playlist is a good one. Perhaps I will resurrect it for the summer.
And, of course, the same rule will stand: Absolutely no S-Club 7

time flies:

2010-05-26T15:21:00.005-04:00

- when you're having fun
- "when you're old"
- when you're not waiting
- when you're not ready
- at 50 cents a minute
- when you finally let it

and before you know it, they're actually gone.

RE: RE: Safe

2010-05-21T11:08:00.007-04:00

"...After we realized its going to cost $2000 to come home early, money that we won't get back, we decided to [get out of Thailand] and fly to Malaysia, not tomorrow but the next day. We're going to chill at the mall there, try on the Miu Miu clogs. Ironically, this is the cheaper option. And, I mean, when faced with the decision to see waterfalls and temples or Topshop and Starbucks, is there really a question as to what we would choose?"

You can take the girl out of North America, but you can't take the girl out of the girl.

boker tov

2010-05-21T11:01:00.004-04:00

Ice-cold coffee.
Long, warm morning.

Nice way to kick off a three-day weekend.

extra extra

2010-05-20T07:16:00.005-04:00

This morning, global news wires reported that government leaders in Pakistan have officially banned Youtube, calling the video sharing website "sacrilegious".

Upon hearing the news, Youtube issued this response.

RE: Safe

2010-05-19T07:53:00.003-04:00

"…We are in Chaing Mai now, and there's a state of emergency here - we haven't really noticed much, but I overheard some people saying today that they canceled some conference that was supposed to be held here because of everything… Anyway, I do like it here in Chaing Mai, it's more 'urban' and there are fewer cheesy Australians... More to come."

So... Fewf.

wish list

2010-05-18T15:03:00.005-04:00

Guess what I want for summer?

Hint: it's not the return of my youthful innocents.

DJ Cop-A-Feel

2010-05-18T14:18:00.007-04:00

They're calling this video WORST WEDDING DJ EVER. I think this is just the worst wedding ever, period.

Note:

- Pot lights and panelled ceilings. Nothing says romance like a Rec-Room reception at the Route 9 Howard Johnson's.
- Man in baseball hat. No one said it had to be black tie... but really, Jim Bob.
- The angsty seventeen year old sulking on the stage. Relax. They're going to cut the cake.
- What the hell is a "slice of wine"?

cinq-oh-wonderful-brunch

2010-05-17T16:59:00.015-04:00

As a rule, or a playful riff on an older blog post (for any of my old readers still loyal enough to follow... hi mom), I truly cannot stand the idea of brunch. Typically, my argument states that "brunch" is pretentious both in name and concept. Something about having to invent an entirely new word to describe the every day act (or every Sunday act) of eating, is a touch obnoxious. Made up words - like Brangelina, sexting and synergy - grind my gears. So why should brunch be any different? Breakfast + Lunch = TOO MUCH FOOD. Pick a meal, and eat it. However, despite the angry way the word rolls off my tongue, I have to say that I tasted a late-morning meal sweet enough to to soften my hate-on for this ridiculous social phenomena.

Yes, brunch, to me, is all together flamboyant. Choice word. So, contrary it might seem to say that the best morning binge to be had in Toronto is at Cinq 01. I've been there three times, and all three times I have spotted someone of Shinan-Govani-certified importance. One time, Paul Shaffer sat at the bar, snacking and chatting with a pal of equally naked noggin, and another time FT's Jeanne Beker relaxed at a quiet table for four, gracefully evading the pointing fingers and peeking eyes of neighbouring diners. The third time I spotted my boyfriend's ex. The most thrilling encounter of all, arguably. (I doubt Shinan would care about that, but we can pretend she's Ainsley Kerr for the sake of the story.)

However, this weekend, upon personal invitation, we ventured to College St. to sample the restaurant's first ever "brunch" selection. Although the menu had more options than there were diners to enjoy them (10 AM is an hour that some brunchers might consider too breakfasty), the server assured us that nothing on the list would disappoint. He had the Eggs Benedict, dripping with some of the richest, creamiest, rub-it-all-over-my-body hollandaise sauce, loosley layered meats piled to perfection, served with home fries, crispy and well seasoned, and served scarcely. I had the Eggs Toufik, named for the the restaurants homme de l'heure, the owner Toufik Sarwa. He's also the mastermind behind Amber in Yorkville. (See: haven to handsome, rich Jewish guys, and the models who will sleep with them, hipster types who haven't fully committed, bankers, babes and bodacious bartenders. A symphony of well dressed people, with an ear for music, and deep pockets for tipping.)

Naturally, with a name like Eggs Toufiq, I assumed that my meal would be saucy, lean, middle-eastern, and would somehow incorporate something leather, binding and faaabulous. However, presented before me was a well-plated, Mexican inspired medley, complete with the softest, freshest tortillas since Cabo, sunny-side-up eggs cooked to gooey, not-too-runny, melt-in-your-mouth perfection, and a citrus splashed guacamole that immediately won my heart. Maybe the best guacamole I've had. Ever. And I've eaten my fair share of guac. Each bite was laced with cilantro, while one or two hearty, slow cooked beans snuck their way into the perfectly palatable mess. My juice was served ice cold, and not at all too sweet, and my americano was just like I love it, strong and black. Next time, if we're on foot rather than in helmets, I'd love to try one of their signature sunrise cocktails.

Next time.... Because there will certainly be one of those. Cinq 01's morning bounty has got this naysayer saying more, more, more.

So, before riding off, satisfied on all accounts, and not at all for the last time, we sent Mr. Eggs Toufiq a text:

"Brunch was great, thanks."

Less than a minute later, his reply:

"Tell your friends."

We'll do him one better. We'll invite them next weekend.

at last

2010-04-20T19:18:00.042-04:00

We were given three hours to write our exam. Our very last. Three quiet hours to bookend these four tiring years. Thirty-four months. Twelve designated breaks, spent everywhere from Manitoba, to Miami to Manhattan, or in bed. Part-time jobs that paid and full-time jobs that didn't. Enough A's, a few B's, and a D that I'd care to forget. Today we would shoot for our last perfect score. And I brought my camera to take pictures. I figured this might be a moment that needed keeping. One of those self-making moments to tell my kids about, if I have kids - and if not my own, then someone else's. Before three hours had passed, we slipped out of the classroom to wait in the hall, holding out for the last of us to finish. For the last time, we compared answers, sharing satisfaction in a job well done, or done just well enough to pass. This would be the last time we'd all be together. Or together, like this, in this way, or something.

I remembered my first day. My eyes were still red from a full night of crying. I was homesick and hadn't had time for breakfast, which would become a habit. The first girl to talk to me became my roommate and family. The guy down the hall, the one with the tidy room and the coffee beans, became my lifeline. The stranger from home who made a home here with me, would later return home-home no longer a stranger. The beauty who said she could do it on her own... did it. And the talent who grew up worlds apart has since travelled around it and back, ten times over. Today I look at these people, and a handful of others, and I can't remember a time when they weren't there to look to, or to call late at night, or to eat with even later. To think that there was ever a time when these people were [at least to me] just people, is so strange. And yet, that first day feels both like yesterday and a million years ago, all at once.

A few weeks from now, in cap and gown, the valedictorian will say, "there were times we were scared that we'd never make it…" because that's the kinda thing a valedictorian says. But the truth is, we always knew we would "make it", and maybe that's what's truly scary.

In the first day of real heat, although we've had sun for several, we popped bottles of cheap champagne in front of our classrooms, and we drank to never going back again, like the Fleetwood song. There, in the toast, was fallacy. I felt dishonest raising up my cup. Sickly sentimental, we drank beer in the sun until the real sickness set in. And even now, out of the swelter, rehydrated and cool, I can only wonder how I'll really feel in the morning.

yowza

2010-03-12T17:02:00.009-05:00

If I looked this good at 15,

I probably wouldn't be as good as I am at cat's cradle.
And I'm very good at cat's cradle.

(sonny rothman, sister)

cookie counsel

2010-03-04T17:30:00.003-05:00

where i've been

2010-03-03T20:47:00.005-05:00

I've heard that good things come to those who wait. I've also heard that great things come to those who work at them. So, I've been working, and waiting, and working at waiting with grace, but I have yet to see a great thing.

But, I'm going to spin this straw into gold.

good genes

2010-02-23T20:59:00.005-05:00

I love this boy. It's platonic, of course. I learned the hard way, never date a best friend's brother.

Watch and Enjoy: Mr. Stephen Prickett.

I know I do.

you're eating too much

2010-02-23T16:25:00.003-05:00

One of America's leading fork manufacturers announced today that in order to keep up with the teeming demand ("OM NOM NOM NOM!") they have elected to add an additional prong to their flatware.

Yes, according to a company spokesperson, "a four-tined fork is just not enough," when considering the how much American's eat, and how fast they wanna eat it.

In one breath, the honourable Dr. Oz will plead with Americans to eat less. He'll speak quickly, and move his arms wildly in front of his half-filled studio audience, telling the U.S. that their blue blood now runs thick with glucose, finishing the show with his traditional sign off, "you're all going to die", while Oprah eats custard in the control room and signs his paycheck.

And then, KitchenMaster - a global industry bigwig - goes and does something like this? Preposterous! If they're not careful, some blob who heralds Gregory Rhymes as a sort of colossal hero (referring to his mass, not his accomplishments) might come knocking on their door with multi-million dollar lawsuit.

All that said, a five prong fork would be pretty effing cool.

mothers say the darndest things

2010-02-22T22:06:00.000-05:00

just ten

2010-02-22T21:17:00.006-05:00

Down with gratuity! These ten photos are not only the best ones, but they're the only ones.
For the first time in too long, I had so much fun I forgot to get proof. New York anew.
I'm up for a World Record: fewest photos taken at any fashion week, to date.
Tsk. Bad, bad blogger.

simple gifts

2010-02-08T16:59:00.007-05:00

I'm not great at keeping a diary. Never have been. I write infrequently, hazily, and hastily, and I can sometimes go weeks, even months, having completely forgotten that I have a diary at all. Its tightly bound pages, smudged with ink and pencil, sullied by the greasy evidents of late night snacking, is assigned to a hiding spot, and then consigned to oblivion.

There it stays, hidden from me completely, until I uncover it in a dressing frenzy or a hunt for loose change. Not at all unlike this blog.

When I'm keeping up, I'm way up. But when things get busy, nights get shorter, or longer, or I'm simply too exhausted by my day to even dream of revisiting it again at lamplight, the diary goes down. Down, down, down. Way down to the bottom of that list of things to do, that somehow just keeps getting longer.

That's why Keel's Simple Diary is an ideal gift for the laggard daily logger. Not at all unlike myself. And now I've got one. Gifted from a friend who is simply spectacular. And, although I may not always tell her, it's written in my diary. I swear.

home stretch

2010-02-02T14:27:00.013-05:00

Just when I start to think that school has lost its charm; mislaid our attentions; depleted their savings

I'm reminded of lunch hour, snack time, spare time

and I start to think I might be lost, misplaced and displaced, quite utterly defeated without this place, once it loses me, once and for all.

lost and found

2009-12-10T10:49:00.005-05:00

I woke up this morning, and I didn't know where I was. Just for a second. That's probably the most disquieting way to come out of a silent sleep; waking up, and not knowing where you are. Even just for a split second, only until the next time you blink and bring everything back into focus. I live in a city where, for all of us, no place is quite home. I've slept on a number of couches, in weather too cold, and nights too hot, when the walk feels like too much to bare. I have an address, though it goes mostly unused. Here at home, in a room where I've been falling asleep since I needed the light, in a bed that used to feel like an island, I just feel big, disoriented. I used to be swallowed, and now I just sink. Down. Too deep. So, I googled 'what's it called when you wake up and you don't know where you are' and all I came up with were some movie scripts and a Myley Cyrus song.

