Merry Christmas to Me

Yesterday I officially started my Christmas shopping, making the trek up to Bloor Street and the winter retail wonderland it holds. From the standpoint of finding gifts for loved ones, it didn't go too well (total gifts purchased = 1 book). From the standpoint of finding gifts for me, it went great--as evidenced by a trip to HMV that produced 2 new CDs by Charles Aznavour and Burt Bacharach (and Friends), respectively. With respect to the Charles Aznavour, I am proud to say that the album constitutes the first "World" music entry into my iTunes library. Brings the sophistication of the whole catalog up a notch, I think. Now, as regards the Burt Bacharach (and Friends), all I want to point out is the high concentration of freakin' awesome tunes we owe to this man. So, so great. Like, I think I'll be listening to Dionne Warwick's "Anyone Who Had a Heart" on continuous repeat for about the next three weeks. Followed by "Arthur's Theme" (yeah, baby). Followed by "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" (never can have enough Dionne Warwick). Then, round out the mix with a little Neil Diamond "Heartlight." Can I just say, I had no idea the easy listening section could be so much fun? Unfortunately, no one on my gift list shares my love of Burt Bacharach and Friends. Yet...

Personal Kryptonite

I think if we stop to think about it for a moment, we can all come up with the components of our own personal kryptonite--one or more essential elements that could be used by your enemies to annoy, repel, or even (worst case scenario) destroy you, depending on how they are deployed. For example, "Welcome to the Jungle" was Manuel Noriega's personal kryptonite (N.B. - it's never a good idea to let the U.S. Marines know what your personal kryptonite is). The Wicked Witch of the West's personal kryptonite was water. Superman's personal kryptonite was...kryptonite.

So you get the idea. I recently arrived at the recipe for my own personal kryptonite. As this blog is vaguely anonymous, I feel I can safely reveal it here. For my friends reading this...well, I trust you all to refrain from abusing your new power. This is very, very potent stuff.

My personal kryptonite = Rachael Ray + Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine" + Anne Geddes photography

Put those three ingredients together and all my superpowers would be completely incapacitated.

It Takes Two

I think it's high time music industry bigwigs rediscovered a rare and much underappreciated genre: the pop male vocalist duet. Pop duets in general flourished in the 1980s, which was also the period in which the pop male vocalist duet reached its zenith, with the release of the two most undisputedly awesome pop male vocalist duets of all time:

To All the Girls I've Loved Before - Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias
The Girl is Mine - Michael ("I'm a lover, not a fighter") Jackson and Paul McCartney

Let's just take a moment, shall we, and bask in the glory of those two masterpieces.

OK, moving on--it's time for the pop male vocalist duet to make its triumphant return on the contemporary music scene. For those studly male pop stars out there keen to take the plunge, I will disclose to you the secret of pop male vocalist duet success: the more incongruous the duet pairing, the higher the Grammy-winning potential. Here's a few couplings that I think might just have the makings for pop male vocalist duet magic:

Justin Timberlake and Clay Aiken
Bono and Axl Rose
Ricky Martin and Toby Keith
Usher and Kid Rock

You get the idea. It's a one-way ticket to solid gold.

Just messin' with ya, eh!

Above: The classic rabbit-duck optical illusion
Below: The Canadian version

What do you see?

Submit to IKEA

Last weekend, I went through a rite of passage that I'd been putting off ever since crossing the twentysomething threshold quite some time ago: I made my first trip to Ikea. I wasn't particularly insecure about my status as an Ikea virgin. In fact, I was quite content that way. But a need arose (cheap but not entirely ungodly window coverings) and I'll be darned if Ikea wasn't the most logical place to fulfill it. Or so it seemed.

Once I realized I needed to go to Ikea, I couldn't fight my anti-Ikea feeling anymore. You could say I'd forgotten what I was fighting for. At any rate, let the record show that my capitulation was not the result of peer pressure from any Ikea-slut friends. I went willingly, and of my own accord. And in true yuppie fashion, I drove my car. Because you never know what gigantic, unwieldy boxes you might end up bringing home from Ikea, once it gets its seductive, Swedish modern claws into you.

The parking lot alone was enough to start me questioning the decency of humanity. The entrance was congested with kindergarteners and over-eager parents, lining up in front of a large sign that stated that the wait for entry to the kids' play area was 30 minutes. Shuddering, I looked at the nearest store map and tried to locate the "textiles" section. I soon realized, with horror, that Ikea is modeled on the Honest Ed's floor plan: one entrance, one exit, and miles of non-negotiable, retail rat maze in between. Except no gefilte fish here.

Like many of my generation before me, I surrendered to Ikea's will and began trekking through the various showrooms. Not surprisingly, many people had apparently given up on shopping altogether and were instead taking up residence in the rooms: reading the fake books on the shelves, putting their feet up, noshing on meatballs and lingonberry sauce. Most surreal of all were the various young, attractive couples wandering the floor together hand-in-hand, pausing here at a "Hensvik" bookcase, there at a set of "Lisbet" pot holders, and staring into each other's eyes dreamily. I had a bizarre thought: Ikea stroll as foreplay? Whatever gets you through the night/TV & media solutions section, I suppose.

I hustled my way downstairs, eventually arriving at the curtain display I'd been seeking. I took some time to browse and was pleasantly surprised to find something close to what I'd been looking for. Positive feeling towards Ikea started to wash over me. Maybe I shouldn't have hurried through the showrooms, I thought. Maybe there was more, so much more, that Ikea could offer me.

But then I happened to glance across the aisle to where a cute, earnest couple stood locked in battle over a bin of "Ekvator" curtain rings. The loving looks I'd seen them exchanging before had completely disappeared; now, their voices were escalating in ever-sharper tones, their body-language increasingly confrontational (eg. demonstrative wielding of the "Lill" curtain rods). And then it became clear to me. Ikea may seem like it can help you. It might seem like your friend. But eventually, Ikea will break you. It turns children against parents, friends against friends, and lovers against lovers. So be forewarned. I got out, with my sanity and my relationship intact. But I was lucky. And I'm not going back a second time.

But if I do, I'm taking the subway.

Our home and native...stuff

While civic duty dictates that I should be reading up on candidates in the upcoming Toronto municipal elections, I've come across a far more interesting democratic process in which to participate, and that is CBC's The Greatest Canadian Invention. 50 candidates have been selected, and you can vote on your favourite on the show's website. The results will air in early January 2007.

Here's a brief list of some of my preferred nominees:

1. The CPR mannequin: Not only integral to life-saving instruction, but also to making the swimming classes of one's youth a hell of a lot less awkward.

2. The fog horn: One of the greatest sounds ever, second only to the "Dixie" car horn.

3. The synthesizer: Need I say more?

There are also some inventions that could arguably be nominated as teams, such as:

1. The retractable beer carton handle and the Ski-Doo

2. The Wonderbra and the zipper

3. Poutine and the Bloody Caesar (OK, that one's pushing it)

Even if you don't get around to voting, be sure to check out the TV ads that the CBC is currently running to promote the show. They feature Margaret Atwood stating that the greatest Canadian invention is the caulking gun. Rad.

Tickle Me Emo

What with tomorrow marking back-to-school for another crop of teenage freaks and geeks, the weekend news was peppered with a charming array of head-wagging, fist-shaking "Kids these days" types of articles. One of the most interesting of these was an article that appeared in the Toronto Sun this past Sunday on the definition of emo culture.

To my mind, emo is a relatively new-fangled cultural phenomenon. I'm familiar with Eno (as in Brian, or "Bubbly bubbly") and enamoured of E.L.O. (more on that later), but emo...it just sounded to me like yet another cool-kid thing that I was destined not to understand. From the scant research that I have thus far conducted into the topic, I have gleaned that to be "emo" is to possess a flair for the melodramatic, shrewd thrift-store shopping savvy, and an iPod packed with songs recorded by bands with names that sound like titles of sappy teen romance novels (eg. "Further Seems Forever," "Funeral For a Friend," "Matchbook Romance").

After taking a brief look into what I might be missing with respect to emo, I've decided that its particular cultural niche would be better filled by a revival of 1970s rock opera. Personally, I think that when it comes to music, "emotional hardcore" is more satisfyingly associated with the rockin' yet plaintive overtures of Meat Loaf, E.L.O., or some deep cuts from the Xanadu soundtrack. Pair that with a roller rink and some Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and you've got yourself one over-the-top, heart-swelling experience. If kids these days could only appreciate that, well, we'd have nothing to worry about.

Mama, I'm Coming Home

(Actually, I've been home for over a week, but I just wanted to get a little Ozzy in there)

Yes, it's true--after five years living in the U.S., I have returned home to Toronto, the best city in the world. And I could not be happier, especially with all the traditional Torontonian activities I've been up to lately: biking to the Beaches, window shopping in Yorkville, going to the Ex, and walking down Yonge Street (which I will be doing much less of once the nostalgia wears off).

