Fine.
FINE.
A friend sent me the 100 top tracks of 2010, as rated by Pitchfork. I already had 80% of them on my iTunes. so. fine.
first, i was angry because there was no new music for me. then i was angry, because i am a hipster.
i am a fucking hipster.
i am flaccid with rage.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Holiday She-tale
I am the kind of person who takes enormous pride in sometimes confusing Topo Gigio with El Topo. How I came to work the Christmas Season In Retail, in The City's Fanciest Mall, at Your Dad's Favourite Store is a bit confusing to me, but there you are.
I last worked retail a decade ago, as the manager of a children's bookstore. The store owner was a strikingly attractive Jewish woman of a certain age; a cuckolding, violently narcissistic person with bony fingers and wild hair. She called herself a midwife because she once delivered a baby, and called herself a doctor because she believed herself a midwife. She once insisted on inspecting an employee's infected nipple ring because she was "a doctor", and frequently enquired about my "BMs". She also, tellingly, openly talked about how she thought herself to be "a charismatic leader, not unlike Jesus". Oh, and once, she cried while reciting the most beautiful poem she'd ever heard. THE POEM WAS THE LYRICS TO JUICE NEWTON'S 'ANGEL OF THE MORNING'.
The last time I worked in a mall was even longer ago than that. It was in the era of the Dress I Was Going To Get Married In, and I worked at both Benetton and Mr. Greenjeans at the Eaton Centre. I endured a lot of Japanese tourists miming out sizing requests that involved tapping the top of my head, puffing out their cheeks, then shaking their heads and wagging their fingers while pointing at me. Translation: my wife is a little shorter than, and not so fat as you. Mr. Greenjeans wasn't any better, as we had to advertise their loyalty program on our t-shirts. The program was called "The Eat It Up Club", and the "P" in "up" had an arrow on it that pointed down. Into our pants. Good times for a naive 19 year old from New Brunswick.
I have spent the last decade avoiding malls, and am surprised at how little they have changed. But maybe it's me. Maybe I don't like the assumptions people make about me because I am trying to sell them flannel-lined jeans and a cotton mock neck turtleneck. Maybe I'm still like I was at 19, feeling deeply out of my element amongst the consumers, people with money, being judged on my appearance. A woman snapped her fingers at me the other day. I nearly ground my teeth to dust. I developed an eye twitch during an exchange with a wealthy woman who was unhappy with the cargo pants we had on offer because they were "too casual". I just kept repeating "But they're cargo pants" over and over, in an even tone, as she repeated back to me that she wanted "pants like these with lots and lots of pockets that my husband could wear with a jacket and tie". "But they're cargo pants."
No matter. I work with lovely and smart people. I am not at risk of injury. I am not thousands of miles away from home, in the arctic. I am at the mall. I am okay.
post script: i just got a call from my boss, who is a very good friend. apparently, i didn't show up for my shift. this is heinous. and classic. i will now spend my wage on a cab to the mall.
I last worked retail a decade ago, as the manager of a children's bookstore. The store owner was a strikingly attractive Jewish woman of a certain age; a cuckolding, violently narcissistic person with bony fingers and wild hair. She called herself a midwife because she once delivered a baby, and called herself a doctor because she believed herself a midwife. She once insisted on inspecting an employee's infected nipple ring because she was "a doctor", and frequently enquired about my "BMs". She also, tellingly, openly talked about how she thought herself to be "a charismatic leader, not unlike Jesus". Oh, and once, she cried while reciting the most beautiful poem she'd ever heard. THE POEM WAS THE LYRICS TO JUICE NEWTON'S 'ANGEL OF THE MORNING'.
The last time I worked in a mall was even longer ago than that. It was in the era of the Dress I Was Going To Get Married In, and I worked at both Benetton and Mr. Greenjeans at the Eaton Centre. I endured a lot of Japanese tourists miming out sizing requests that involved tapping the top of my head, puffing out their cheeks, then shaking their heads and wagging their fingers while pointing at me. Translation: my wife is a little shorter than, and not so fat as you. Mr. Greenjeans wasn't any better, as we had to advertise their loyalty program on our t-shirts. The program was called "The Eat It Up Club", and the "P" in "up" had an arrow on it that pointed down. Into our pants. Good times for a naive 19 year old from New Brunswick.