Phoenix...

2009-12-07T15:17:00.007-05:00

...Was honestly the best show I've seen all year. Surprised? Me too. But not really.

man beats deer

2009-11-24T16:29:00.010-05:00

This morning a deer was spotted downtown. Oh no, cried the city. A deer downtown! (Well, actually a doe, not a deer, a female deer...) So all the king's horses and all the kings's men went downtown to take care of the deer. Surely, Bambi's best interests were considered while they drugged and tasered her to the ground - in front of a billion cameras.

Here is a photo of the 'gentle' take-down.

man bites dog

2009-11-24T10:06:00.010-05:00

Talk about a slow news day. Walking in this morning, five minutes early, as usual (athankyou), I’m met by a bit of chaos. A lot of standing, some fast talking. Something's cooking. I get a half-nod from across the way. Good morning to me.

I hear something about getting 'a camera down there'... Down where?

Down to the deer. The deer downtown. It was first spotted by Lakeshore. Perhaps it came in on the GO. Got out at Union. Wanted to see the big city before transit prices went up. Yes, there is a deer downtown and the press must be there. Not just the press. Half a dozen lit cruisers, a collection of able cops, the Toronto Emergency Task force and every news station in the GTA.

If someone doesn’t get shot today, tonight’s top story might be ‘Squirrel Gets Mashed By Car’.

is this it?

2009-11-23T16:46:00.020-05:00

This morning, while exfoliating my face, I thought about New Years Eve. I’m not sure what made me think of it. But I did. Perhaps it was the remarkably sharp walnut scrub rasping against my bare, delicate skin. Either way. Once I patted dry, toned and moisturized, I sent a text homeward.

You know those people who somehow know the business and whereabouts of everyone, all the time, in the most inconspicuous of ways? A know-it-all who’s not the least bit meddlesome? A nosy parker in the most pleasant regard? Rare, but they do exist. And he’s one of them.

So, what’s the word?

“Ahhh. Good question,” he types back. “I have no idea. Whatever it is I’m sure it will be some crazy big deal, then turn out to be a big waste of time…”

I’d have sent the ‘shocked’ emoticon if I knew' how. This previously positive peg-city-party-enthusiast ("I'm sure it will be fun as long as we're all together!") had set sad sites set on the pending countdown celebration. Hearing him give up on New Years, a night filled with ridiculous plan making, limo rides, inevitable break-ups, elicit drugs and subsequent scandal (to discus over breakfast at Stella's) is like hearing Ghandi give up on world peace.

New Years is like a child that only a mother could love. Up until this morning, my texting partner was that mother. Every year we say it will be our last. The last time we spend $40.00 on a ticket. The last time we buy a new dress only to have it spilled on – or worse. The last time we’ll trek out in the thigh-high snow only to see that this party is not unlike every other party at any other time of year, just ten times more crowded. Every year we say it’s our last, and every new year we do it again.

But there was something in his tone (see: text formatting, selected spacing, drawn out punctuation etc.) that made me shiver in my bathrobe. Could this year truly be the year when the last year was actually our last? Could this really, finally, be it?

Secretly, or maybe not so secretly now that I've crafted an entire post about it, I'll admit that I truly, deeply, honestly hope not.

pretty ugly stuff

2009-11-20T15:48:00.014-05:00

Here we are, lonely, lumpy, vainglorious members of a society so polluted with misconceptions about beauty. Love yourself as you are. You’re perfect as God made you. Sit here, young thing, and watch this Dove commercial. Bloom from within. Bloom, bloom!

I don't know, but this all smells like a big, buoyant turd to me.

Let me tell you, huge fake tits don't exist 'within the eye of the beholder'. They're found nestled in halters tops, bobbing along the Lakeshore and drinking vodka/sodas at Levack Block. Personally, I don't think pastic is all that appealing - but I bet I can head over to Gretsky's and find a few people who don't share my same position. That's not acumen either, I didn't read it on the back of a Starbucks cup. That, right there, is ice cold common sense. Sure, we can all embrace our stretch marks, but you can't continue to feed your loved ones spoonfuls of clichéd wisdom about that beholder's bloody eye.

You can, however, show them this. Or, if they can't read, this.

There is no one in the world who thinks their body's a perfect body, and I'd challenge any person who says that they do (brrring on the anonymous comments). From where I stand, the myth of perfection is most often bought into by the people who least represent it. If you need a change - get a haircut, start eating bran buds. Don't pump gelatinous viles of Peruvian gang victims into your browline.

I'd like to say we're all beautiful in our own little ways, but I would be lying. The truth? Well, it hurts. It always has. But probably not as much as a cutaneous infection caused by microbactrium avium after an elective abdominoplasty. Not that I'd know.

cowards anonymous

2009-11-18T14:39:00.012-05:00

Typically, I hate to sound like a broken record. But, please allow me to sk, sk, skip for a moment. Anonymous nay-sayers are so tremendously annoying. I have tried everything: disabling my anonymous commenting… retorting… ignoring… therapy… The truth is, there is nothing that can be done. To disable is to turtle, to retort is to act a child and to ignore is against my nature. So today, I will confront.

Yesterday, a grammatical wizard posted this in my comments:

You forgot about Winnipeg? It is a dump, but to think you actually forgot your roots makes me feel so bad for you. Did you actually need to drive through some small bumpkin town to remember the city you grew up in? hHve the bright, blinking big city lights honestly made you forget your childhood? Have all your skinny fashion friends made you forget your real friends back home? Thats sad. I will never forget where I came from. No matter how "chic" my shoulder pads are. Youre blog is too shallow to look at & your city doesnt want you back anyway.

Let us dissect: This is a full-bodied blend of bullshit. Mmm. Robust. I taste notes of personalization, with just the slightest hints of spite and resentment. Fair to assume that I know this person. Fair too assume that I’ve pissed in their cornflakes. I’d like to say that our beloved anon is a ‘pegger, and that the ‘dump’ reference was meant to throw me off their scent. D&G Light Blue, perhaps? Regarding my ‘skinny fashion friends’, I do believe Russless cracked that chestnut when he stated that most of the best dressed are Winnipeg-born. It’s also a fair conjecture that this person has Toronto and Las Vegas confused, or has watched too many Minnelli movies. ‘Bright, blinking city lights’? Please, save us the harebrained platitudes. Who are you? R.L. Stine?

I say to you, Anon, whatever I have done to offend you was certainly unintentional. I love Winnipeg. In fact, I feel like this entire blog is laden with positive, amorous peg city references. Perhaps you just can’t understand them. My friends, no matter where they live, Winnipeg, Toronto, London, Ottawa, San Diego, Arizona, they’re always special to me, if not one of my most valued treasures in life. I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything, and to forget where it is that I came from would be an utter impossibility. If what I’ve written bamboozles you, and it has if you think I'm forgetful, or worse, ungrateful for the people who have shaped me, then perhaps you should try reading picture books, or Archies, or something with a less layered appeal, and much shorter words. (And believe me, I’m not that deep). So, finally, let me do you a favor because I’ve always taken pride in helping those less fortunate than I. ‘You’re’ is an abbreviated form for you-are, and not a possessive. As in you’re a bloody idiot, and not your mother must be proud.

places we've been

2009-11-16T13:34:00.014-05:00

I used to start the countdown much earlier, but now there’s just too much counting to be done that it’s hard to keep up. Hard to keep track. Countdown to lunch. Countdown to deadline. Countdown to air time. Countdown to bedtime. Countdown to morning. Countdown to Friday. So many shrinking numbers that the countdown to Winnipeg, to home sweet home, to holidays, to dog parks, to 204, and 874, to Mom etc., to hearty dinners and relics of heartache, to everything that has ever warranted counting, has been completely discounted. But never forgotten.

This weekend, on the way to the water, still 93 km (and counting), we drove through his hometown. The kind of hometown that can actually be called a town. The kind of hometown with street names like Meadow Grove and Ash Tree Way. The kind of hometown where you can go for blocks without encountering a traffic light or the blast of a city horn. The kind of hometown where the yellows on the roads are just dried leaves, not drawn lanes. The kind of hometown where the girl walking her dog was his first girlfriend, and where the schoolyard, that very one, is where he smoked his first cigarettes, where he played tag. That kind of hometown.

He points out the TCBY where he used to get samples, and dates with older women, and before that, along the four lane stretch of downtown, we pass the place where his mother’s candy shop once stood, and the pet store that employed him when his only reference was his paper route.

My mother was an accountant, and I rarely played tag, and never while I was smoking. I never smoked. So many differences between his hometown and mine. His childhood and mine. Still so much the same that I'm sick for home. Never before sicker. The car pulls past all the places that I’ve never been, but have been many times, in my own way, in my own un-townlike hometown, and then away from his nostalgia and closer to mine.

I count how long it takes to get back on the highway. Four minutes. That's no record, it seems. And then my own countdown begins. Twenty-two down. Twenty-one to go.

we've all got it:

2009-11-12T16:55:00.003-05:00

xmas envy.

re: i think you'd like this movie

2009-10-19T12:16:00.000-04:00

eat your feelings

2009-10-15T12:05:00.008-04:00

Every news anchor, radio host and fat person has their XXL panties in a knot over Fillipa Hamilton getting canned. I haven’t been able to watch a stitch of my regular morning programming without seeing those eight paltry words flashing along the runner:

Ralph Lauren Model Fired For Being Too Big

Ahhh, the great weight debate. In light of recent concerns regarding feather-flimsy models, later aggravated by Lagerfeld's 'curvy woman' snafu, designers have tried putting chunky chicks on the runway. The reaction? Anything but favourable, or fashionable. An example: Mark Fast (the models, not the line itself). But still, does society put too much pressure on models' broad, boney shoulders to be skinny? How thin is too thin? Where should we draw the line? And, for Christ's sake, IS ANYONE THINKING OF THE CHILDREN!? So many (de)pressing questions.

So, here’s a new one. How about, who cares?

Big girls are beautiful too. I'm sure there's a bumper sticker for that. But modeling is a job reserved for people of specific qualifications, just like being a doctor, or a teacher, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, a sumo wrestler or Prima Donna. To be a model, you don't necessarily have to be smart, or politically minded, you don't need to blow your load on a four year degree, only to dig deeper into dept, just to grasp at a Masters before dropping out to deal with your QLC/AKA working on that non-existant "extended thesis". You don't even really need to know how to spell your own name. There is very little a model must do. Walk strait. Eat less. Be thin.

If being thin, and thin according to industry standards is anything between a 0-2, isn't exactly your forte – then why not train horses, build houses, open a bed and breakfast. The possibilities are endless! You don't see genuinely stupid people kicking and screaming because they didn't get into MENSA? Why not? Well, probably because they're off enjoying their job as a daycare attendant somewhere. But that's besides the point. It's really because there are things in life that shouldn’t be challenged, but rather accepted.