Sadly, the Ex was a bit of a disappointment, much like it was the last time I went eight years ago. I wish I could have seen it back in its heyday, before they tore down the Flyer and the Grandstand and before the Better Living building was converted into a giant casino. My biggest overall complaint was that there wasn't nearly enough livestock. That, and the carnies were too polite and well-groomed. But the Food Building still smelled the same (one whiff gives you your weekly dose of trans fat) and we did get to see a human cannonball, which was pretty awesome.

And while I did not get the TV unpacked in time to watch Canadian Idol this week, I am proud to report that my boy Tyler Lewis is still hanging in there and you can bet I'll be voting next week. Yes indeed, it is good to be back.

That's Hot?

So I heard the new Paris Hilton song the other day. And...I don't hate it.

This is not a good sign.

Vice Patrol

With Miami Vice receiving its big-screen revival this summer, I thought I would take a moment to spotlight an oft-overlooked echelon of the Miami Vice franchise: the fantabulous music careers of Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas.

I'll start with P.M.T. (not to be confused with "P.Y.T.", or any other Michael Jackson-penned acronym), whose music, as it happens, is a rare and expensive commodity these days. For example, a copy of his 1988 album Somebody will run you $69.99 on Amazon.com. Perhaps Thomas himself purchased all but two existing copies of the album--that's the only way to explain this phenomenon. Copies of his 1985 breakout album, Living the Book of My Life, are even harder to track down. Apparently he got hold of all of those.

(P.M.T. F.Y.I.: Thomas's pre-Miami Vice screen credits include playing the role of 'Stix' in Sparkle (1976, opposite Irene Cara, I should add) and the role of 'Purvis Mapes' in Mr. Ricco (1975, not to be confused, of course, with Uncle Rico).

Don Johnson fared somewhat better with his musical escapades, as those of you who hold fond memories of his 1986 rockfest Heartbeat will attest. Anyone doubting Johnson's crooner cred need look no further for proof of his success than his duet with Barbra Streisand, "Till I Loved You." You think Streisand duets grow on trees? Nuh-uh. (OK, so they were dating at the time. Streisand flings aren't easy to come by either).

If there's anyone who's not too cheesed out to read any further at this point, might I direct you to this snazzy Don Johnson fan discography. Note the particularly precious tank top/Vans combo he's got going on. 80ss fashion icon, folks. OK, I'm stopping now. I promise.

The "Awww" Factor

As I've been residing stateside since the start of July, it's been a few weeks now since I last saw an episode of Canadian Idol. However, I've been keeping up with the results online and I'm happy to report that my favourite contestant in this year's competition, Tyler Lewis, is still burning it up in the Top 9.

Why do I think this kid should be the next Canadian Idol? First of all, he can sing. But more importantly, it's all about the "Awww" factor. Just check out these snippets from Tyler's brief bio on Idol's website and you'll see what I mean:

-He's 20 years old (Awww!)
-He's from Saskatchewan (Awww!)
-He would love to have the chance to see Bon Jovi or Guns 'n' Roses in concert (Awww! I guess that's pretty rare in rural Saskatchewan)
-His dream is to have a career like Bryan Adams (Awww!)
-He's a huge fan of both steak and potatoes and his belt buckle that sports a beer bottle opener (Awww! Cute and practical!)
-The song that best describes him? "Small Town, Big Dreams" (Awww!)

Plus, as I recall from the first episode on which Tyler appeared, he plays hockey and he can drive a tractor (Awww! and Awww!). If that's not a red-blooded Canadian boy, I don't know what is.

I realize that the "Awww" factor is not nearly as potent for the guys in the Canadian Idol audience (assuming there are any) as it is for the gals. However, if Don Cherry was a fan of the show (and hey, anything's possible), I'm certain he'd back Tyler all the way. This kid is the Dougie Gilmour of Idol crooning.

So my fellow countrymen and women, I exhort you to cast your votes for Tyler Lewis. It will put a feeling of gladness in your heart and you'll be doing Canada proud by selecting a talented Idol for its citizens. Plus, he's really really cute. Did I mention that already?

Pam Gets Rocked

Congratulations are in order for Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock, who threw one fabulous party in St. Tropez today to celebrate their not-quite-yet-legal marriage. In keeping with Canadian tradition, the bride wore a white string bikini. According to Pam's website, "Pics will be out soon, from inside the boat we took." Uh-oh. Pam + amorous husband + boat...

All the best to the happy couple, but let's hope they left the camcorder at home.

Studs With Studs: Discuss

Question: What is the status of the earring in men's fashion these days? Has there been some kind of edict on this in the past five or six years?

Previously worn exclusively by pirates and Ziggy Stardust, the earring became a must-have male accessory around the time I was in the sixth grade (ca. 1990). Made impossibly cool by the likes of the Fresh Prince, the New Kids on the Block, Marky Mark and David Silver (OK, not such a good example), ear-piercing was all the rage among pre-teen boys, taking over where the rat-tail haircut left off (props to Jordan Knight for carrying the rat-tail torch into the 1990s). Fathers everywhere were cursing the day their sons came home with that shiny new gold hoop earring in their left ear. To my recollection, the left ear was the only acceptable ear to get pierced at this time. Getting one's right ear pierce was to risk utter and complete social alienation--that is, until it started to be cool to have both ears pierced. Then all hell broke loose (eg. Dennis Rodman).

It seems to me that the dark ages of the male earring started when AARP members like Ed Bradley and Harrison Ford starting sporting studs. That, and the freaky-freaky stage get-ups of such music artists as Marilyn Manson and Trent Reznor started to make guys who wore earrings look about as bad-ass as Ward Cleaver (actually, I take that back--Ward Cleaver was pretty bad-ass on occasion).

In the three minutes I spent researching this post, I couldn't really find a clear answer on whether the male earring is still cool these days. What I did find was a 1998 Ebony article that cites examples of famous earring-wearers such as "trendsetting actor Malcolm-Jamal Warner" (aka Theo) to make the point that earrings are completely acceptable accessories for men.


The theologians among my readers (?) might be curious to learn that I found two articles that offer biblical answers to the question of whether men should wear earrings. This article makes the argument that men wearing earrings makes God angry. But this other article on the same subject is more wishy-washy. To be honest, I found both quite frightening.

So I will leave this question unanswered. Unlike bandannas, there is no clear right or wrong when it comes to earrings and men's fashion. I think the issue has to be painstakingly reviewed on a case-by-case basis. Now, the rat-tail, on the other hand--dudes need to bring that back.

You Go, Lance!

Today, former N'Sync member Lance Bass officially came out, making the following statement to the media:

“The thing is, I’m not ashamed — that’s the one thing I want to say. I don’t think it’s wrong, I’m not devastated going through this. I’m more liberated and happy than I’ve been my whole life. I’m just happy.”

You know, I never was much of an N'Sync fan, but this was one of the most heartwarming news stories I've heard all week. You go, Lance!

Running Farrell

My trip to L.A. is now officially complete--I have been to a red-carpet movie premiere. Miami Vice premiered tonight at the Mann Village Theatre in Westwood and I simply could not pass up the opportunity to saunter down the street after dinner and snap some pictures of the divine Messrs. Farrell and Foxx.

Never having been to one of these gigs before, I wasn't exactly sure where the best vantage point for star-watching would be. I first stood on the street corner out in front of Stan's Donuts (where I've been three times in the past week) amidst a pack of professional autograph hounds who, quite frankly, frightened me just a bit. Some of them were kind of like the L.A. equivalent of Comic Book Store Guy from the Simpsons.

Fortunately, a security guard came along and offered to take a group of people to the red-carpet-side bleachers across the street. I opted to go along, which resulted in me gaining a clear view of the stars as they made their way down the press gauntlet.

Using my old-school 35mm point-and-shoot camera, I snapped photos of Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn, Tyrese, Victoria Rowell, Li Gong, Regina King, Pieter Jan Brugge (the film's producer), and, of course, Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell. I also took a nice shot of Philip Michael Thomas. Unfortunately, Don Johnson was nowhere to be seen.

All the actors looked every bit as attractive in person as they do on film. Which, of course, did not surprise me. All in all, this is probably one of the most aesthetically-pleasing trips I've ever taken. I'm going to have to ease myself back into reality slowly this weekend.

Fun, Fun, Fun

I spent the weekend playing tourist at various sites around L.A. and Santa Monica, some on the beaten path, some off. I did a lot of walking, got a lot of sun and had an awesome time. And yes, I rode the bus everywhere. Although I am now going to have to take back what I wrote in my last entry about the L.A. bus system being underused. It's actually pretty hoppin'. Still too many cars on the road, but the bright spot is that I have seen a lot of Toyota Priuses around town.