I have spent the last decade avoiding malls, and am surprised at how little they have changed. But maybe it's me. Maybe I don't like the assumptions people make about me because I am trying to sell them flannel-lined jeans and a cotton mock neck turtleneck. Maybe I'm still like I was at 19, feeling deeply out of my element amongst the consumers, people with money, being judged on my appearance. A woman snapped her fingers at me the other day. I nearly ground my teeth to dust. I developed an eye twitch during an exchange with a wealthy woman who was unhappy with the cargo pants we had on offer because they were "too casual". I just kept repeating "But they're cargo pants" over and over, in an even tone, as she repeated back to me that she wanted "pants like these with lots and lots of pockets that my husband could wear with a jacket and tie". "But they're cargo pants."
No matter. I work with lovely and smart people. I am not at risk of injury. I am not thousands of miles away from home, in the arctic. I am at the mall. I am okay.
post script: i just got a call from my boss, who is a very good friend. apparently, i didn't show up for my shift. this is heinous. and classic. i will now spend my wage on a cab to the mall.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Liz Taylor Didn't, Either
I always thought I would get married in the dress, and now I'm selling it.
Soon after my 19th birthday, I moved to Toronto. I lived with three guys from my hometown who were attending theatre school in the city. We lived in a huge, but run-down apartment in the west end, in an area that to this day remains untouched by the gentrification that has swept through most of the other neighbourhoods it adjoins.
Because I was a late-addition housemate, I got the worst and smallest room. It was located in the middle of the apartment, had floor-to-ceiling wood panelling, and its only window was located above the door and opened into the hallway. When I moved out, my former roommates began saving their 2litre pop bottles, eventually filling the room to waist height. They would spend evenings hot boxing the tiny room then rolling around amongst the empty bottles as though it were the adult version of the ball room at IKEA. At first pass, it seems like a fun and interesting thing to do, but upon reflection, I suspect that it did little to help the substantial cockroach and mouse problems we experienced in the apartment.
Our downstairs neighbours were recent musical theatre school grads, and all three were servers. At some point, I loaned a pair of jeans to one of the guys for his first shift at the Golden Griddle. After a couple of wears, he became obsessed with the notion that my $30 Bluenotes jeans were "magic pants", and insisted that I take something of his in exchange. On a Saturday night, drinking a coffee mug of wine poured from a box, I sat in the basement apartment while he rifled through his closet. Eventually, he presented me with a cream angora tank dress with hand-beading and sequins, also in cream. It had been the dress he'd worn for his final recital (in drag, clearly) and had cost a fortune, but he HAD to have my jeans. He'd become superstitious about them by this point, and was convinced that he wouldn't make his rent if he had to give the pants back. I accepted the dress.
I've only worn it once--just a few weeks after the trade, we had a hallowe'en party. I had nothing to wear, and was completely broke. So I put on the dress with a pair of hiking boots. (It was the 90s. I'm not going to say that it worked, but it was less unusual than it might seem.)
I never wore the dress again, but have always somehow believed that I would be married in it. It's gorgeous, like something Elizabeth Taylor might have worn in the early 60s. It would have needed substantial alterations to work on me, being sized to fit a 6'2 man, but still. It is an incredible dress.
But I must part with it. I need the money. I'm as broke now as I was then (which was, coincidentally, the last time I worked in a mall until now, but I'll save that for later). There is no other place to wear a cream, hand-beaded sequin tank dress EXCEPT your own wedding. Considering that I've long been indifferent at best on the subject of marriage, it makes little to no sense to hold onto this dress.
So, after holding onto the dress for 15 years, it's going to go. I need the money, and I need the space in my closet.
For the vintage Armani I've always known I'll be buried in.
Soon after my 19th birthday, I moved to Toronto. I lived with three guys from my hometown who were attending theatre school in the city. We lived in a huge, but run-down apartment in the west end, in an area that to this day remains untouched by the gentrification that has swept through most of the other neighbourhoods it adjoins.
Because I was a late-addition housemate, I got the worst and smallest room. It was located in the middle of the apartment, had floor-to-ceiling wood panelling, and its only window was located above the door and opened into the hallway. When I moved out, my former roommates began saving their 2litre pop bottles, eventually filling the room to waist height. They would spend evenings hot boxing the tiny room then rolling around amongst the empty bottles as though it were the adult version of the ball room at IKEA. At first pass, it seems like a fun and interesting thing to do, but upon reflection, I suspect that it did little to help the substantial cockroach and mouse problems we experienced in the apartment.
Our downstairs neighbours were recent musical theatre school grads, and all three were servers. At some point, I loaned a pair of jeans to one of the guys for his first shift at the Golden Griddle. After a couple of wears, he became obsessed with the notion that my $30 Bluenotes jeans were "magic pants", and insisted that I take something of his in exchange. On a Saturday night, drinking a coffee mug of wine poured from a box, I sat in the basement apartment while he rifled through his closet. Eventually, he presented me with a cream angora tank dress with hand-beading and sequins, also in cream. It had been the dress he'd worn for his final recital (in drag, clearly) and had cost a fortune, but he HAD to have my jeans. He'd become superstitious about them by this point, and was convinced that he wouldn't make his rent if he had to give the pants back. I accepted the dress.