I'll never be Jourdan Dunn, and not just for the obvious reason that I'm 5'7, Jewish and white. I'm not a size 0. I never will be. And it's never bothered me. Instead of focusing on what I can't be, I focus on what I can be. And I would recommend that Ms. Hamilton do the same.

So, Fillipa, if you’re reading this, you're a beautiful, talented, skyscraper of a girl who simply outgrew the sample sizes. No need to fret, or cause a media geyser to erupt in your honour, and in the honour of other lowly size fours in the world. (P.S. cry me a freaking river). Don’t focus on what you can't do (anymore), and start thinking about what you can do!

And, what does an ex-model do when she's too cumbersome for the catwalk?

I've heard this works.

hi jeff

2009-10-15T09:48:00.005-04:00

I am an American aquarium drinker,
I assassin down the avenue.
I'm hiding out in the big city blinking,
What was I thinking when I let go of you?

Let's forget bout the tongue-tied lightning,
Let's undress just like cross-eyed strangers.
This is not a joke, so please stop smiling,
What was I thinking when I said it didn't hurt?

I want to glide through those brown eyes dreaming
Take it from the inside, baby hold on tight
You were so right when you said that I've been drinking
What was I thinking when we said goodnight?

- Wilco, live at Massey Hall, Oct. 14th 2009

Jeff Tweedy broke my heart last night, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't easy.

expectations surpassed

2009-10-05T08:02:00.013-04:00

So.

I suppose if you were to ask me what a Fever Ray concert looks like, I'd probably tell you that it's mostly like church, if church were for devil worship, and violent light shows, and antique lamps, and veteran ravers, and guys in capes. (true story)

If I were to tell you that, I would probably sound like every other person who's chronicled their experience, and I'd also be 100% right.

Although it was advertised as an all-ages event, I doubt there was a pre-pube in the joint. Karen Andersson stole the show in an oscar-worthy performance playing dual roles, first Jesus Christ, then the Golem, while the rest of the gang suited up and waved tribal prayer paraphernalia around the stage to engage the audience in group chants and evangelical-like hand shaking.

No dancebreaks. No encore. (But there was a merch stand?) Just lights out, lasers on, sound up. Way up. It was one of the most severe 40 minutes of my life.

But then, I suppose if you like Fever Ray, you'd probably tell me I shouldn't have been surprised. And you'd be 100% right.

vote or die

2009-10-01T09:34:00.003-04:00

You may recognize Brian Coulton from such things as:

- all of my broadcast assignments
- arts and living from the Metro newspaper
- Jet Fuel
- the radio (specifically CBC and CFRB)
- GTA's registered sex offenders print-out
- "vinyl fan" fame

One of these factoids is false, but I won't tell you which one. And if you can't identify Brian by any of his real accomplishments, we're going to try and change that.

I want YOU (and the rest of the world world) to remember Brain Coulton. Let's make Brain Coulton a household name. Let's promise to love him, and honour him, and cherish him as long as we all shall live. (I do.)

Click here to make history. Thanks.

a letter to those in cars

2009-09-29T17:12:00.003-04:00

Dear Motorists,

Smarten up.
This girl is far too pretty for that neckbrace.

From,
Her Concerned Friend/Your New Worst Enemy

P.S. Get well soon, little one.

Photo Cred: Merrill's Blackberry

fast breaker

2009-09-28T16:38:00.001-04:00

positively atoned

2009-09-28T16:14:00.000-04:00

I spent most of last night holed up in a steamy, stain-glass enclosed asylum, repenting and wiggling my skirt down. I had eaten far more than I should have in hopes that it would tide me over until 7:47 tonight, when what feels like the-slowest-fast-known-to-man will be called to a close, and I will gorge on whatever's closest. It's just about 5:00 pm, and I've broken my fast with an Americano and seven chocolate chips. Doesn't count. (Does it?)

Yes, Yom Kippur is supposed to be the holiest of holies, the one day where we get to say, 'shit, sorry about that, pal...' and all is forgotten. As a kid, it was a day off school. Now, taking the day off could mean a deadline missed or a mark forfeited. Like most things that take on greater significance as you get older, this tradition (I hesitate to say holiday) is no exception.

Without my family to force me, or grandparents to guilt me, I went to shul of my own accord - to take stock of my own actions, all for myself. In my most opaque tights, I stood for hours, and sat for seconds, in one of the most beautiful sanctuaries I've seen. And there, for the first time (because my mom wasn't there to whisper with me), I really, truly reflected on my many magnificent misdeeds.

Slighted my peers? Yes. Disrespected my parents? Yes. Lied? If I said no, I'd be guilty of that, too. Felt envy? Yes. Gossiped? Read on. Experienced a burning, fiery, insatiable need for revenge? Yes, yes, and yes. Eaten swine? Yes, once, but it didn't mean anything, I swear.

This list could go on, but I'll save the catharsis for my moleskine. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, ticking off an imaginary list of wrong-doings, and when I opened them, everyone around me continued to beat their chests with a closed, white-knuckled fist – in the symbolic Jewish customary way, not in the 'Celine Dion Live from Vegas' kinda way. It felt... important.

We are supposed to go to an open body of water and toss bits of bread into a moving stream. This is called Tashlich, and it's a practice that is supposed to represent a physical purging, releasing and then washing away of our sins. Today I put some stale melba toast into the toilet and flushed it. You can't be a good person all the time, but you can try.

It's been a big year. Big changes, with big achievements and disappointments to match. On (real) New Years, I made a few resolutions that I sort of bit the dick on. Lucky for me, I get a second go at a new beginning. I only hope that my complex-carb contraventions get lost in the sewage, and don't kill my plumbing.

'is this outfit...surrealist enough?'

2009-09-28T14:35:00.000-04:00

As it turns out, dressing 'surrealist' is pretty dada-difficult. No one melted clocks to their clothing, but someone did carry a birdcage. At Salvador Darling we celebrated a darling of our very own in the most Man Ray kinda way, with bubbles and Brandy (songs) and whatever was left after the house red ran out, which was early, and for the first time, no fault of our own.

cne or just desserts?

2009-09-09T13:11:00.000-04:00

sneak-peek-a-boo

2009-09-04T13:40:00.000-04:00

Jac+Gill Preview, September 3rd 2009

long live the king

2009-08-26T14:16:00.000-04:00

I knew it. It's only 29 seconds long, but it's all the proof I need.

Although no verification has yet been made, I'm fairly certain that the amateur video claiming to have captured Michael Jackson stepping out of the back of a coroner's truck in Los Angeles is.... quite legit.

I am basing this solely off of my belief in his super powers and my undying love for this man and his music.

"This video shows that Michael was still alive after his dead body was transported to the Los Angeles Dept. of Coroner," the video description states. "I checked the license plate number and it looks like the King of Pop is jumping out of the same van his dead body has been in."

Coincidence? Doubtful.

Naysayers argue that the van's plate isn't actually visible in the video, and then some dickhead web-downer posted below the clip that "Michael Jackson, Elvis, 2Pac, and Biggie are all hanging out together on some island making music." He then went on to further say that he'd get a video of the make-believe jam sesh and post it later that day. Pfft. (Although, that'd be quite the video, no?)

and you know

2009-08-26T12:38:00.000-04:00

it's so hard to write without you.

in glorious comparison

2009-08-24T15:02:00.000-04:00

"She told me I'm, like, the Diane Kruger character," the pale-eyed blonde one said, sitting on a picnic bench in Parkdale. Ankles crossed. "I think she said I'm supposed to be Brad Pitt, or whatever," he'll say. Ah, the 'or whatever". The audible shrug, as if to allude to some shame in accepting due compliment… all the while insisting that you know it was due.
If she's Kruger, and he's Pitt (like it, love it, or "not").... am I Roth?

"You're a lovely, erm, feminine Eli Roth," I'm told, once inside and dressed. Typecasted. Jew on Jew. Roth on Rothman. Which is oddly (albeit undoubtedly) a relief. Considering the artistic direction in the way of my hair, I could have been a stand in for someone else .
And Zaida would not have been pleased. Nine, nine, nine. He would not have been pleased.
So I take what I'm given, and I guess it's really not that bad.

"Dressd to Kill (Nazis)" EyeWeekly, August 20th, 2009

Styling: Duh, SNP

lothario

2009-08-24T11:15:00.000-04:00

Remember when you actually had to WALK the dog to pick up chicks?
Lose the leash; get a camera phone. It's that easy.

canada in the (head)lines

2009-08-18T19:07:00.000-04:00

While everyone gripes and moans about the dismal state of our poor, poor economy, a new study shows that our low, low dollar is actually higher than we thought. (Cheap puns are all I can afford right now.) This week, multiple Canadian news sources reported that 9 out of every 10 Canadian banknotes, analyzed by an American research firm, contained trace amounts of cocaine.

Bubbie sends you a twenty tucked into a greeting card, and tells you not to blow it all in one place. Bubbie obviously doesn’t see the irony in her counsel.

27 bills, in all denominations, taken mostly from the GTA, were swabbed and studied. A staggering 85% of the canuck bucks were laced with cocaine. According to reports, the amount of coke found on the banknotes ranged from 2.4 micrograms to upwards of 2,530 micrograms -- approximately 100 grains of sand. Not exactly a bender, but enough to sound the alarms.

Have we really become this wasteful, Canada? What happened to the good old days? Back when we knew the meaning of a dollar, and we spent three minutes scraping the sides desperately, while making hopeless conversation with the only other loser left in the afterhours bathroom at 4 AM, "eh"? What about the needy kids in Africa who don’t even have coke?

All insensitivities aside, this looks bad. Real bad. We already have a pot smoking reputation of Cheech and Chong proportions. We don’t need to add Tony Montana to the drug culture reference roster. So, to all you shady/trendy 20-somethings congregating in dimly lit shitters, rolling up your allowance and getting chatty and sticky-lipped, try to use some discretion. And by discretion, I mean your bike lock keys.

** DISCLAIMER: The author does not endorse or encourage the use of any drugs. Stay in school. (Hi Bubbie!)

we all scream

2009-08-12T15:55:00.000-04:00

"It's summer in the city and it's so hot out that the air is getting wavy. You run with the rest of the kids down the block, chasing the ice cream truck, only to find some alien stand-in, some horrific usurper, offering you eco-carob with ginger artisan acai pommegranate, at only uhh... five dollars a scoop... Sprinkles, motherfucker, have you heard of them?
Shit, McDonald's has soft serve for a buck."

It's going to be a hot one. Finally.

anomaly:

2009-08-11T15:37:00.000-04:00

a·nom·a·ly (-nm-l)
n. pl. a·nom·a·lies
1. Deviation or departure from the normal or common order, form, or rule.
2. One that is peculiar, irregular, abnormal, or difficult to classify: "Both men are anomalies: they have . . . likable personalities but each has made his reputation as a heavy" (David Pauly).
3. Astronomy The angular deviation, as observed from the sun, of a planet from its perihelion.
4. Lindsay Lohan; zero talent, zero credits, zero calories, "99.9%" perfect?

for pick up

2009-07-28T10:17:00.000-04:00

My city has spent the last 36 days wading through rotting garbage, mouldy food rewarmed by what sun we ever get, putrid smelling, soaking wet copies of The Metro, and raccoon droppings left behind by the most wretched of God's scavengers.

Today, it's all over. Victorious we rise from heaps of steaming, reeking waste – and all in time to take on another pending challenge.