Saturday I took the bus to the north end of Koreatown and hopped on the subway up to Hollywood and Vine. Having only ever heard terrible things about Hollywood, I braced myself for the worst--however, I have to say it wasn't nearly as rough as I imagined it would be. Of course, I was there on a Saturday afternoon in peak tourist season. I'm sure it's no picnic at, say, 3 am on a Tuesday night. When I was there it wasn't so bad. It pretty much is what it is. Girls! Girls! Girls!--but not the Elvis Presley version. For my Torontonian readers, Hollywood Blvd. is a shade or two worse on the urban decay spectrum than the most decrepit blocks of Yonge Street. But the Walk of Fame is pretty awesome (except that you forget to look where you're going, which can get you into trouble). And I happened upon this fantastic movie collectibles shop at which I was able to pick up some lovely Rock Hudson production stills from 1952. Now that's what I call souvenir shopping.

If the tourist action at the Hollywood & Highland shopping centre (part of the complex that houses the Kodak Theatre) is any indication, Hollywood's darkest days are behind it. The mall is squeaky clean, upscale, and jam-packed with suburban families. Disney bought the El Capitan theatre across the street and has spruced it up as well. To anyone tempted to insert anti-corporatization grumbling here, can it already. If it's between pimps and Disney, I'll take Disney (and you can quote me on that).

After chowing down at Johnny Rocket's and taking a slew of requisite tourist photos, I journey back downtown to Union Station, which is an absolutely gorgeous building--an L.A. must-see, I believe. As is the Olvera Street marketplace, a fabulous oasis in downtown L.A. packed with vendors selling traditional Mexican goods. It was my first time visiting there and it's definitely one of my favourite places I've been in L.A. so far.

On Sunday I had to make a trip to the beach, so I bused it out to Venice. A totally crazy place, but another definite must-see. I watched both surfers and grafitti artists working hard at their respective pastimes, but was disappointed to find Muscle Beach more or less deserted. I suppose it was too hot to buff one's bod yesterday.

My favourite part about Venice is the Venice Canals Walkway, the network of sidewalks that you can take in and around all the positively stunning homes built on the existing canals. I kind of want one of those houses.

When I left Venice, I headed north to Ocean Park, the groovy southern Santa Monica neighborhood that is much quieter--and hipper, in my opinion--than the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica proper. The retail is soooo Californian: surf shops, yoga studios, organic tea shops, acupuncture clinics, and raw food cafes.

I wound up finishing up my day's travels in downtown Santa Monica, at Ye Olde King's Head pub, a favourite spot from my last trip to L.A. because of its tasty British fare that reminds me of pubs back home in the old country (by which I mean Toronto).

A highly satisfying weekend of sun, surf (watching) and local colour--I think this city is working it's crazy magic on me. Good thing I'm headed back home soon.

Get On the Bus

I feel that I am now fully assimilated into Angeleno culture after making many, many trips on L.A.'s great yet sorely underused bus system today. Over the course of almost twelve hours, I got on and off buses in Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Westwood, Brentwood and Santa Monica today. A couple were packed. One was empty save for me for a while. I met some very friendly people and got to take in lots of the cityscape. For example, I am now extremely familiar with the corner of Wilshire Blvd. and Veteran Avenue that I sat at for about fifteen minutes or more today, watching the traffic crawl towards the 405 freeway entrance. As many times as I've sat on the DVP in rush hour, I can honestly say I've never seen traffic move that slowly before.

The insanely bizarre thing about L.A. is, its residents think traffic like that is completely normal. They willingly sit through it every single day. I watched car after car creep by carrying only one person, a driver chatting animatedly on his/her cell phone and dealing pleasantly enough with the worst gridlock I've ever witnessed. C-r-a-z-y. I talked to a few Angelenos about their transportation situation today. One man had had his car totalled six months ago, decided to try out the bus for a change, and is happy with the switch. He says the subway's great too--I'm going to try that out on the weekend. Another couple of guys I talked to said they couldn't imagine taking the bus at all--they wouldn't even know which bus to take to get from where they lived to work each day. They thought I was properly nuts for even trying.

This seems to be the normal response from city natives when I tell them about my bus travels. I was told I was crazy for trying to take the bus from Westwood to Hollywood, but that worked out just fine today. Granted, I missed the stop where I had to transfer and ended up arriving at my destination about half an hour later than I'd planned, but fortunately, I'd left early. That's the thing about getting around in L.A.--if you have time to spare and can adopt a sort of Zen-like attitude towards the sometimes Herculean effort it takes to get from point A to point B, it's not so bad.

While L.A. makes me appreciate cabs, the TTC (yes, even the Queen streetcar at rush hour), and the possibility of walking anywhere, I can't say it hasn't started to grow on me in its own crazy way. No matter how frustrating the situation on the ground is, you can always look up and see a sunny, bright blue sky above, a palm tree or two, and sometimes, as was the case for me this morning, HOLLYWOOD beckoning to you in the distance. And that's pretty damn cool, if you ask me.

The Fresh Princess of Bel Air

Having recently purchased new running shoes, I was excited to have the chance to break them in on my trip to L.A. on some sightseeing runs. So I ventured out for my first run this morning. I'm staying in Westwood village, right on the edge of the UCLA campus, so I figured that Bel Air would be a nifty running destination (originally I wanted to make it up to the Playboy Mansion, but then I realized it would be a touch too far--besides, isn't it more normal for women to run away from the Playboy Mansion than towards it?). I made my way on up north through the campus at a decent clip, feeling energized by the bright sun, blue skies, and deceptively invisible smog. Sure, there were a few hills...well, actually, running north in this part of town is pretty much all hills, all the time. Like, break-ass hills. Like there's a reason everybody around here is so crazy about yoga and pilates and all that jazz--it's because it's too damn hard to run anywhere. Particularly in Bel Air, which I found out has no sidewalks. I don't think residents venture outside the gates of their homes on foot. This morning, the only people on the road were me and legions of garden workers. I wondered if I might get thrown out by a security patrol for being on the street without a leaf blower in my hand.

An hour later and I was finally in sight of where I'd started, feeling very tired and keening for level ground. But the adventure was worth it. Bel Air, like most other locations in L.A., looks just as spectacular in real life as it does in the movies. What amazed me was that within a couple hundred feet of entering Bel Air off of Sunset Blvd., the noise of the traffic seemed to die away almost instantly and became replaced by the serene chirping of birds and hissing of garden sprinklers. The place isn't just a neighbourhood--I'm convinced it's a hermetically-sealed bubble.

L.A. Stories

I have ventured once more out to the strange and marvellous world that is the west coast. I have two weeks ahead of me in Los Angeles, primarily shuttling around between Westwood, Beverly Hills, and anywhere else the Wilshire Blvd. bus can take me. Here are a few initial notes on my L.A. experiences over the past 24 hours:

You know you're on a plane to L.A. when a guy sitting in your row pulls out his screenplay for in-flight reading material. Good Lord--does it get any more L.A. than that? It was all pristine and crisp-cornered, with impressively shiny brass brads. I'm thinking, great, excellent, good for you--I mean, hey, I've got one of those kicking around myself--but it's soooo much less pretentious to just kick back with a vacuous magazine like the rest of your comrades in coach. You ain't gonna run into Jerry Bruckheimer at the back of the bus, buddy--better off snagging an FHM.

I actually saw people break into a car-fight today over entering/exiting a parking garage on La Cienega. I think that the car-fight might be an L.A.-specific phenomenon. It's like any other kind of fight, except the participants never get out of their cars; they just yell and gesture wildly as if they were within striking distance of their opponent. What happened was one car exited the parking garage at the same time another car was about to turn into it. They very nearly ran into each other--then both slammed on the brakes and started raising hell. I don't believe it had been resolved by the time I got to my bus-stop. They very well could still be out there.

Rodeo Drive actually sparkles. I think they use Crest Street Whitener (TM).

My cab driver yesterday told me he once gave Ashton Kutcher a lift before he was famous. Except the cabbie wasn't sure of Ashton Kutcher's name. He just said "You know--the guy who's with Demi Moore." Ooooh....SNAP!

More instalments are forthcoming (I'm hoping to write enough L.A. blogs that they can go into blog syndication).