I've only worn it once--just a few weeks after the trade, we had a hallowe'en party. I had nothing to wear, and was completely broke. So I put on the dress with a pair of hiking boots. (It was the 90s. I'm not going to say that it worked, but it was less unusual than it might seem.)
I never wore the dress again, but have always somehow believed that I would be married in it. It's gorgeous, like something Elizabeth Taylor might have worn in the early 60s. It would have needed substantial alterations to work on me, being sized to fit a 6'2 man, but still. It is an incredible dress.
But I must part with it. I need the money. I'm as broke now as I was then (which was, coincidentally, the last time I worked in a mall until now, but I'll save that for later). There is no other place to wear a cream, hand-beaded sequin tank dress EXCEPT your own wedding. Considering that I've long been indifferent at best on the subject of marriage, it makes little to no sense to hold onto this dress.
So, after holding onto the dress for 15 years, it's going to go. I need the money, and I need the space in my closet.
For the vintage Armani I've always known I'll be buried in.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Doo Wah Diddy
Though making fun of hipsters is now a tired cliche, and a beyond joyless one at that because the only people making fun of hipsters are other hipsters (she said, as she proved her own point), I still occasionally see someone so ridiculous that my smirk becomes a sneer as I giggle at a stranger and then I have to try to keep my mouth shut.
(i'm failing, here.)
This guy was like a grocery store California roll of dated affectations. It's pointless to go into it now, really. I'm tired, and already bored, but...Just imagine what the 'edgy' music video television host you hate the most looks like, in whichever country you reside.
As with many things in life, however, the choice was in the details. And this guy? Chomping on a half smoked cigar that appeared dramatically blown apart at the end. Like in a cartoon. Like an exploding cigar. It was nearly perfect. Giant can headphones, slouchy hat, skinny jeans, deck shoes (IT'S MID-DECEMBER, GUY!), fingerless gloves, and waaay too much scarf. My brain shut off after that, as if I'd inadvertently checked off enough items that my mind said, "no no, that's cool. we've heard quite enough". What I'm saying here is: I don't know if he was wearing giant Urkel glasses or not.
(and I'll tell you another thing: when a 60yr old Polish shopkeeper on Roncesvalles attempts to alert you to the hot new trend of giant, round glasses, you might not want to bother jumping on that bandwagon. although I'm looking forward to the moment when [the arcade fire's] The Suburbs hits the suburbs [countdown is on]. Cannibal!)
(i'm failing, here.)
This guy was like a grocery store California roll of dated affectations. It's pointless to go into it now, really. I'm tired, and already bored, but...Just imagine what the 'edgy' music video television host you hate the most looks like, in whichever country you reside.
As with many things in life, however, the choice was in the details. And this guy? Chomping on a half smoked cigar that appeared dramatically blown apart at the end. Like in a cartoon. Like an exploding cigar. It was nearly perfect. Giant can headphones, slouchy hat, skinny jeans, deck shoes (IT'S MID-DECEMBER, GUY!), fingerless gloves, and waaay too much scarf. My brain shut off after that, as if I'd inadvertently checked off enough items that my mind said, "no no, that's cool. we've heard quite enough". What I'm saying here is: I don't know if he was wearing giant Urkel glasses or not.
(and I'll tell you another thing: when a 60yr old Polish shopkeeper on Roncesvalles attempts to alert you to the hot new trend of giant, round glasses, you might not want to bother jumping on that bandwagon. although I'm looking forward to the moment when [the arcade fire's] The Suburbs hits the suburbs [countdown is on]. Cannibal!)
Sunday, December 5, 2010
i have never relied on the kindness of strangers.
i was so busy trying to convince everybody to trust me that i didn't realize i trusted nobody.
so. november. there you go. good riddance, and i'll miss you. what started off as a dog-walking adventure and punchline to my year-off joke...turned into a life and game-changer. i spent 13 months trying to decide if i would stay in toronto, finally signed a lease, only to--less than two weeks later--wind up with a whole new set of decisions to make. decisions that involve investing in myself, something i'm not particularly good at doing, particularly professionally. my previous professional objectives involved something vague about always being able to afford good cheese and avoiding blended whisky when possible.
november was so crazy that i met paul weller and forgot about it days later. there’s too much. I’m getting swept under. i fear forgetting what i want to remember, while being stuck remembering what i need to forget, if only due to exhaustion and the clusterfuck of existence.