Two weeks ago, my mother phoned. I was walking to work, and remarked, just barely, about a garbage receptacle that had busted open, spewing remnants of the neighbouring Pizza Pizza onto the pavement, like a first year student.

"I swear, Carli, I will cancel my trip if that strike is not over by the time I'm supposed to come…" My mother can't stand a used kleenex left on the counter, let alone a month's worth of garbage decorating every city curb within a 10 block radius of my downtown front door.

My mother is a demanding woman. That's putting it mildly. I've learned that she always gets what she wants. (Or maybe I've just learned to always give in.) Either way, Caron Rothman is a woman of her word. If the strike didn't end, her flight wouldn't land.

As I log on to my browser this morning to check her arrival time, the block lettered words flash across my homepage:

THE STRIKE IS OVER!

And her flight? Of course it's on time.

all that redbull

2009-07-27T08:28:00.000-04:00

The last text reads: Let me know how it is, and the feasibility of me being able to buy a ticket if I come later…

The time is 11:38 PM. Later seems too late. But not tonight. Tonight, there's nothing but time, most literally, because Time Festival (too easy) is staying open until sun rise, for those who have the energy, or other means, to last.

Never in my life have I seen a venue this big, this full. I turn to a guy and say that back home, the only place this big is a Costco, and it's never open this late. He doesn't really laugh, but thinking back, it wasn't actually that funny.

You know you're at a super-cool Toronto party when:
Crystal Castles takes the stage, and we watch from a blocked off area, safe from a heaving crowd, but not at all from the pushing. Even very important people push. Her mic isn't on and I wonder if that's a mistake. Probably not. She flicks a lit cigarette into the crowd before drinking directly from a bottle of Jack Daniels, and beautifully tripping her step. I think we're supposed to be impressed. (Look, a rockstar.) Instead, I'm searching the audience for the poor sucker who certainly got burned. He won't feel it until tomorrow, when he's really feeling all of it. He probably won't even remember how he was burned, which is too bad, cause that might be a good story. Burned by a real rockstar. At Time Festival. Or it might not.

I'm told the music outlasted the darkness, and Sunday morning saw thousands of girls flag cabs with one hand, while holding their shoes in the other.

The first text reads: That was fun for one time. I don't think I'll do it again though. I'm going to eat some waffles now.

patience tastes better

2009-07-17T10:08:00.001-04:00

Ever since New York, where I had these, I have been dying to do this.
For fear of fires, severe injury, grafting followed by insurance claims, I didn't.
Instead, I waited for:

Can you guess where I am?

the best things in life are ______

2009-07-14T14:41:00.000-04:00

If I scratch your back, I'm told you'll scratch mine. Truth be told, this city is full of itchy people who all have a skill to share, a talent to showcase, a face to sell, and not a penny in their pocket. Everyone talks about 'these recessionary times' as if it were the end of days. For some, it might be. For most, who noticed? Like any period of (what we're told is) change, we can figure new ways to survive, adjust, amend. Like adaptation. Now, we're told that we're a nation, no, an entire civilization learning to live with less, forced to ditch the frills and snip along the dotted lines for super savings. But while the economy dips and dives, and slips below the leisure line, everyone I know (see: no portfolio, part-time workers, full-time dreamers) can't hardly feel a quake.

In crisis, everyone comes together, comes to rely on everyone else, and in turn be relied upon. No money, no problem. Near paucity makes people want to be nicer, or at least more helpful. Why? Because where there is someone who wants, there is also someone who needs.

Example: Designer friend knows writer/stylist friend. Writer/stylist friend is on a deadline. Designer friend wants exposure, writer/stylist needs per-word paycheck. A match made in haggling heaven. Throw a beautiful ginger girlfriend into the mix, and what do you get?

A happy designer, a compensated writer/stylist, a stunning photo, a spread in Eye Weekly, and proof that although the best things in life might not be free, some pretty great stuff can happen when everyone you know is habitually down and out.

carli m.i.a.

2009-07-07T07:46:00.000-04:00

It's been so long since I have written anything (that I'd proudly or freely share), or blogged, or composed anything more than an e-mail or restaurant listing or a "10 Hot New Ways to (who the fuck cares)", or so it seems, at least. Abandoning a blog is like going a while without calling an old friend. The longer you go, the more there is to tell and ask, but having to rehash life over the absent days, weeks, or months will take time in itself. Time that I don't always have. So another day, or week, or sometimes (so horribly) a month will go past until I have the time. But by then, there is even more to tell and ask. It's exhausting, and off-putting, and probably makes me sound like a lousy friend. And by using the intended parallel, a lousy blogger.

I'm so bad at playing catch-up so lets skip the pretence, and move on. Let's act like it never happened, while everything was happening, and wake up tomorrow like yesterday didn't come. And I'll try to be a better friend. I promise. I'll blog about you everyday.

From now on. Starting tomorrow.

forget regrets

2009-06-17T14:31:00.000-04:00

'People in the Annex are really serious about their houses,' I'm told today. Oh, ambiguous. It's one of those blanket statements that she'll sometimes make when she's only listening enough to know that I want advice - but not listening enough to give it.

Odd as it is, though, her non-advice is always the best.

I was running late for work, and walking (when I should have actually been running) with a leaf of paper flapping in my hand. A letter from a landlord that's not mine, presumably addressed to me: dear house-sitter.

The landlord pointed out, in hardly-legible script, that the trash is removed on Tuesday morning. It's Wednesday. And it's still here, like I will be - until Sunday. As it turns out, I forgot about garbage day, like I have been forgetting about many other things. Sarah has a theory on why this is, but I forget that too. Not really, but admitting omission is worse, right? (Oops?)

On Sunday, I forgot something more important than garbage pick-up. I've been feeling rotten about it ever since Monday, when I was reminded: dear friend. This time in an email, and not a note taped to someone else's front door. Without fingering blame, he offered me the benefit of the doubt, acknowledging that there 'must have been a reason' that I missed his big night.

Truth is, there wasn't. At least not a good one. Forgetting really only applies to the geriatric.

Today I see photos of what I missed. It just twists the knife, a bit. And, still, someone else is going to have to deal with this garbage. I'll need to make it up to you, and to you, 'not my' landlord.

hbd gmb

2009-06-10T15:37:00.000-04:00

I remember standing, ankles crossed, knees bent, bouncing in the bathroom line at the Pyramid. It was a Thursday, a Mod Night, and the wait to get in was impossible. Once inside, the lines were much worse. As usual.

'I just need to use the mirror!'

And suddenly, a wing of blonde hair flutters by, moving past me into the bathroom. The place that I so longed to be. That bitch, I thought. I can see her leaning over the sink and correcting her lipgloss, which needed no correction at all, I'm sure. Her outfit was spot on, her heels were high, and her voice even higher.

My bladder, how it throbs. I vowed then and there to never cut in line for a pee, or a primp, and of course, to never offer even the slightest of smiles, not even a nod to the girl who surely was causing me kidney damage. Could have been principle, maybe just jealousy, but most likely a merger of both.

Two years later, in another city, in what feels like a different universe, and in a dark, crowded wrong(choice)bar, I wait in line. Equally as pained as the last time. There are about four people ahead of me, and two people in each stall. It might take a while. And I wait.

'We just need to use the mirror!'

And suddenly, I'm hand in hand with the blonde, passing the people one by one, until in front of the mirror I stand. Her lipgloss is still perfect, her heels much higher than mine, and her voice, well, perhaps you've heard mine and you know she wins there as well.

Had you told me three years ago, while still bound in a smalltown social web, so tangled and complex; a hierarchical community ruled by kilts versus street clothes, who-slept-with-whom's, and age before everything, I would have never believed you. As she grows one year older today, and we all grow up decades daily, I'm one friend richer, and so much happier. And I never wait in bathroom lines anymore. At all.

Happy birthday to you; my line-cutting, gloss-loving, heel-stomping, high pitched, 'bitch' and facebook bride.

Art mimics Life imitating Art mocking Life

2009-05-25T12:26:00.000-04:00

Have you ever experienced a moment of intuitive clarity where you think you can see someone as they will look in twenty years? When the light catches them just right? Or they make a certain face? Sigh a certain sigh? When someone is standing in front of you, and for just one minute, you can imagine what they'll look like behind the wheel of a mini-van, carting their offspring off to hockey practice, or for those who will take offense to this liable generalization, sitting behind their mahogany topped CEO's desk in their executive office, without a man or children at home, wearing power heels and rimless glasses?

I had that moment on Saturday night, but instead of seeing her from a certain angle, I saw her through a pane of glass. No, not her, but a painted portrait of what I envision her to look like in fifteen-or-so-years. In a gallery west of Ossington, just after midnight, I walked past the well lit window front and halted a dead stop. The likeness was eerie, and beautiful – as beautiful as the subject on canvass, and the girl I compare her to.

I won't say who I think this is, or rather, who this will someday be, but I welcome guesses.

2009-05-21T18:44:00.000-04:00

Hi ma. Hi pa.

my act...

2009-05-21T16:47:00.000-04:00

… also known as my schtick (among my more yiddy associates): It's an all encompassing, definitive summary of who I am (or propose, or appear to be), based on the things I say, the way I dress, the places I go, the music I like, and my overall behaviour in relation to my surroundings. Everyone has one, apparently. I hesitate to say 'apparently' as I'm pretty sure I've always known this, but only recently have I been called out on my 'act', and conversely, asked to recognize the 'acts' of others.

It's a strange categorical phenomenon. It's like having a type. I'm not sure if I have a type, but if all of the character variables and physical features are compared between relations past and present, I'm sure a 'type' could be discerned. I digress.

What's my act? I'm growing to understand that an 'act' is both important and superfluous. Important, because everyone weighs on them; superfluous, because they're indefinite. Charles Cooley penned the term Looking Glass Self, which sounds painfully vain, but it's more, uhh, sad and true? The whole theory is rooted in the idea that we see ourselves as we feel others see us (...and he thought of this before Lookbook.nu, talk about prophetic). My 'act', although it's my own, is completely out of my hands. You determine my 'act', and I can act however I like, even if I'm not really acting, and there is nothing I can do to control your assessment. So, however you evaluate me, that's who I am to you, and maybe even to myself, eventually.

Sitting in my mother's bathtub today, biding time on a (sadly) frigid Manitoba afternoon, I tried my best to imagine what my 'act' is from someone else's perspective. Only a few nights ago, I wore a short sleeved, white, men's shirt and a cream coloured blazer. Very Ben Gurion. I was told this outfit was part of my 'act'. I'm still trying desperately to understand what this means. My mom stands over a pile of magazines and clothes on the coffee table and says, 'Carli, you've only been home for three days and you're already starting your schtick…' My 'schtick', in this case, is leaving clutter and making messes. The funny thing is that back in Toronto, I keep my schtick in good order. I've got the cleanest schtick around. It's so clean, you could eat off my schtick. At a formal event on Tuesday, every pantsuit wearing Bubbie and Zaida in town approached me to pinch my cheeks and ask me about my present 'shpeal' (see: act, schtick)

Presently? Well, I dress in men's clothing, leave clutter wherever I go, and blog from the bathtub while I should be doing real work...