Like Riding a Bicycle...Or Something

Since I haven't contributed to my blog in quite some time, I figured I should take some baby blog steps toward making a comeback. So I will devote this entry to mentioning one small recollection that made me laugh really hard today. I was thinking for a brief spell about cats and cars, and I suddenly remembered how, about fifteen years ago or so, you couldn't drive anywhere without seeing at least two or three cars with one of those crazy-ass stuffed Garfield cat-butts hanging out of the window/trunk. C'mon--you know you remember those things (maybe you owned one?). I'm not really sure why it was considered hilarious to have half a stuffed cat protruding from your car and those things got natty after being exposed to the elements for a couple of months. But people loved them! And now the very thought of them makes me laugh.

Studies in Skid Culture #3

So I've been kinda sorta neglecting my blog lately. To my tight-knit cadre of devoted readers, I apologize. Other writing projects, a testy dial-up internet connection, and the new season of Canadian Idol have all conspired to derail my once-regular ranting schedule. That, and I've been busy catching up on the local culture in my hometown, an entertaining, oftentimes scintillating, yet time-consuming task.

Just in case you thought I was indulging in a bit of poetic license in my first entry on skid culture a couple months back, I have recently gathered much empirical evidence that the skid community is still indeed alive and well around these parts. For example, when I was walking out of Swiss Chalet last night after dinner, I witnessed a truckload of skids drive into the local Tim Horton's (conveniently located across the street from Swiss Chalet). True to form, the boys had a rusted-out Skidoo in the back of their pickup truck. In the middle of June. I kid you not. They were hollering unintelligbly but gleefully out the windows as they drove past, perhaps in anticipation of picking up a few limited-time-only strawberry tarts from Timmie's along with their double-doubles.

Sometimes this place is just too Canadian to be true. I have to say, it's great to be home.

Deja Retro

So I'm back home in Ontario for a couple of weeks--loving the new season of Canadian Idol, Seamus O'Reagan in the mornings, and easy access to Tim Horton's maple swirl doughnuts, but not so much the dial-up internet access that goes with my old rural stomping grounds. But I don't mind being patient with my connection tonight because I am enjoying a favourite Sunday night ritual of mine, 102.1 The Edge's Sunday night retro show. Back in the day, the broadcast was from Whiskey Saigon (a club which always sounded way more fun on the radio than it actually was), but has since switched venues to a favourite undergrad haunt of mine, The Velvet Underground. I have no idea what the Velvet is like these days, as it's been many moons since I hauled my black fishnet tights/Doc Martens-clad feet onto its dance floor. But it used to be a pretty good time (even though it never quite matched the Dance Cave).

For the record (and this should surprise no one who's read this blog before), I was into retro way before retro was cool. As a teenager in the mid-1990s, I made a serious effort to become a self-educated New Wave aficianado. While many of my peers were digging Dave Matthews, Alanis Morissette or (insert Sideshow Bob shudder), Hootie and the Blowfish, I was stocking my music library with ABC, Human League, Bowie, the Cure, Duran Duran, General Public, Howard Jones, Joy Division, New Order, Pet Shop Boys, the Psychedelic Furs, Simple Minds, the Smiths, Split Enz, the Talking Heads, Talk Talk, and the Violent Femmes. At the time, the Edge's Sunday night retro show was the only place you could hear any of this stuff on the radio. Now of course any adult contemporary/pop station worth its salt has some kind of cheeseball 80s request hour on its daily programming schedule. But the Edge is still the best place to hear consistently good 80s music in a retro show. I highly recommend tuning in--you won't be disappointed. Unless 80s New Wave/ska/punk music is just totally not up your alley. But how can that be possible?

Doggy Fizzle Publishizzle

According to an article published last month on The Book Standard, Snoop Dogg will be making his literary debut this October with his first novel, titled Love Don't Live Here No More. Not to be confused with the 1978 Rose Royce hit, "Love Don't Live Here Anymore," Snoop's novel will tell the story of "a young man living the hard life in Southern California while struggling to make it in the world of hip-hop."

The article goes on to note that the novel will be the first in a "street-lit" series headed by Snoop for Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster. Kathleen Schmidt, v.p. and director of publicity for Atria told The Book Standard that “Snoop, by nature of what he does, is a storyteller." Furthermore, Ms. Schmidt explains, “Books speak more to a female audience than does [Snoop's] music, so these novels give him an opportunity to show, particularly his female fans, another side.”

Rrrrriiiigghht. I assume she means the side of Snoop other than the one responsible for rapping such tunes as "Bitches Ain't Shit But Hoes and Tricks," "Break a Bitch 'Til I Die," and "Can You Control Yo Hoe?" (featuring the memorable lyric, "You've got to put that bitch in her place/Even if it's slapping her in the face"). We've apparently now entered a new era of Barnes & Noble-friendly Snoop (personally, I think changing the book's title to Love Don't Live Here No More, Bitch would help ensure a smoother trans-media crossover).

I wish Snoop the best of luck with his new endeavour. If nothing else, it's gonna make Book-TV a hell of a lot more exciting this fall. As far as winning over the female audience goes, I guess I should keep an open mind. Even old Doggz learn new tricks.

Analyze This

The other day, I was thinking about movie costumes. From a rather young age, two movie costumes in particular have been my very favourites:

1. The skin-tight, black leather (or is it pleather?) outfit that Sandy wears to impress Danny at the end of Grease, for the "You're the One That I Want" number. I'm still looking for a pair of black Candies sandals like the ones she has on in that scene (the shoes responsible for the sexiest cigarette stomp-out in cinema history).

2. The crazy one-piece halter top/mini-skirt outfit and (most importantly) thigh-high, spiked heel boots that Julia Roberts walks her Hollywood strip in at the beginning of Pretty Woman. I've had a weakness for stiletto-heel boots ever since (and now own two pairs--neither, regrettably, are thigh-high, however). Oddly, her outfit is different colours on the movie's poster (hot pink and black) than it is in the film (white and turquoise). But it's all about the boots, really.

What should we make of this? One might conjecture that repeated exposure to such vampy star costumes in my pre-teen years permanently corrupted my fashion sense. But these outfits are so...great. Like, doesn't everyone wish they could wear stuff like this every day? No? Oh. Never mind, then. I guess it's just me.

Shoe Decorated My Life

In recent "Where are they now?" news:

My favourite Madison television personality, former WKOW meteorologist Alan Shoemaker (affectionately known on air and among fans as "Shoe"), is apparently now thriving in his post as the weekend weatherman on Newschannel 5 in Weslaco, Texas.

Shoe--we miss you, big guy. You lit up my life on Wake Up Wisconsin for three unforgettable years. But you've got bigger storms to chase now. That's just the way life goes in the rough-and-tumble weatherman trade, I guess. Well, best of luck to you, Shoe--and thanks for the memories.

Summer Reading Adventure Vol. 1

While summer won't officially arrive for another month or so, it's never too early to start thinking about what guilty yet exquisite reading pleasures you will include on your summer reading list. For bibliophiles, summer reading is kind of like a trip to Las Vegas: cheap, flashy, sex-filled and easily hidden from bosses and spouses. Best of all, there are no consequences. What happens during the summer reading season stays in the summer reading season. It is perfectly acceptable to burn through 15 Danielle Steel novels over a two-week period in August, then turn back to Thomas Pynchon after Labour Day. You will never be held intellectually responsible for your summer reading choices. It's one of the cardinal rules of bibliophile culture.

That said, I'd like to suggest some summer reading that will give you a powerful hit of nostalgic pleasure faster than a Kool Aid Jammer on a July afternoon. Remember Choose Your Own Adventure books? You know, those fantastically easy-to-read, participatory paperbacks that zipped off your school library shelves faster than the latest installation in the Babysitters' Club series? Teachers never used to allow Choose Your Own Adventure books to count for "official" assignments like novel studies or even silent reading time. But we loved them just the same, especially since they only took about twenty minutes to read. They took longer if you didn't catch on to what page number the "page of instant and horrible death" was in the particular book you were reading. You remember what I'm talking about: you'd proceed through three or four choices, your character's situation gradually becoming more dire, when suddenly you'd come to a page that said something like: "Turn to page 72 if you choose to run away from the lion. Turn to page 36 if you choose to confront the lion." If you chose to turn to page 36 you would read that you had suffered a terrible demise. After reading that, if you were a smart cookie, you knew that any time the book offered you the choice of turning to page 36, it would be wisest not to do so. Then it was never much longer before you successfully completed your character's mission.

If you have fond memories of Choose Your Own Adventure books like I do, you'll be happy to find out that the series' publisher (the creatively titled Chooseco corporation) rereleased many of the series classic titles this spring, including Abominable Snowman, Secret of the Ninja, Lost Jewels of the Nabooti and many more.

If you are one of the few and the proud who can say that you've read all 184 Choose Your Own Adventure books published between 1979 and 1998, then you can check out the new A Date with Destiny Adventure series, which are Choose Your Own Adventure-inspired books written for adults and include such titles as Night of a Thousand Boyfriends and Escape from Fire Island!