i was in new york for the month, in the end, with only a brief mid-November interlude back in toronto that involved a frantic move in torrential rain and winds gusting 80k/hr.
i went back to new york. i ran. i pondered. i walked. i pondered.
with new determination, the night before i left, i went to (literally) take a victory lap around soho and wound up with a pretty solid ankle sprain.
and THEN, just before midnight, hours before my departure, i locked myself out of my place with no coat and $1 in my pocket. i spent hours in the cold being stoic, waiting for locksmiths to fail, for people not to return my calls. what started off as another lesson in the ongoing series of dangling carrot failures of my life, however, wound up being one of the best, most affirming experiences of the year. sometimes, you meet good people, and sometimes they do great things. someone i barely know, at 2:30 am on a sunday night, paid for my cab to brooklyn, put ice on my ankle, make me laugh when i was at the breaking point, gave me a place to sleep, and paid for me to get back to manhattan the following morning. (so i could get off a bus in the middle of the night and finish moving, which took...27 hours. but that's another story.)
if you'd asked me 6 months ago if i could have trusted strangers, i would have laughed in your face. 6 months ago, i locked the gates and discontinued ferry service to the island.
and then this happened.
and in the 5 days SINCE then, because i let them, in addition to the amazing rallying of my core troops, i have been supported, saved and surprised by several new friends, virtual strangers all. i will be worthy of your investments, old friends and new. i will feed you when you are hungry and take care of you when you are sick, wherever and whenever possible. we are all in this together.
life is too short not to allow this sort of intimacy. everything fails. everything disappoints. everything dies. take the kindness and pleasure as it comes, and don't hold out for things that don't exist.
this is all a little (read: LOT) bullshitty and soft for my taste, but most of my bouts of insomnia are fuelled by horrible things and panic. to not be able to sleep out of sheer gratitude? bears acknowledgement. so thanks, assholes. thanks for winning my trust. you all suck balls. and i love you.
so. november. there you go. good riddance, and i'll miss you. what started off as a dog-walking adventure and punchline to my year-off joke...turned into a life and game-changer. i spent 13 months trying to decide if i would stay in toronto, finally signed a lease, only to--less than two weeks later--wind up with a whole new set of decisions to make. decisions that involve investing in myself, something i'm not particularly good at doing, particularly professionally. my previous professional objectives involved something vague about always being able to afford good cheese and avoiding blended whisky when possible.
november was so crazy that i met paul weller and forgot about it days later. there’s too much. I’m getting swept under. i fear forgetting what i want to remember, while being stuck remembering what i need to forget, if only due to exhaustion and the clusterfuck of existence.
i was in new york for the month, in the end, with only a brief mid-November interlude back in toronto that involved a frantic move in torrential rain and winds gusting 80k/hr.
i went back to new york. i ran. i pondered. i walked. i pondered.
with new determination, the night before i left, i went to (literally) take a victory lap around soho and wound up with a pretty solid ankle sprain.
and THEN, just before midnight, hours before my departure, i locked myself out of my place with no coat and $1 in my pocket. i spent hours in the cold being stoic, waiting for locksmiths to fail, for people not to return my calls. what started off as another lesson in the ongoing series of dangling carrot failures of my life, however, wound up being one of the best, most affirming experiences of the year. sometimes, you meet good people, and sometimes they do great things. someone i barely know, at 2:30 am on a sunday night, paid for my cab to brooklyn, put ice on my ankle, make me laugh when i was at the breaking point, gave me a place to sleep, and paid for me to get back to manhattan the following morning. (so i could get off a bus in the middle of the night and finish moving, which took...27 hours. but that's another story.)
if you'd asked me 6 months ago if i could have trusted strangers, i would have laughed in your face. 6 months ago, i locked the gates and discontinued ferry service to the island.
and then this happened.
and in the 5 days SINCE then, because i let them, in addition to the amazing rallying of my core troops, i have been supported, saved and surprised by several new friends, virtual strangers all. i will be worthy of your investments, old friends and new. i will feed you when you are hungry and take care of you when you are sick, wherever and whenever possible. we are all in this together.
life is too short not to allow this sort of intimacy. everything fails. everything disappoints. everything dies. take the kindness and pleasure as it comes, and don't hold out for things that don't exist.
this is all a little (read: LOT) bullshitty and soft for my taste, but most of my bouts of insomnia are fuelled by horrible things and panic. to not be able to sleep out of sheer gratitude? bears acknowledgement. so thanks, assholes. thanks for winning my trust. you all suck balls. and i love you.
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