Although the term 'act' is a new one for me, the concept is anything but novel. Today, I'm told that I should start writing about 'the act', as it's a "great term" and everyone's got one. So, now, I can add something to my former character précis:

Presently? Well, I dress in men's clothing, leave clutter wherever I go, blog from the bathtub while I should be doing real work, and take simple text messages and turn them into longwinded, self-reflective web manifestos. So, that's my act. At present...

Like it or leave it.

a 30-45 minute wait

2009-05-09T15:22:00.000-04:00

You can talk a million times a day, but it isn't until you actually sit down, just the two of you, and really talk, that you comprehend just how long it's actually been. In a room too crowded to care, we shout above everyone else - and we know no ones listening. She's been without phone, and I time. She's been away, and I've been busy, and it feels like neither of us has eaten in days – when really, it's only been hours. We share stories, and a pizza, and a bottle of wine – and decide not to share a cab at the end of the night. She goes west, and I go east, and I go to bed satisfied from dinner, starving for sleep, and dreaming of a summer filled with (more) cream-filling and two forks to match.

nevermind the twit(ter)

2009-05-04T19:31:00.000-04:00

Growing up, I was both fiercely and frequently reminded that to be a follower was to fall behind.

"No one likes a follower," my mother informed me as I stomped my foot over a hooded Roxy sweatshirt that would never be mine. Apparently, Fruit of The Loom was somehow much more indicative of freethinking, and it was in a basic white crew-neck that I learned to embrace individuality. Ironic, I know.

Today, the first day at a new job. Wearing a new (old) blazer, in a new neighbourhood, I was asked to try and see 'following' in, yes, a new light.

"You've gotta just follow more people," I'm told. Pouring over a much heavier, much slower laptop than the rest of them, I quickly, nervously agree to follow as many people as my mouseless hand can click at. Of course, I am speaking of Twitter: the be-all-end-all of social media networking, and the death of normative interaction.

Twitpic, Twibes, Tags, RSS, Technorati, and then suddenly I’m 'Digging' for something. (Perhaps meaning?) A cyclone of cyber jargon whips around the beautiful room. The only thing blowing harder is the air conditioner. And still, I'm sweating, cross-legged on a gorgeous suede chair, wearing my glasses. I wore my glasses all day at my new job, as if to say ‘Yeah, I love the internet’, and heels, as if to say ‘Ok, maybe I just like to blog...’

My task is a little less html-intensive than the rest of the gang. A semi-sigh of relief. Occasionally, though, I must twit...tweet...? So, I sit. And I tap away at my keys, composing and erasing, trying to think of something that I can say, and also something someone else might care to read. The curser blinks.

I type. I am sitting here, in a room, wearing a new blazer, and my glasses, drinking a diet coke, trying to...twat? Backspace.

I don't really get it. Twitter is to me, as dancing is to the town's people in Footloose (1984). Nevermind.

Eventually this will all make more sense. Right? I'm sure of it. Sort of. ~~Good~~ Expensive education. Moderate to considerable confidence (on most days). Eager to learn. Happy to write. Then why do I feel so, I don’t know, out of touch? Inadequate?

I hear no one uses ICQ anymore. 'Uh Oh!'

feel so good

2009-04-30T11:14:00.000-04:00

"Today could be a wonderful day for many reasons:
We might get mail from the postman, or, we might just get a song from Mase..."

hello, you must be summer

2009-04-26T09:24:00.000-04:00

this april foolishness

2009-04-23T11:22:00.000-04:00

"I'm so bored," she said, her shoes clicking hard on the pavement, heading eastbound in what should have been more of a hurry.

"Bored right this second, or bored with everything?" I asked, partly out of curiosity, and partly because it seemed like the right thing to ask.

"I don't know. Maybe once it gets warmer…" she answered, partly because she meant it, and partly because it seemed like the right thing to answer.

These are the days of our younger lives. Enjoy them while you can, I always tell myself. And while worthy opportunities arise, and the jackets and socks come off to stay off, there is still a sense of static that I cannot seem to shake.

Then, we're sitting in makeup chairs: ultra white lids and red lips to match. The overall ambience is Redbull, and there are clipboards and there is shouting, and there is nothing "good" to read. And I think to myself how lucky I should feel, and should have always felt, to try new things, walk in different shoes, meet new faces and choose whose I'll remember and whose I'll eventually forget.

And I sneeze as I go, and I wonder if people will choose to remember that, too.

What feels like seconds later, the congested setting becomes a darker, comparably empty bar. Sitting together in (what I would define as) a spontaneous gathering of friends, we discus communism, and Kool Moe Dee, and decide which of us looks most Jewish, ex-evangelical company included. I win, but it's a close tie.

"See, this is nice," she turns to me and smiles. "Isn't this fun? Just going out, without a plan, meeting people for a drink on a Tuesday?"

She says without a plan like one might speak to a wayward kid caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar. It's something I vowed to work on. Spontaneity (not eating fewer cookies). She was just reminding me, I guess.

"I'm really glad we got to hang out," the other said, peering through signature specs and sweeping hair. And although I'm not sure I said it back, I felt the same, most genuinely. Chivalrous men are rarely available (to me; or most women), but I'll still take it where I can get it. He closed the cab door behind me, and instructed the driver, through the open windows, to get me home in one piece. I watched his curls get smaller and smaller as we drove, and I couldn't believe how quickly the night passed, or how good it felt to take off my shoes.

Today it's (only) 13 and sunny. I don't have all that much to do, next to study, but somehow I don't feel bored. Not even at all.

"happy mini egg day"

2009-04-13T14:24:00.000-04:00

Easter. A time for giving, and caring, and chocolate.

I don’t celebrate Easter. We've been absolved, but it's still not my party.

I've been toting a sizable box of styrofoam flat bread around in my bag for days. I also carry a plastic knife and a jar of peanut butter. Me, my mobile pantry and my hollow stomach are celebrating Passover while everyone else takes the weekend off to hunt for foil covered eggs.

Last night though, in the spirit of giving, and caring, and chocolate, I was invited to an Easter feast. And feast we did. Vegan soup that wets the ap and 'huggs' the soul, a bird, some starches, and a banana cream pie.

I've never understood the relationship between clucking bunnies and resurrections, and I've never appreciated the weekend wine store lockdown, or the redundancy of Easter Sunday re-runs, but I did have a fantastic time with everyone around the table.

lunch bunch

2009-04-04T16:24:00.000-04:00

One by one, waiting for our cards to go through at a restaurant that looks like it shouldn’t take cards, the long-haired hostess in the ringer-tee (ugh, I know) surveys the three of us. We're already one short from the original group. She had a meeting. We had nothing else to do but hold the table and get refills.

"So, how do you all know each other?"

An odd question. Do we really look that 'chalk and cheese'? Or better yet, is it any of your business?

"We go to school together," I say, taking the debit receipt from her fingers. Approved.

Thank goodness.

"Oh, really?! Where!?"

We've all paid. The conversation should be spent by now, too.

"Ryerson," Katy says.

"Oh, really, so cool, for what program?"

Today, Tara happens to have really dressed the part. Paper folded beneath trench sleeve, fedora tipped down, piped stockings, shined shoes. So fitting, too fitting, almost costume-like in daytime. Like a method actor, only not acting.

"Journalism," Katy says. The hostess sings a chorus of admiration. We're momentarily made proud, feeling self-satisfied and important. But then we remember what it's really like. We deflate as we walk home, but agree unanimously to go on promoting what is hardly more than a reputation and a heap of student debt. The truth might sting, but it certainly won't hurt us in the long run.

the suspense is killing me…

2009-04-04T16:22:00.000-04:00

me, myself, and i.

2009-04-04T16:08:00.000-04:00

Keeping busy has been the name of the game. And busy I've been (almost) keeping. Lately, the standard forces of 'busy' have abandoned me as the school year comes to a close, and packing to move is no longer on my list of things to do. My days have been a little bit freer, and just when I need distractions the most. Because of this, I've needed to realign my schedule, pull out all of the coloured pens and scribble colourful plans into all of the empty grey spaces that once were reserved for critical papers and phone calls.

Everyone always talks about girls needing 'me' time. But if you've ever met a 20-something with a vagina and 647 area code, you quickly come to learn that 'me' time is a redundancy. Nevertheless, these past few weeks have been about me, and me alone, and me – alone. By choice or not, I've had to start consciously putting myself first, taking time out, making myself happy, blah blah blah Oprah Winfrey. I got a pedicure. I bought new jeans. I've been to McDonald's (more times than I'll ever admit). I've been doing things because I want to, and not because I have to – but I'm quickly learning that 'me' time comes at a price.

Lunch for two: $20.00
Cab to Doctor: $8.45 + tip (It was pouring and my umbrella wont open, ok?)
Red Wine: $12.95
"You know, Sparkling White Wine": $8.50 (Nothing but the best for my woman.)
Studded leggings: $45.00
Subway: $2.75, or $3 if you don't want to wait for change, and I don't.
Drinks and Motown: $45.00
Cab West: $4.00
Cab East: $10.00
Petit Dejeuner: $15.00
Making some 'Me' Time: I'd say priceless, but that would be both lame, and untrue.

Actually, the truth is that 24 hours later, 'me' is banking a pretty serious fucking tab. I don't know how much longer I can afford to keep the meter running for 'me'. And sure, there are simpler pleasures without pricetags. Say, I could go for a walk with my iPod. But then I would probably need a coffee ($2.00), and when I sit and have my coffee, I'll probably need a magazine ($9.00), and if I'm going to read my magazine, I'm probably going to need a snack, and before you know it, I'm back at McDonalds, counting my change and eating my feelings.

But if the cost of keeping 'me' happy, by keeping 'myself' busy, means 'I' will have to work a few more shifts this week – c'est la vie. Because from now on, it's just you and me, 'me', so we're going to have to learn to get along.

nose(talgic)

2009-03-25T14:03:00.000-04:00

After many long months of searching for just the right scent, and going through two bottles of 'doable' perfumes that I love (but can live without if I had to), I feel I've finally found the best very best fragrance (for me). Week after week, I have dragged different friends - a fresh set of nostrils, a new eau de parfum perspective - with me to go sniffing.

There, I line up three or four different options that I've been mulling over, and ask them to smell each one. I'll then encourage them to take a few things into account before making any calls:

1) Summer is within reach, so the scent mustn't be too heavy.

2) It must be unique. I don't want to be stopped on the street by "OH EM GEE! Are you wearing (*insert top categorical high-school sellers here*)!?"

3) And finally, it must be long lasting – both on my skin, and in your memory.

By the end, most of my shopping companions have a headache (from a combination of both too many smells, and too much pressure) and I leave again empty handed. Yesterday, after yet another unsuccessful trip to the store, I ate dinner with a friend. Despite some of the more serous things to discuss, like where I am going to live, and what I am going to do with my life (all hot questions this month), we began to talk toilettes.

"I don't understand why no one can help me make up my mind?"

"Like I've said to you about all choices in your life," she answered in her signature breathy voice, "you need to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks, and do what makes you happy."

What makes me happy. If anyone knew what would make them happy, and I mean really and truly satisfied, then there would be no need to make decisions, no need to bring out the old moral compass, and advice, both given and received, would be a thing of the past. It sounds ridiculous, I know, to compare fragrance shopping to the ultimate arrangement and preparation of my future, present, and past, but it somehow inimitably applies.

"My family makes me happy. My dog. My friends. Uh, Michael Jackson... Seafood...This wine is good... I like to watch Jeopardy…" All of the answers came surprisingly quick, and although playing P.Y.T. at an ungodly decibel won't bring me answers to all of my problems, it's certainly a start.