I'll have more summer reading suggestions in the weeks ahead. In the meantime, try pulling out one of these books on the bus on your next commute to work. It's not summer yet, but who cares? Have fun. Just beware of page 36.

Pour Some Sugar on Me

It recently came to my attention that my most favourite 1980s hair-metal band, Def Leppard, has formed an unholy alliance with Journey for their upcoming tour this summer. No way! Way! Pretty friggin' sweet, if you ask me. I can't imagine a concert tour more jam-packed with power chords, guitar kicks, and earnest, bare-chested, bandanna-ed balladeering than this one. Sadly, they will not be making a stop in Toronto--for once, Buffalo has one-upped us on something. Talk about bringin' on the heartbreak.

Anyway...I'm not too devastated about it because I've been to see Def Leppard in concert in Toronto twice. Go ahead, mock me. I'm cool with it. I earned my serious concert cred as a teenager, delirious from sunstroke or caught up in a bone-crushing mosh pit at Molson Park, taking in then-unheard of Canadian bands like the Tea Party, Our Lady Peace, I Mother Earth and Big Sugar. I've since dropped all pretense of being a hip concertgoer. Now, it's all about listening to my inner cheeseball. Life's too short to deny my retro-pop instincts. Besides, to their credit, Def Leppard puts on a truly kick-ass show. And it's kind of nice to be among the youngest members of a concert audience for a change.

I'll finish off this post with a link to the band's offical site (where, under Vivian's Diary, you can read his latest entry titled "My Pet Monkey") as well as a sampling of some of Def Leppard's more surreal lyrics. These guys know how to wail.

"Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on/Livin' like a lover with a radar phone..."

"I'm runnin' with the wind, a shadow in the dust/And like the drivin' rain, yeah/Like the restless rust/I never sleep..."

"It's such a magical mysteria when you get that feelin'/Better start believin'..."

"I'll be your satellite of love"

"Take it, take it, take it from me/I got an itchy finger following me..."

"C'mon Steve..."

W.W.T.Y.D.? (What Would Tina Yothers Do?)

The latest addition to my Amazon wishlist: Being Your Best: Tina Yothers' Guide for Girls.
I can only speculate on the valuable knowledge contained in this volume, but one would hope that there would at least be chapters devoted to eye-rolling, bang-curling and how to cope with your crush on Michael J. Fox (I'm still working on that one). Now that I know this book exists, I'll always wonder how my life would have been different had I possessed the wisdom of Tina Yothers in convenient paperback form during my adolescent years. Back to the future, indeed.

Why Does PE Suck?

On a brief surf through the blogosphere this evening, I came across this post, authored by one britbrat, that succinctly summarises the reasons why PE (or phys. ed., as Canadians are more likely to call it) sucks. All I've got to say is, I hear that, sister. Nice to know some things never change.

My MTV: Tiara Girls

As should be evident from previous posts dedicated to MADE and 8th and Ocean, when it comes to MTV, I'm an easy customer to please. I'll lap up pretty much any reality show they toss my way. So this week I gave the new MTV series, Tiara Girls a test run. Sadly, I think my favourite network has let the rhinestone-encrusted crown slip a little on this one. This show falls so much short of MTV's usual sassy standards that I doubt I'll be able to eke out a two paragraph blog about it. But, this being a slow night, I'll give it a try.

I think Tiara Girls was doomed from the start for the reason that beauty pageants make too easy targets for the kind of pseudo-satirical/pseudo-documentary teen reality shows we've come to expect from MTV with shows like MADE and Super Sweet Sixteen. We know that pageants are weird. We can conjecture that the surreal sub-cultures in which they flourish are disturbingly bizarre. We expect that teenage girls competing in pageants are going be spouting off the kind of anti-feminist remarks that would earn them a lot of furrowed brows and angry headshakes if they were appearing on Oprah. So when we see all these easily-anticipated elements come together on an episode of Tiara Girls, the result is just...yawn.

Maybe it's just that I personally find pageants unexciting. Growing up in Canada, it seemed pretty clear that pageants were a foreign phenomenon, and they didn't really hold all that much fascination for me (I was too busy idolizing Elizabeth Manley). These days, I find them to be one of the most tired feminist bad objects out there. Whether the world keeps turning with or without pageants doesn't really matter--either way, 99.9% of its problems are still going to go on unsolved.

Despite my negative review, I'm not really saddened by the lack-lustre appeal of Tiara Girls. This just means I'll have more time to keep up with my other MTV favourites. Really, my TV viewing schedule was getting packed as it was, especially having to fit various play-off games in. If you get a chance to check the show out, give it a try and tell me what I'm missing. Or not. It's really not as fun as MTV should be.

The DL on the DQ

You'd think that living in the greatest dairy state in the U.S.A. for almost five years would have made me something of an ice cream connoisseur. I have indeed sampled some impressive ice creams and frozen custards in Wisconsin, including Michael's, Culver's, Schoep's, Chocolate Shoppe and, the pride of UW-Madison, Babcock Hall Dairy. The shocking truth is, however, that despite living in this land of plenty, my very favourite ice cream is still Dairy Queen soft serve. It's just such a classic, from its dependable vanilla flavour to its easy-to-eat consistency. You can dress it up with hot fudge sauce or dip it in a candy shell (with respect to dipped cones, I always went for the butterscotch, until I discovered the glorious new horizon of cherry--the shell is red and fantastically tasty, however there is nothing remotely cherry-like about it). Or you can go the purist route and just eat it plain. No matter how you order it, the DQ soft serve never fails to please.

I'm not sure how DQ soft serve ice cream is made, but I will hypothesize that involves vast quantities of prepackaged mixes of one kind or another. Then, of course, there's the machine that produces it, a marvel of mid-twentieth century mechanics if ever there was one. There is always a bit of excitement involved with the "pouring" of the ice cream onto the cone. Sometimes an inexperienced soft serve artisan will pour the cone at a dangerous angle, or panic the moment they have to perform that virtuouso twist of the wrist that finishes it off. It probably takes a little practice to get that wrist twist right. But it's worth doing well, and of course it's so much more sophisticated than just scooping ice cream out of a tub.

Despite my research efforts, I was unable to find out who the original Dairy Queen was or where she hailed from. I did learn that DQ has been around since 1940, that there are now DQs in 21 countries on 6 continents, that DQ and Orange Julius belong to the same parent company, and that ordering a large chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzard will run you about 1320 calories.

I can't be the only person out there who is staunchly devoted to DQ soft serve. It's not just a cool treat, but the coolest treat around. Actually, I just like using the word "treat." Anyway, for another testament to the greatness of this ice cream institution, check out Parker Posey's brilliant performance as Libby Mae Brown in Waiting for Guffman: "I'll always have a place at the DQ."

Say It Ain't So, Kevbo

Oh, how the once-mighty have fallen. No, I'm not talking about Keith Richards' recent plummet from a coconut tree. I'm talking about the recent allegations pertaining to Kevin Costner's, er, indiscretions at a Scottish spa. I do not intend to devote this entry to the nature of these allegations (N.B.--This blog deals only in oblique references to smutty gossip; if you want the real deal, you'll have to Google elsewhere. I have standards to uphold). Rather, I thought I would take this unfortunate turn of alleged events as an opportunity to cast a look back at the golden era of Costner's stardom and pause for a few moments to wonder where the hell it went and why.

Some fifteen years ago, it seemed Costner's star image would collapse under the weight of its own over-exposure. The man was skyrocketing into ever higher echelons of fame at a seemingly unstoppable rate. Recall the path he blazed to glory between 1988 and 1991: Bull Durham (1988), Field of Dreams (1989), Dances with Wolves (1990--the Best Director award/Best Actor nomination combo was, in hindsight, a harbinger of the madness to come. We can thank Mel Gibson for what we now know about such omens), and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991). Women around the world between the ages of 24 and 65, including my grade 7 homeroom teacher, succumbed to schoolgirl-like Costner crushes. I remember watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves in class and not daring to question its relevance to French-Canadian fur trading routes. As far as my teacher was concerned, if it was Costner, it was kosher.

But then, then...Costner started engaging in some decision making that made us wonder whether he really wanted to hang on to the incomparable fame he had achieved or instead wished to see how quickly it would self-destruct. First, there was The Bodyguard (1992), a supremely odd and overblown picture in which Costner was entirely outshone by the soundtrack (never a good sign). Then, a couple of years later, we got to witness the now-mythical box-office disaster that was Waterworld (which, I actually went to see at the mall theatre with my friends--one of the lowest points of my moviegoing life). By the time The Postman came out in 1997, we knew Costner's days of superstardom were over.