So today, I went back to the store - alone - in search of a scent that not only smells good, but sparks something (greater than a compliment) within me. I lined up my select favourites and smelled each one again. The first one, Bvalgari Jasmin Noir, smells dark, and warm, and then minutes later, like baby powder and brandy. It reminded me of the types of thick, nearly syrupy scents my mother used to wear when I was young. The ones I used to absolutely hate. The ones I thought smelled like permanent white board markers. The ones that would linger in the house after she'd left with my dad on weekends, while I'd sit, arms crossed, and resent the babysitter.

Then, I smelled Prada Milano. It was light, and fresh and smelled like what you'd imagine a tall pine to smell like… after it took a shower. It reminded me of my summers at camp, and no matter how awful 'free swim' hour was, how the combination of best friendships and the smell of air and grass and trees (cheesy, I know) kept me coming back every single year, until I stopped. Until I grew out of camp, and all of its lightness and freshness (but luckily not friendships).

Finally, I smelled Perles De Lalique, a perfume that I had nearly written off a few weeks ago due to its distinctive, if not odd bouquet. I picked it up and sprayed it on my wrist. It smelled patently like something. It smelled so much like something, and yet I couldn't quite pin what it was. So I stood there, eyes closed, in the middle of Sephora, amidst young girls buying bronzer and liquid eyeliner at forty bucks a pop, and smelled it again.

A cedar closet. My bubbie's cedar closet; filled with her old furs and expensive silk dresses, and lined along the top with sombreros, and other tokens of her travels with my zaida. As a kid, I used to spend hours in there, falling into the side racks and wrapping myself in her aged treasures, fingering the details on every cuff, every hem, every single stitch, dreaming of a day when I'd be big enough to try them all on. I didn’t know then that I would far outgrow my grandmother's 5 foot tall stature, and never be able to dawn a single garment without substantial alterations.

That closet, although containing riches I will never be able to wear myself, was a place where I felt happy, unequivocally. Thinking on it, if I could live in that closet, next to her fragile, material mementos, collapsing in her buttery yellow wedding dress and bristly mink coats, and I would never be plagued with the question of what makes me happy again.

And so, $96.50 (and free gift with purchase) later, my decision had been made.

If only everything were this easy.

the kids are our future

2009-03-07T14:15:00.000-05:00

My kid sister (no relation to Melisa Young of Pro-Nail fame) fancies herself a social radical. Ironically, liking the song 'Pro Nails' is just one of the ways she attests to her rejection of common culture. Owning one American Apparel deep-v in every colour, and duplicate pairs of neon Nike high-tops, my tween-aged darling kin secretly believes herself to be God's gift to new rave.

She does get points, however, for denying the standard camel color Ugg boot, and in place choosing the newer, more palatable black leather variation on a confusing classic. But no matter her objectionable footwear, her all-together concept of 'cool' (right now) is as immature and undeveloped as her pimple-faced gym class cronies, dodging balls and hitting their inhalers like crackpipes. Soon, her tastes, like her bra size, will expand. But until then…

Her English teacher recently announced that their year-end assignment, making up the bulk of her grade, would be the production of a zine; an interesting and refreshing take on the customary 600-word ode to Anne Frank.

Each student was required to pick and submit their zine topic, which needed to be narrow and specific. Some of her friends have chosen Blair Waldorf, while others have selected Golden Retrievers. In her tireless quest to standout, Sonny, that's her name (as if that doesn't stand out enough), pitched perhaps one of the broadest topics in zine culture…ever.

Indie Music. And, it was unquestioningly accepted.

As she reported her news to me over the phone, I cringed at the thought of another pompous, indie-centric publication tangibly existing in my universe – even if it is just an assignment for Jew school. Then, she asked me if she could email me her her top ten list to look over. Of course, I agreed, but as I waited by my laptop I prepared myself for disappointment, while simultaneously practicing my "positive feedback".

It popped up in my inbox, and I opened the attachment. As I read my sister's little list, I felt a wash of pride and relief - and I even laughed a bit. It was so cute, and so clever that I just had to share it.

It may be clichéd, and dated in a 'Klosterman already made these jokes way back when people still read Klosterman' kinda way – but considering the fact that the only reading she's ever done is in Tigerbeat, I'd say this is a pretty nifty start to a pretty nifty zine. Don't you think?

How To Take Your Band and Make it "Indie"
'cause what does 'indie' really mean, anyway?

By: Sonny Rothman

1. Every band needs a name. Pick a word, any obscure word, and put “THE” in front of it.
(Eg: The Strokes, The Hives, The Blow)

2. Wear glasses? No? Buy some anyway, the thicker the frames the better.

3. Have a Facebook account? Delete it. Facebook is so yesterday, get a blog.

4. No matter who asks, your music style has been inspired by a mix of Joy Division meets Jeff Tweedy meets MJ (even though they sound nothing alike, and you have never really cared for them as artists).

5. Take all your Coldplay cd’s, and hide them. (Don't get rid of them though, Chris Martin is such an inspiration.)

6. No matter where you’re born, Winnipeg, Fargo, or PEI, adopt just the slightest British accent when you’re being interviewed. You'll sound more legit.

7. Smoke skinny cigarettes, even if you’re asthmatic. You don't need to inhale, they just help your image.

8. Never smile in pictures. 'Happy' is for Josh Groban.

9. Every time you release a single, send a copy to Steve Aoki and let him fully butcher it. Then, it can be played in American Apparel stores around the world. Cha-ching!

10. Under no circumstance do you EVER admit that you make you music for the fans. You’re an “Indie” artist; you make the music for you, and you only. (And then, charge your non-fans, who you don't care about at all, 4.99 per download on iTunes)

big fish; bigger pond

2009-02-23T18:52:00.000-05:00

Sarah-Torialist Nicole Prickett

Makin mama proud, even thousdands of miles away.

something for the cheddarless

2009-02-23T13:23:00.000-05:00

I suppose we can expect to hear less and less about that bastardly "bathing ape" on Flow 93.5 from now on.

(Not that I listen to Flow. Often. Only when I'm cleaning my apartment. Which I do daily.)

I found these eyesores among the housewares at a Salvation Army. They stood out like, ahem, well, like Bape products in any scenario. Apparently, S.A. hasn't fully developed their 'fresh gear' section yet. It's on their list of things to do after 'organize VHS reserve', and fix the shattered window front.

Too funny.

WARNING: honesty may contain negativity

2009-02-18T15:10:00.000-05:00

The worst part about a good thing is that it will eventually end. We've all heard the saying about the glass. Either it's half-full, or it's half-empty. But really, no one is going to just sit and stare at a glass that's half-full anyways. They're going to do what they do with glasses, and that's drink from them. Eventually, the glass will become empty after so many sips. Of course, you could just look at the glass, maintaining it's half-fullness in all of it's half-full glory, and wait for the contents of the glass to either sour, ferment, or go flat, and then throw it all out anyway – but that would be far more wasteful and disheartening than an empty glass to begin with.

We'd be foolish to consider every positive scenario as a glass half-full, because everyone knows that a glass, no mater the volume of its contents, will eventually drain to nothing, evaporate into thin air, or rot. That's the nature of the glass, and the contents. Either we drink it, or we throw it away – nothing can stay "half-full" forever.

Such a stupid saying. And an even sillier concept.

I've had trouble accepting this throughout my life. I've been called pessimistic when challenging permanence. But, seriously, what is permanent? A physical scar? An emotional scar? A tattoo? Maybe I should get the image of a half-full glass tattooed to my ass to remind me, every time I get naked in front of a mirror, that I'm a cynical, naked, 20-something. Then maybe I'll understand, but not likely.

It's a skill to be able to live in the moment. To be able to take time and smell the flowers, and just for a second stop focusing on the fact that they were sent from a boyfriend exactly 2,229 kilometres away - someone that I can't ever see, or touch, or hear unless filtered through phone lines and long-distance charges.

My mother and sister came to visit for the weekend. Despite the dinners, and the movies, and the shopping, there is always this little voice in the background saying "only 4 more days…only 3 more days…only 2 more days." Of course, that voice, in this case, really did belong to my 14 year old sister who, despite the fun we were having, could not wait to get back home (to find out who-held-hands-with-whom while she was away). But, even if she wasn't here to mark the days as they passed, my own reasoning would be doing the same, focusing on how much time had gone, rather than how much time was left.

Now, they've left, too. I walked them to their cab just about an hour ago. I promised my mother, who could see the dark cloud rolling in, that I would go buy milk and get busy with my list of things to do. But I haven’t. My condo is quiet. Like, dead quiet. Pin-drop quiet. The bed is unmade, and the list of things that need to be done is by my kitchen sink. There is laundry to do, groceries to buy, one essay, two articles, and a midterm on Monday – but all I really want to do right now is pour myself a glass of wine and sulk. A full glass.

i pay good money for this education:

2009-02-12T11:37:00.000-05:00

“If Dante was here, condemning people for intellectual pretension, their punishment would be to sit in hell reading every edition of The Walrus.”
- Peter McNelly, Broadcast Professor & jokester extraordinaire

(*thanks jt)

my friends are famouser than your friends

2009-02-11T15:58:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I used to dream about dating Jonathon Taylor Thomas. As his loyal and devoted girlfriend, I would be at every live studio taping of Home Improvement, running lines with little Taryn Noah, and helping Zachary Ty with quick changes.

I would attend all of the Jr. Nickelodeon award shows with him, and we'd walk the red carpet together. He'd wear a short sleeved dress shirt, untucked with cargo pants, and I would glide proudly along next to him in a daisy printed jumper and front-flipped bucket cap, a classic look inspired by Blossom. We'd vacation with his family to Disney World, and slowly, his pint sized A-list friends would call me a friend in turn. They'd come to my birthday parties at the indoor golf dome, and they'd send me woven friendship jewellery in the mail when I wasn't in L.A.

Well, I never did get the chance to date Jonathon. I sent three hand-written letters to The Rosie O'Donnell show, expressing why I had to have a spot with JTT on the next 'meet your favourite celebrity" segment – all to no avail.

I eventually got over the heartbreak, and accepted the fact that little girls in butterfly clips and Umbro shorts weren't meant to rub shoulders with the celebrity elite. What I didn't realise (at the ungainly age of eleven) is that eventually I'd stop twisting my hair into faux corn-rows and wear real pants, and that I'd meet my very own celebrities all in good time – and without the help of a nonresponsive, kush-kush flinging lesbian.

Now, it seems that all of my nearest and dearest have achieved some form of well deserved luminary status. I've really made it. I've truly arrived.

SNP will be heading across the pond to lend her keen eye and quick pen to London Fashion Week, Mercanti has been popping up in magazines across Canada and the interweb, Christopher is named one of the 'Chefs of The City" and handed a tasty little sum of money, Merrill, Hannah and Mack are getting online shout-outs like no one's business, and of course, there's this mystery betty below:

Now, I'm not one to throw around the word 'celebrity' without a disclaimer. After all, that would create a contradiction of blogger-ous proportions. These aforementioned cats are icons by my standards, and not necessarily by yours. Get to know them though, and you too will be writing them fan mail in no time.

can you believe this crap?