To Costner's credit, it was a glorious, if perhaps overly earnest and oftentimes pretentious, ride. Now, it remains to be seen whether he will allow himself to be defeated by the dual Hollywood foes of scandal and age, or whether he will pull it out of the fire and turn both those foes to his advantage. Which is possible, if he can embrace those invaluable allies of fallen stars, camp and irony. I'd cite the John Travolta-Pulp Fiction precedent here, but, well, that hasn't panned out so good. Maybe Kevin Costner can make a lasting comeback. And hey Mr. C., if you do, make sure to write out clear instructions for Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt on how you managed it. Because in a few years, they're gonna need them (trust me on this one).

The Ifs and Ands of Butts

It's no secret that spring and summer are the more lascivious seasons of the fashion year. Bluntly put, it's time to hooch it up. Pack up the wool coats and sweater sets and pull out the halter tops and short-shorts. It's all good. Or is it?

There's one article of clothing that I'm not sure is passable even in this casual climate. You see them all year round, but they become particularly prevalent as temperatures rise and fashion inhibitions lower. We're talking about pants...pants with writing on the butt. Sassy, yes. A fashion risk? Definitely.

To establish my credibility (or lack of it, depending on how you look at it) on this issue, I will confess to owning two pairs of said pants. Although both are extremely comfortable and, I admit, quite sassy, I adhere to a strict protocol when it comes to their display. Call me neo-Victorian (you'd be the first to do so), but I've always maintained that you can't just walk around anywhere wearing pants that shout "Hey, look at my ass!" (just like you can't just shout "Hey, look at my ass!" anywhere; there's rules about that too--we'll save those for another time). I believe the wearing of these pants is sanctioned in the following locations: grocery store, gas station, laundromat, McDonald's, Target, video stores and neighbourhoods where you don't live. On the other hand, for reasons of taste and safety, these pants should not be donned under any circumstances in the following locations: work, libraries, schools, government buildings, police stations, courthouses, airports, bus depots, subway stations, restaurants where your food doesn't come on plastic trays and movie theaters.

Two other issues to consider beyond appropriate locations for wearing words on your butt are: 1) whether men can or should do so and 2) are some words just inappropriate to wear on your butt? The answers:

1) No. Just...no.
2) Yes. Example: Thanks to Roots, you can wear "Canada" on your butt. Our nation's founders did not sit through 100-odd years of passive-aggressive subordinance to the British just so women could have this country's name plastered on their booties (or did they? Come to think of it, the fathers of Confederation probably would have been all over this idea)

Despite all the caveats involved, I will indeed be incorporating my letter-butt pants into my casual spring and summer wardrobe again this year. In fact, I may even buy a new pair. So long as one is aware of the risks involved, I think they can indeed be pulled off (pardon the pun) with happy results. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Hello Kitty, qu'est-ce que c'est?

I have a tendency to want to address deeply philosophical questions in this blog, such as the question that popped into my head as I sat down at my computer this evening:

How did Hello Kitty get her name?

Furthermore, is the name meant to signify:

1. First name "Hello," surname "Kitty" OR
2. First name "Kitty," surname "Hello" OR
3. A greeting that accompanies this cute little nameless cat everywhere?

With these burning semantic issues at stake, I felt it was my duty to turn to the great Wikipedia oracle for some answers. Here's what I was able to glean from its "Hello Kitty" entry:

"Hello Kitty was given an English name because British culture was popular with Japanese girls at the time of her creation. Kitty's name came from one of the cats that Alice kept in the book Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll."

I should have known that with a character this wacky, Lewis Carroll had to be involved somehow. But reading on, I found that Hello Kitty lore gets even trippier. For example:

"When Hello Kitty's boyfriend "Dear Daniel" was created in 1999, designers took his name from the 1971 film, Melody, which starred Mark Lester as a character called Daniel, and features songs by the Bee Gees."

The BeeGees? What?!

The final odd pieces of information I learned about Hello Kitty during my brief foray into her strange and wondrous history this evening is that, as of 2004, Hello Kitty has a pet cat named Charmmy Kitty (a gift from her father) and also a pet hamster named Sugar (a gift from Dear Daniel). A cat with a hamster? Well...OK. But a cat with a cat? Now we're talking crazy talk.

I've always been a Hello Kitty fan, but it seems to me that she's just one of those wonders of the universe that is better left uninvestigated. Because otherwise, it's all too complex. Whew.

Memories...in the Corners of My Mullet

OK, so mullets don't have corners (arguably). But according to the New York Times, Billy Ray Cyrus has penned a song for his new album entitled "I Want My Mullet Back." I'm thinking this tune should be turned into a multi-celeb charity caterwaul (along the lines of "We Are the World," you dig?) with the following participants joining Billy Ray:

Jaromir Jagr
Corey Feldman
Michael Bolton (he got Nicolette Sheridan back, why not the mullet?)
Dennis Miller
Florence Henderson
John Stamos
Joan Jett
Barry Melrose
Jerry Seinfeld
Richard Dean Anderson
Richard Marx
Pat Benatar
Randy Johnson
Zachary Ty Bryan ("Brad" from Home Improvement--if you're asking, Where is he now? , the
answer is: wishing he had his mullet back)

Any other suggestions?

P.S. - You must check out Florence Henderson's website (with sound on). That Mrs. B. is one groovy gal!

The Ex-Pat Playoff Experience

I am in the unfortunate situation of having to watch this year's Stanley Cup playoffs on American television. No Grapes, no Ron McLean, and, worst of all, no Bob Cole and Harry Neale (actually, worst of all is NO LEAFS. But we won't talk about that right now). I share Lost in Wisconsin's frustration with the quality of hockey commentary south of the border. Really, it's a wonder our American cousins keep coming back to this schlock. You'd think they'd demand better.

Rap Traxx Dee-Lite

Reminiscing about 680 CFTR the other day got me wondering where and how I might procure Rap Traxx albums. Produced by the prestigious PolyTel record label, Rap Traxx tapes were a must-have on the grade five party circuit. Mike Boon's blog (which is also packed with Canadian content) has an extraordinarily helpful list of the songs located on four Rap Traxx albums. I have many a fond memory of listening to hits from the original Rap Traxx like Tone Loc's "Wild Thing" (which, after being broadcast in class during lunch time, resulted in our school principal confiscating my classmate's tape), Rob Base and D.J. E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" (an old-school classic), and Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It" (which actually scandalized me when I was younger, but not as much as "Let's Talk About Sex"). Rap Traxx 2 has equal sentimental value, with such tunes as Young M.C.'s "Bust a Move" ("Dressed in yellow/She said hello/Come and sit next to me you fine fellow!"), Nenah Cherry's "Buffalo Stance," Tone Loc's "Funky Cold Medina," and Rob Base and D.J. EZ Rock's "Joy and Pain" (which was the first hip-hop song I can remember dancing to--it was in a friend's basement at an all-girl slumber party. Very street.)

Sadly, I never bought my own Rap Traxx tapes. It seemed like no matter whose house I went to, all my friends had them, so I invested in Madonna, Amy Grant, and Wilson Phillips tapes instead. Oh Rap Traxx tapes, why did I ever take you for granted? I've been keeping an eye out for them at garage sales and flea markets, but perhaps not surprisingly, they are difficult to come by. I mean, who in their right mind would sell off their Rap Traxx tapes? Oh well. I guess I'll just have to bust a move to Wilson Phillips instead. We create our own challenges in life, I suppose.

Soda Spectator (Vol. 1)

Dr. Pepper Diet Berries & Cream

Price: $1.99

Country: U.S.A.

Region: Northlake, Illinois

Issue: April 2006

First release. Screw cap. Deeply coloured, full bodied, this is a fairly rich diet pop, which is long on the palate, and finishes with slightly sticky aftertaste. Supple in texture, with notes of berries and overtones of cream. Diet Vanilla Coke-like in style. Very easy to drink! Excellent value. Drink through 2007.

Radio Ga-Ga

If, as those sage social commentators, the Buggles, told us back in 1979, video killed the radio star, then it is nothing short of miraculous that broadcast radio is showing any vital signs at all twenty-six years later. Cornered on two fronts by the onslaught of iTunes and ever-multiplying satellite radio stations, what remains of old-school AM/FM, dee-jayed radio is being forced to take its last stand. Given the quality of "programming" that most of these stations have had on offer over the past couple of decades, it's tough to make a case for broadcast radio's survival. What can they offer listeners that iTunes and satellite radio can't? Hmmm. Traffic reports and weather reports. Bland, ingratiating dee-jays who sling slogans, yak about contests, and re-hash Entertainment Tonight ad nauseum, but couldn't cough up an articulate opinion on music if their job depended on it (which, lucky for them, it doesn't). The syndicated sap of "Delilah." Oh yeah, and ads. But those aren't really so bad, in comparison.