2009-02-02T23:10:00.000-05:00

This breaking news report states that after a custodian attempted to flush a "suspicious substance" down the toilet in the downtown Greyhound bus depot, he was "overcome" by the substance.

His eyes burned, and his throat hurt, and he felt uncontrollably ill.

Uh. Have you ever been into a Greyhound bus station, let alone a bathroom? There are things in the sitting area that can cause that very same reaction.

Diharrea isn't Diphosgene. Send home the hazmat's and call a plumber.

(p.s. who wants to go to New York?)

de-funked

2009-02-02T21:49:00.000-05:00

My futon is situated against a wall. Everyday, I roll out of bed on the left side, because I have no other choice. Today, the left side turned out to be the right side, as opposed to the alternative wrong side, proverbially speaking. Last night I went to bed ridiculously early, intentionally leaving my curtains open, hoping to wake up without my alarm. This morning, like all mornings, the sounds of street construction filtered in. I'm so used to it now that it's nearly calming. Calming enough to send me back to sleep. But not today. The sun, which feels like a long lost friend of mine, beat me to rise. This morning was disguised as springtime, and I was happy to play the fool.

My phone was blinking with a text message. In the message was a joke. Not a very funny joke, really. But it’s the effort that is gladly and pitiably noted. Then a few more messages, and a phone call from Mum. Shower, and a coffee, with time left for some breakfast.

More texts.
C: Today is starting out as a good one! Still meeting at 1?
T: My day has been a bit slow…how about 2?

Between classes, I made a one hour stop off at my newest (version of the same old) caffeinated-watering hole. What has now become something of a weekly tradition has proven to be the only remedy for my typical case of the Monday's. However, today I didn't have them. Missing one of the usual suspects, just the two of us talked, and talked, and were mindful of both time, and good manners.

Walking on the last leg of what felt like a minute-long day, I was still impressed by the calibre of my mood. You see, over the past few weeks I've been permanently stumped. Putting out nothing, and getting the same back in return. I've felt dried up, overworked and underworked, without work, and tired of working on changing it. And what else? I felt sick, homesick, and sick of feeling sick, without any real symptoms of sickness at all, and no reason to stay in bed. All out of no where, and with no end in sight.

Today, though, something's been recovered. My sinus and my conscience are both clear. I don't often read inspirational quotes, simply because I don't find them inspirational -- but as I swallowed the last of my drink, I saw this written on the side:

The Way I See It #276
Anger is contagious.

And then it all made sense.

fifteen minutes

2009-01-24T22:44:00.001-05:00

"See that girl sitting over there? She said she thought she recognized you from a picture on my blog. She said she thought you were my boyfriend, but she wasn't sure."

"Really? I guess I'm an internet celebrity. I teach pop culture, and now I'm part of it."

***

The internet has a great way of taking the proverbial 'nothing' and turning it into something, or some thing, at least. Early last year, I was sent to an interview at MTV. All I was told was that the subject was getting her own reality show, and that she had become popular over Myspace. As it turns out, the person in question was actually Tila Tequila, the squat, bogus bisexual that (somehow) charmed her way onto two seasons of a bungled dating show. Yes, I got out of bed for that interview, and many others like it. May that job rest in peace.

Then, of course, we can't forget ludicrous cyber legends like Cory Kennedy, Chris Crocker, lonelygirl15, and that kid who had his finger bitten by Charlie. Unfortunately, my old job didn’t afford me the opportunity to chat with any of them.

The best part is, though, that most of these people had no intention of hitting it big and hurtling toward useless notoriety. And for those who did forecast fame after uploading their first Youtube video, I consider them even more piteous than the others.

For example, I was cruising craigslist as a means to pacify my unemployment anxieties today, and I came across this advert below.

(click the image to enlarge.)

The job op is obviously good for a giggle, but it's also really quite scary. Public distinction is no longer a concession reserved for those who are actually important.

I learned today that New York magazine writes features on Olivia Palermo, and that Amber Lee Ettinger is actually getting a record deal. Shocking, I know. And all thanks to the ol' world wide web. But, people in glass houses should not throw stones, just like girls in front of lap-tops, happily blogging on a Saturday night (maybe hoping to be discovered by Graydon Carter's assistant, while he links through the blogosphere on Monday morning, maybe not...) should not discredit the phenomenon that is the internet celebrity.

So, job-1004530926, if you're out there, maybe your big break can also be my big break. Let me know if you're interested in getting famous with me, and maybe one day I'll have my own MTV show too. Dream big.

i want to be a broadcaster

2009-01-22T10:08:00.000-05:00

he aint heavy...

2009-01-20T13:29:00.000-05:00

(seriously)
...he's my brother.

What a weekend. Come back anytime! xo

peace, of my mind

2009-01-14T16:19:00.000-05:00

It seems that even millions of miles away, we are not removed from any of it. As a cardinal rule of socializing, I try my best to avoid certain topics of conversation; money, pregnancy, and of course, politics, and specifically those of the middle-eastern variety.

Since moving to the big city, out of my cushy Jewish community, and into the real world, where children freely wash hotdogs down with 2% milk, I've mistakenly come to feel that certain things are better to be kept tacit. However, it is no secret that the querulous circumstances in Israel have intensified to a fearsome degree, and now even friends who are not at all politically minded have been voicing their thoughts on the headlines. I've done my best to hold my tongue, to shrug my shoulders and offer meaningless annotations followed by a subject change.

But, I woke up Sunday morning, and realised that I've been wrong to do so.

Saturday night, after dropping Ben off at his stop, my cab driver turned on a talk radio program where the Gaza crisis was being discussed. Dismayed, the man shook his head, and asked me if I had heard about it. It was late, and I was tired, so I offered a nod of acknowledgment. Apparently, he perceived this nod to mean that I needed an explanation. For the final six minutes of the ride, I was forced to digest all of the ways in which Jews, not just Israelis, are wholly comparable to Nazis – without any objection from the backseat.

I'm not sure why I kept quiet. Certainly not because I don't have an opinion. It was late, and I just wanted to get home. But the cost of another starting cab fare could not have outweighed the price that I paid in guilt all night, and into the morning. I was disgusted by my driver, but even more disappointed in myself.

Knee-deep in regret Sunday morning, I drank my coffee and read the paper. Haroon Siddiqui's column in the Star on Sunday didn't help my feelings at all. The piece was entitled 'Jewish Dissenters Speak Out Over Gaza' and detailed the events at the Israeli Consulate in Toronto last week. This article upset me, to say the least. And not for the most obvious reason.

I wouldn't consider myself a Zionist, I'm certainly not a war supporter, and I'm not nearly impractical enough to cling to pacifism. I'm a reform Jew, by definition, and I've traveled to Israel many times. I have family living there, and cousins who have fought in the IDF. I've entertained the idea of living there myself in the future, and my brother is set to move there this spring. Of course, there are many things about Israel that I don't like, and as a country they have made decisions in the past that I have not supported, or just not understood.

That said, Siddiqui wrongfully uses last week's demonstration to suggest that because a diminutive troupe of Jewish activists contested Olmert's military response, some sort of credibility can be given to the claim that even secular Jews disagree with the Israeli perspective. What the take-over last week should have communicated is that the Jewish community promotes free thought, free speech, and due activism, even when it counters the Jewish cause at large. It is on that freedom that Judaism is founded, and it is that same freedom on which Israel was built. Because of these liberties, there is truth in the statement that there are Jews affiliated with existing institutions that support Hamas' initiatives, but that does by no means indicate some form of a mass secular mutiny.

There are two sides to every story, like there are two sides of the coin in this debate. Unfortunately, neither heads nor tails can bring about a resolution. What the take-over at the Israeli Consulate didn't tell me is that all secular Jews no longer support Israel, much to Siddiqui's suggestion. What it did tell me, however, is that it's alright to speak up for something that you believe in – something I should have done in the cab that night. And for those who read the column and missed the latter message, I can assure you, and Mr. Siddiqui, that there are plenty of us yids about town who can support the concept of a Palestinian state, hope deeply for peace, and still wave their blue and whites proudly -- all at the very same time.

challenge me

2009-01-09T16:05:00.000-05:00

Although New Years Eve was well over a week ago now, some advice that I received that night, a tip-off to a resolution maybe, has still remained fresh in my head. Long after the clock struck midnight, in a house where all clocks were set to stay at 11:59, a boyfriend-of-a-friend passed a little piece of counsel on to me, and I've been musing on it ever since.

I vaguely remember having a conversation about writing, and more specifically blogging, and career ambitions all around. It's a wonder that I am able to recount this exchange being that I was deep in an NYE induced coma, and preparing to say my goodbyes. As we shook hands (for the hundredth time it seems) he told me that in the New Year I should aim to do better, but not try harder.

Do better, but not try harder.

All week I have thought about this. At first it seemed to me like a paradox, you know, a contradiction (something that I vowed to avoid in 2009). I'm a very cause-and-effect kinda lady. I don't believe that anything just happens; I believe that things are made to happen. Fate is for suckers who can't handle the pressure of knowing that their life is, in fact, in their own hands.

Therefore, how can one do better without trying any harder?

But after a week to think it over, I finally have an inkling as to what he was talking about. I tried to try less. (Sounds easy. It isn't.) Maybe it's the effort that taints the work, the wardrobe, the conversation. Maybe it's just better to be au natural, and not to force things. Of all the things I said I was going to try to be in 2009 (a better writer, a better girlfriend, a better budgeter, a better problem-solver etc…) being more of myself might be the biggest challenge of all.

i'll keep mine if you keep yours

2008-12-30T15:54:00.000-05:00

1 ) sleep in less.
2) get more sleep.
3) avoid contradictions.
4) make money. and save it.
5) avoid being miserly.
6) take the stairs because it’s good for me, and not cause I’m afraid of the elevator.
7) tuesday matinees on most tuesdays.
8) delay less. now works.
9) consider myself lucky.
10) just. stay. calm.

We'll reconvene before 2K10.

204eva

2008-12-30T14:59:00.001-05:00

be-fur and after

2008-12-17T20:40:00.000-05:00

As per a previous post, my faux fur has found a new home.

I should have just left it tucked away in the overhead compartment after landing. But, in the spirit of global warming, and a (kinda) collapsing economy, we must reduce, reuse and recycle.

So, instead of throwing it out, I decided to pass it over to a new owner - one who just happens to look adorable in everything.

I, on the other hand, hit the ‘Village’ in search of a new coat. After looking no more than five minutes, Mom and I dug up a new one. It’s real (I swear), so it ran me about twenty dollars more than my phony - for the real deal, that isn't half bad. And, the plus side is that, unlike the last one, this one won't need to be brushed.

(this is how you pose on a fashion blog, right?)

aint nothing silly (puddy) about it

2008-12-16T19:30:00.000-05:00

I thought I was sick of electroni-crap club bangers. And, I am. If your name is Gaspard – I do not care for you. However, exceptions can always be made if the time is right. And the time is now.

While I’m sure most people, like me, have grown tired of rhythmically stamping their feet, with one fist pumping in the air, eyes closed and lips pursed, to the sounds of lasers and digitalized children’s laughter, I’d encourage you to hang on just a little while longer.

Better late than never. And in this case, the wait was well worth it.

Zion I is an all-time favourite. Their name in itself incorporates two of my all-time favourite things. This song would be another.

no olives

2008-12-14T18:56:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, in a sizable condo, way above the bright lights of OsbourneTown, apart from the petty hustle-bustle of late night city traffic, and safe from the frosty Manitoban temperatures, a princess finally turned 21.