I might not care about the fate of radio at all if it wasn't for two Toronto radio stations that have kept my faith in the broadcast medium alive over the past fifteen years. One is 102.1 The Edge, which, fortunately, is still going strong and strives to maintain its vital role in the city's alt-rock community. If you live outside of Toronto, you can check the station out via their website--a feature that is much-loved by many the ex-pat Torontonian.

The second station to which I wish to devote this paean to the dying art of broadcast radio is the dearly departed 680 CFTR. The station currently adheres to a news radio format, but many inhabitants of the GTA who came of age in the late 1980s and early 1990s have cherished memories of CFTR as the coolest pop station around. The fact that it was AM radio did not deter me and my friends from tuning in day and night (when, as any AM radio aficianado knows, the broadcast is accompanied by a charming high-pitched buzz kind of like communication intercepted from the alien mothership). To the best of my memory, the daily programming schedule went something like this:

Morning: The Jesse and Gene Show
The early morning shenanigans of Jesse and Gene provided junior highschoolers province-wide with any number of crude jokes and kick-ass comebacks to quote repeatedly to one another throughout the day. We also revered them for their virtuouso prank calling performances. Regular highlights included: Wreck-a-Wedding-Wednesdays, Spousal Arousal, Jesse and Gene's World Tour, Billy-Bob's Birthday Roundup (or was it Billy and Bobby's?), and, of course, the requisite call-in guest gags that involved getting dignitaries such as the Mayor or Gowan to say things like "There is no "f" in onion." Memorable songs included the Hamster song (to wit: "Hamster hamster, day or night/ hamster in a casserole is doin' it right/because they're nutritious/and oh so delicious/when they're in season/they taste pretty pleasin'"), and, after the 1993 federal election, "Bye Bye Campbell."

Midday: The top 12 at 12 was the highlight of the lunch hour, helmed, as I recall, by Tony Monaco.

After school: My beloved Tarzan Dan was the sole purveyor of tunes in this prime dee-jay slot. He was wacky and witty, loud but charming, and listening to his show was the best way to wind down after a long day in the eighth grade. By far, the hottest countdown of the day was Tarzan Dan's top 6 at 6, for which legions of teens called in to cast their votes for the likes of Bon Jovi, Wrex-n-Fx, Naughty By Nature, and Alanis (as pop princess, pre-"Jagged Little Pill").

Evening: As fond as I was of Tarzan Dan, I must confess that Cat Spencer was actually my favourite CFTR dee-jay. His domain was the top 10 at 10, which had a definite more suave and smooth night-time feel to it. He also refereed the numerous dedications that various of my lovesick/angst-ridden peers would call in over the course of the evening. And of course, Sunday night you had to tune in to Sex with Sue.

If 680 CFTR had any weaknesses as a pop station, it was its whoring out of Saturday morning programming to Rick Dees' syndicated top 40 countdown, and also the way in which "I Will Always Love You" was on half-hourly rotation throughout the entire fall and winter of 1992/1993. But these faults are slight and they do not hamper my nostalgia for 680 in the least. I loved that station with all my pre-teen heart and then some.

I still remember that devastating day it switched formats. Us loyal listeners were dumped out in the cold of a new and unfamiliar radio era. Some, like myself, tried to numb the pain by swallowing our pride and tuning in to rival station AM640 (now a talk radio station, but then the second-string pop radio station next to 680). After 640 folded as well, I meandered into the skid radio territory of Q107 for a while, which had the unfortunate side effect of me buying a Pink Floyd cassette. Finally, I came home to the Edge and I haven't budged since. Hopefully, even with the threats new technologies pose, at least one Toronto broadcast radio institution will stay alive in the years to come. At this point, I'm too fragile to handle another radio fatality.

My So-Called Wardrobe

I've been thinking a lot about fashion lately, mostly due to my having plowed through a massive issue of In Style magazine last week on the plane from Milwaukee to Toronto. Spring is a great season for closet cleaning, an activity which--for me, anyway--is laden with opportunities for nostalgic reflection.

Over the years, I've gotten better about not hanging on to each and every fashion artifact that has graced my wardrobe. That said, I will admit that it is possible, indeed probable, to find items in my closet that date back to my junior high and high school years. Most of these articles of clothing are things that I kept because they are simply iconic of that particular time in my life. A few key pieces include:

Notre Dame hooded sweatshirt (c. Grade 8) - When I purchased this shirt, I had never been to Notre Dame and hadn't really the faintest idea who the "Fighting Irish" were. U.S. college football wasn't exactly huge among rural Ontario junior high students, but anything with Notre Dame, Georgetown, Michigan or Duke on it was. After seeing Rudy, my attachment to that shirt became slightly more sentimental. But not much.

Kilt (c. Grade 9) - It is a little known fact that the kilt experienced a brief frenzy of popularity amongst high school girls approximately five years before Britney Spears' skanked it up in her "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)" video. I can't remember details about wearing mine, except that knee socks were involved. I think I still have those too.

Various flannel shirts (c. Grade 9-12) - Here is the perfect example of how much teen fashion has changed in the past ten years or so. Today, a typical teen girl's outfit is comprised of skinny, low-rise jeans, visible candy-coloured thong, layered tight camisoles and a designer/knock-off designer handbag. Oh, and stiletto heels. But not so very long ago, we were pairing our father's flannel work shirts with t-shirts we wore in kindergarten and men's Levi's that were at least three sizes too big. Stains and/or rips provided extra appeal. Oh yeah--and going heavy on the black eyeliner was a must. Then, there was the requisite footwear...

Docs (c. Grade 12 - present) - What can I say? A classic's a classic. Mine are pretty standard-- 12-hole and black--but of course many variations exist. I used to think they went with everything, but I admit I've mellowed with age. Still, nothing else provides the same level of mosh-pit comfort.

Honorable mentions: Anything from Le Chateau (back in the day, it was kinda hippie, kinda slutty, always cool), Sex Pistols t-shirt, Converse sneakers, nylon Eddie Bauer backpacks, Swatch watches, silver rings (preferably at least one on each finger), my "Rachel" haircut.

Perhaps some of you who are reading this have fond memories of similar articles of clothing. Or perhaps there are other favourites you'd be willing to confess to/share? It's strange to think that some day, the 1990s fashion artifacts at the back of our closets will be "retro" and highly coveted by contemporary fashionistas. Of course, we must first be patient and sit through their requisite "painfully uncool" period as, for example, 80s styles went through while we were in high school. After that, I guarantee you'll be glad you kept your flannel and Soundgarden tees pressed and ready for revival.

Cottage Country

I'm headed to the cottage for a couple of days of relaxation on the shores of Georgian Bay. Even though May 2-4 weekend is still a few weeks off, I thought I would kick off cottage season early by citing three of my favourite cottage country tunes:

Bobcaygeon - The Tragically Hip
Lake Fever - The Tragically Hip

and, the quintessential...

Patio Lanterns - Kim Mitchell

The official soundtrack of cottage country life in Ontario is available 24-7 on Barrie's Rock 95. Be sure to make a trip to the Beer Store before kicking back on the deck and tuning in. And if you can't make it to cottage country this spring, you can live vicariously through the angst-ridden teens on Falcon Beach, Canadian television's answer to the O.C. (Newport Beach, Lake Winnipeg, what's the difference?).

The Ice Woman Runneth

I am loving the new running shades I got this spring. First of all, the way they are tinted makes me feel like I'm living in a Tony Scott movie, which provides extra workout adrenaline. Second, when I wear them, I look like I'm in a Tony Scott movie. More specifically, I look like Ice Man from Top Gun. That Ice Man--what a card! He sure kept Tom Cruise from getting on his high horse, didn't he? And talk about the right hair. If you ask me, that movie was all about the wrong character. It really was Ice Man's show. Anyway, I'm runnin' in the "Danger Zone" these days. Surprisingly enough, I have yet to download that song from iTunes to listen to while running in the Ice Man shades. I think that might be too much for me to handle right now. The shades are exciting enough.

My MTV: 8th and Ocean

MTV is making it awfully hard for me get my ass off the couch these days (actually, it's a futon, but I digress). I'm still harbouring an addiction to MADE, am swiftly developing an addiction to the new season of The Real World, and as of last week, have started catching a few episodes of 8th and Ocean. The prognosis is not good. Like my erstwhile favourite MTV "reality" drama, Laguna Beach, it features generic California scenery, insipid dialogue and painfully slow-paced action. I think I'm gonna be hooked.