Since the princess was not able to celebrate her coming of age until she was freed from the wicked studio crit’s dungeon, her celebration was delayed by a week, which felt like an eternity.

Alas, the princess’ royal court assembled at 9:00 (but not promptly) to gift their sovereign with coffee table books and fur accessories.

(The fairy tale theme seemed [somehow] applicable being that Kathleen got her camera stuck on sepia tone all night long; one of the needless albeit amusing options provided on her Cannon Power Shot SD1000. You're obviously jealous. Oh. Just cameraless me? Ok.)

Happy birthday, Madi!

And thank you, Cliffy. Always the host with the most.

home fur the holidays

2008-12-11T19:42:00.000-05:00

Just like the book is always better than the movie, the original trumps the remake, and Zeppelin will always trounce Wolfmother, so goes the tenet for faux fur. The copy cat might get to gloat, but the real McCoy will have the glory.

Donning a mock mink undoubtedly has its advantages. For one, make-believe beaver pelts won’t ever break the bank, and if you should find yourself surrounded by a mob of angry granola-dykes and covered in red paint, it’s really no one’s loss. However, there is one unavoidable downfall to wearing a counterfeit coat. And that is, well, it’s just not real.

Fur is a symbol of decadence and wealth. When the coat you tote is a phony, it’s an affront to those merits. Whether it’s directed at your purse, or your watch, or your tits, no one ever wants to be questioned on legitimacy. What’s worse, though, is when you’re not asked, but rather accused, pin pointed or pegged – point blank.

Racing the clock in Toronto Pearson Airport, I tossed my luggage on to the bag scale. Slapping my flight itinerary down in front of the woman at the counter, I heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t going to miss my flight, after all.

“How many bags will you be checking?”

“Two,” I relplied.

“Did anyone help you pack these bags?” **

“No,” I say. Watching the time, I tap my fingers on the counter top. She peers over her screen to look at my hand, as if the sound of the tapping is somehow stopping her from clicking her own French tips on the keyboard and getting me aboard on time.

“Are you bringing with you any hunting bounty?”

Seriously. She asked me this. Obviously looking puzzled by the novel airport query (and I do believe I’ve heard them all….) she continued.

“Like antlers, hides…anything like that?”

I stared blankly at her, and thought I’d counter her fantastic question with a response of equal or greater fanaticism.

“Well, I did just hunt this one (pointing to my coat) last week in High Park…”

Blatantly displeased, and with the same sordid absence of humour shared by all airport employees, she uncouthly retorted, without looking up:

“That’s clearly not real.”

WHAM! Just like that. Suddenly I felt absolutely exposed. What a wench. Sure, I’m flying economy class, and have a Loblaw’s shopping bag as a carry-on, but who’s to say that I’m not the type to wear the real deal?

The truth is, as my mother explained to me while brushing my phony fur out in the kitchen this morning (yes, I brush it), that I take things too personally, and that the woman didn’t mean it as a slight to me. She meant it to the coat, which according to Ma, looks just about as real as Joan Rivers.

Maybe this means I need a new jacket, but until I either win the lottery, or inherit my mother’s, I’ll wear this fake with pride. Real pride.

Or, I’ll borrow the old lady's, at least until I go back.

** This is a trick question. I have learned this through a few years of independent travel. I used to always nod yes, and explain that my mother helped me pack the night before. This would usually delay my boarding process by about half an hour, and I would be forced to answer a series of interrogation style questions. What does she do for a living? Was she ever alone with the bags? Although I don’t share a last name with my mother, I think it would be a safe bet made by anyone to assume that her’s is not Bin Laden. Nevertheless, I have learned to answer ‘no’ to that question, and now I usually have time to get a pre-departure snack before take off.

www.isdom

2008-12-08T20:25:00.000-05:00

Grandparents are most excellent. They feed you. They brag about you. They slip money into your purse when they know you really need it, and you're too ashamed to beg. They're the best friend you didn't have to ask for, and they ask for nothing in return.

And although they may be of the traditional variety, they might wear tracksuits and Reeboks six days a week, drink Metamucil, vote conservative, and think that wiping schmotz off my face with a wet thumb in public is a mitzvah - who says that they're in any way behind the times?

Recently, my grandparents have added a new book to their list of favourites. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, anything in the "Chicken Soup for The Soul" series, and now, Facebook.

Yes, Facebook. And like the hamisha homshey torah, they use Facebook to teach me valuable life lessons. Of course, they have instilled a firm set of principles to which I happily adhere. I don't kill. I don't cheat. I don't covet my neighbour's wife (often). And now, thanks to the Good Book, Facebook, I do not give my number out online. Her answer might seem quick and crass, but that's just her way. That, and it isn't easy to type with long nails and loads of flea market bling.

You might think it odd that my Bubbie has a Facebook account. At first, I would have agreed. No grandmother should ever be privy to pictures of her living legacy lapping up liquor, with one nipple hanging out, a cigarette in the left while playfully giving the finger with the right. Luckily, I don't go to University of Western Ontario – so pictures of that nature won’t ever exist.

Facebook actually comes in quite handy for us as she spends the winter playing mah-jong with the Freemans, Glickmans, Schickmans and Steins in Florida, whilst I freeze said nipples off in Toronto.

You should add her. Seriously. She is presently looking for "random play", and she's just about the best lady I know.

can't hardly weight

2008-12-08T19:30:00.000-05:00

To quote a painfully over-quoted John Denver song:
All my bags are packed, and I'm ready to go...

In this case, as in most cases, 'ready' would be the operative word. I have this ~~awful habit~~ certain inclination to constantly be prepared for, well, everything. I won't leave the house without all the necessary house-leaving accoutrements. For most people, this would mean keys, cell phone, wallet, identification and lipstick. For me, this means keys, cell phone, wallet, identification (two kinds), lipstick (two kinds), gum (two kinds), snacks, pens, matches, reading material, day planner, Advil, reading glasses, sunglasses, lip chap, hand cream, perfume sample, Band-Aids (circular blister size), tissue, all of my receipts, tampons (all month-round) and a second pair of mittens. This way, I won't be ill equipped for anything.

In addition to being a notoriously heavy packer [and an inadvertently proud pack-rat] I also pack early. Too early, in fact. Example: I am leaving for a visit home on Wednesday. My bags have been packed since Thursday. Last Thursday. There they sit, next to my dining room table, in all of their neatly stuffed glory, just waiting to be hauled into a cab and then shoved onto a conveyor belt by some WestJet betty named Chelsea-Lynn.

Walking into the kitchen last week, my roommate looked down at the bags (two kinds) on the floor.

"Carli! Look at that. Why, you're all packed," she says.

She sounds impressed. What's not to be impressed about? I'm organized. I'm tidy. I'm methodical in my preparation for departure, as well as for most other things. To make a functional 90's reference, I'm like Monica from Friends - on copious amounts of Dexedrine, and very little sleep.

I suppose I have saved myself some time. Freed up a few hours that I can now spend doing work, and bidding my friends farewell. But while I bask in the vastness of my open schedule, they’re all scrambling to meet deadlines, write papers, and finals, and, of course, pack their own bags to go home.

And the worst part is, while I sit alone and wait for everyone else to finish up, I'm forced to do so wearing the same outfit day-in-and-day-out, until I touchdown in Manitoba, and unpack these bloody, undoubtedly overweight bags.

the cat's pyjamas

2008-12-03T02:26:00.000-05:00

Lately? I've been short on zzz's.

Tonight? Something to send me off to la - la - land, with la, la, love.

and it aint no use to sit and wonder why, bape.

2008-11-29T14:45:00.000-05:00

I just can't wait to see you.

it can always be worse

2008-11-27T14:37:00.000-05:00

With a roommate who spends half of her time uptown, and the other half at work, a boyfriend in another province, and HBO Canada on demand, I spend a lot of my time by my lonesome. Although I do, for the most part, treasure the solitude of an empty condo, a vacant kitchen, and a solo sleeping arrangement, I can’t help but feel lonely every once in a while. We’re talking innocuous isolation, nothing too Howard Hughes-ish, but certain seclusion nonetheless.

I can't afford to 'socialize' every night, and AV & SNP can't be expected to ditch their families and lovers all the time. So, the other night, like many nights, feeling low, and lonely, I propped my laptop on the pillow next to me in bed. I clicked on google videos, and typed ‘documentaries’ into the search bar.

(FUN FACT: I often fall asleep to the sound of a documentary. Something about the pace and the Mr. Movie Phone rhetoric sends me adrift in only a matter of minutes.)

This night, however, I reviewed my options. The Patriotic Doc? No thanks, Michael Moore. The Farce Doc? I watched Colbert already. The Conspiracy Doc? I said no thanks, Michael. Jesus. Doesn’t anyone else want to win an IDA in this lifetime?

But there, three pages in, I found my treasure. It’s called “Guys and Dolls”. I clicked it, and suddenly, my loneliness was pacified, placated and, POOF, gone for good.

Click here to kiss self-pity goodbye, and feel instantly, unequivocally better about being alone.

And if you’re not alone, watch it anyway, and share the absurdity with a friend. It’s that good.

another dawn, another dollar

2008-11-23T14:49:00.000-05:00

Over the course of this weekend, I've gained an entirely new respect for hookers, and pushers, and owls, and ER doctors – or any form of nocturnal vocation that I've never seriously considered. Worry not, though. Naturally (and gratefully), my weekend has been consumed by a commission that is socially and morally docile, or at least more so than a few of the aforementioned pursuits. Be it respectable, legal, illicit, or amiss; if you're working overnight, I salute you. Nothing says a 'job well done' better than just barely beating the sun home. And while I'm sure the weekend will catch up with me shortly, I'm happy to forfeit Sunday morning, readjust my clocks, and count out my money.

salon 1504

2008-11-22T14:07:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, the great and powerful Nathan Rival visited my apartment again, tools in hand and ready to work. This time, however, his mission wasn't my mane, but rather the lovely locks of my charming friends.

Both Alison Violet and Sarah were in desperate need of a haircut. Alison Violet, in an attempt to grow it long, had left her tresses untouched for over a year. Sarah, who cuts more frequently, required some reshaping – and both of them needed it now.

The girls arrived at two, jumped into my shower, and then, one after the other, sat down with Nathan at my kitchen table. After some chit-chat, and a short but uncomfortable trip down to Russ' for "necessary supplies", the chopping and coloring began.

For Sarah, it just took a few quick clips of the shears.

"Eventually," she said, "I want it to grow out and look like this."

In order to do that, he would have to realign her asymmetrical style, and crop it evenly on both sides. According to him, in just a few more months she should be well on her way to Lanphear-land.

Alison Violet's requisite enterprise, however, wasn't as speedy. In fact, it took quite a while. But, good things come to those who wait, and furthermore, those who wait for Nathan. Known for her lengthy ginger hair, AV wanted to give her colour some much needed consideration. After a quick jaunt to the salon supply shop at Dundas and University, Nathan and AV returned with two tiny boxes that would, somehow, create the perfect colour.

Middle part, side part, middle part and four hours later, AV revealed her nouveau coiffure – in timely accordance with her upcoming birthday, to boot.

(You should give our guy a try.)

the most famous banana

2008-11-19T17:13:00.000-05:00

Now I can say, I knew her back when.