I'm not much of an America's Next Top Model follower, so I can't really say whether fans of that show will find 8th and Ocean equally enticing to watch. A big plus for 8th and Ocean is its Tyra Banks-free format. While the MTV show lacks Top Model's explicit competition, it is well-endowed with the more subtle variety, such as the sparks that are about to fly between identical twins, Kelly and Sabrina. FYI, Sabrina's unfortunate acne outbreaks constitute the show's core dramatic conflict at the moment. She feels left behind because the other models' careers, particularly her sister's, are starting to take off, while she keeps being told to avoid the light of day until her face is fit to be seen in public (I just assumed this was par for the course if you live in California, model or not). Apparently, in the next episode Kelly expresses interest in breast "enhancement" surgery, which upsets the insecure Sabrina even more. It's like Sweet Valley High in some alternate Botox-infused universe. If that's not enough to get you watching, I don't know what will.

After taking in the dramatics of 8th and Ocean this evening, I paused to consider that models have gained a lot of exposure in the past decade. Back in my junior high and high school years, which, fortunately for my formative self, coincided with the golden age of the Supermodels, models were seen and not heard. We didn't have television shows that revealed Cindy Crawford binging on Ben & Jerry's at one a.m., Linda Evangelista stealing cans of Red Bull from Christy Turlington's tote bag, or Naomi Campbell padding around in badly-fitted pajama pants and a trucker hat. We never saw these women without make-up, for Pete's sake. And only rarely did we see them off the runway. But now it seems that everywhere in the media, models both old and new are letting it all hang out. Sometimes I kind of wish they'd pull it all back in because, well, most of these people are just not that entertaining once they step off the cover of Vogue. It's the old "don't sit too close at the ballet" thing.

I'm not really sure why I watch any of the copious model shows on tv in the first place. Unlike some women, I don't really relish the chance to catch models looking "ugly" (which, let's be honest here, they never do. They're models) or saying "stupid" things (they don't get paid the big bucks to solve the world's problems, folks--that's, what, the President's job or something?). Furthermore, I don't secretly idolize models or covet their lives (oh hell no--I love my freedom, my sense of self worth and my Cheetos too much to buy into that crazy-ass fantasy). I guess I watch these shows because the modelling industry, like Hollywood, is so incredibly surreal in its workings: extremely irrational, extraordinarily shallow, fickle, dirty, backstabbing and occasionally heartwarming. In other words, a perfect evening's entertainment!

On Failing My Nunavut Readership

I recently installed "SiteMeter" on this blog, a handy-dandy little web gadget that keeps track of when, where and how people are viewing this web page (if you're curious, you can check it out by clicking on the "SiteMeter" icon at the bottom of the sidebar). It's basically soft-core statistics porn, but the results are sometimes interesting. Like today, I learned that someone in Iqaluit (which is the capital of Nunavut, for those of you lacking in northern exposure) found my blog through Google by using the search terms "ski doo freestyle factory recalls". Thus far, the only place that ski-doos have cropped up in this blog is in my Skids in the Hall entry. Given the nature of his/her search, the anonymous Iqaluit surfer was no doubt disappointed with the content of my post. That doesn't trouble me so much as the thought that this person wanted to know whether their Ski Doo Freestyle is defective (perhaps dangerously) and my blog offered them no assistance in getting to the bottom of this (and having a potentially defective ski-doo is no laughing matter in Iqaluit).

So, on the remote chance that that reader ever visits this blog again, I apologize for my lack of expertise on ski-doo recalls. I hope that some other web page helped you solve your problem. If I could offer any advice, I would, but my Dad sold our ski-doo back in the mid-1980s. I don't even remember if it was a Freestyle. Really, I suppose Google is at fault here too, because it was their search engine that led this reader astray in the first place. But with a big corporate outfit like that, you're not going to get a sincere apology for wasting your time. Nope. It's just us insignificant web peons who have a heart for stuff like that.

I hope that I can overcome this incident among my Nunavut readership, however I would imagine bad word of mouth is the kiss of death for blogs in that place. Oh well. I can only hope that my first readers from the Yukon and the N.W.T. will have a more positive experience.

Karaoke Dreams

Goals are important in all aspects of life: careers, relationships, shoe shopping, breakdancing, and, of course, karaoke. It so happens that my life-long karoake dreams can be summed up in three songs:

1. Islands in the Stream - Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers
2. Whenever I Call You Friend - Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks
3. Don't Go Breaking My Heart - Elton John and Kiki Dee

Yes, all three are gloriously cheesy duets from the late 1970s-early 1980s. In my mind, performing any one of them would be the ultimate karaoke achievement. The trouble is, no one seems to share my vision. Sigh. Oh well. Some day, somewhere, my dream will be realized. I just have to believe.

They Are the (Moustache) Champions

A few posts back, I speculated on the decline of the moustache in contemporary pop culture (NB- I also used the spelling "stash" at that time, but I have since decided to switch to the mose continental "'stache"). While George Clooney has not yet responded to my plea to be the 'stache's saviour in 2006, it seems that a vibrant international moustache community does exist these days. I learned this from a recent visit to the World Beard and Moustache Championships website, which is devoted to the biennial event of that name. Interestingly, Germany dominates the global arena of beard and moustache competition, both in the number of gold medals won and the number of world championships hosted. Categories in which moustache-wearers may compete include: Natural, English, Freestyle, Handlebar, Imperial, and then my personal favourites, the Dali and the Fu Manchu. Partial and Full Beard categories are also open to competitors. No Canadian champs emerged from the 2005 competition, however Americans can be proud of Toot (Toot!) Joslin's golden victory in the Sideburns category. With a little extra 'stache training, I think Jack Layton could do Canada proud at the 2007 championships. At any rate, it looks like the 'stache is going strong, despite its current lack of supporters among Hollywood stars. Its day is going to come, though, believe me--the 'stache will rise again.

T.G.F.E.S. (Thank God For Elvis Stojko)

So far, 2006 has been a banner year for figure skating on television. But now that the Olympics and the Worlds are over, Skating with Celebrities has wrapped, and ABC Family is no longer running The Cutting Edge 2: Going for the Gold on a 24-hour loop (OK, they never did that. It just felt like it because of its utter and complete inferiority to the original...more on that another time) , I figured the skating TV boom had gone bust. Fortunately, the WE network came to rescue, churning out another figure skating-themed "reality" tv competition, Skating's Next Star. Phew. That was a close one. Thanks WE! I now forgive you for all those years of painfully mopey Felicity reruns.

So I've only seen two episodes so far and I'm still unclear on what exactly the contestants are competing for. Perhaps a lead part in the next production of "Dora the Explorer on Ice," or some such equivalent. Unlike Skating with Celebrities, the show does not feature the element of danger that comes from strapping skates onto frighteningly uncoordinated former sitcom/pop stars. But Skating's Next Star makes things hazardous enough for its bright-eyed hopefuls by having them skate on makeshift ice pads the size of your parents' rec room. Watching to see who will fly off the rink is one of the viewing pleasures the show has to offer.

Another bright spot is the tactful, good-humoured presence of former World Champion (and Richmond Hill, Ontario native, I should add--props to the York Region!), Elvis Stojko. On numerous occasions, Elvis saves Skating's Next Star from being too cringeworthy to handle. Exhibit A: One hapless lad accidentally kicked himself in the head or something while performing an ill-fated spin in the first episode. As if this wasn't mortifying enough, when he finished, judges Rudy Galindo and Oksana Grishuk laughed uncontrollably at him. Like, they couldn't regain their composure for at least a minute and a half. The poor dude had to just stand there with the camera on him the whole time. Thank God for Elvis. A true Canadian, he kept a straight face, showed concern, and asked the guy if he was OK (I would say that I hope he gave Rudy and Oksana a talking to afterwards, but that actually wouldn't be a very Canadian thing to do).

Though its production values may be low, its level of overall awkwardness high and its purpose ambiguous, I am going to tune in to at least a couple more episodes of Skating's Next Star. Maybe it's out of my sentimental Stojko attachment, or my fear that another figure skating show might not be in the works to follow it up. I can only hope that some tv executives somewhere are going to try and develop a "reality" gymnastics show along the same lines. Because every loves to see athletes get a second chance, especially when its a reeeal long shot (ie. in sports where they would usually be gathering dust by the age of 19). What's Mary Lou Retton doing these days, anyway? Oooh, and Mitch Gaylord! It'd be great! Someone tell the WE people! Anything to keep those Felicity reruns at bay.

Why, Vivi, Why?

The American news media have, as usual, been recently devoting copious amounts of coverage to a story that, in a sane world, would barely register 30 seconds in a fourth grader's current events presentation. The particular story of which I write is that of Vivi the Whippet, the enigmatic show dog who tore down the tarmac at JFK Airport a couple of weeks ago moments before boarding the plane that would have transported her back to her California home.

Now, I have always been an animal lover and in my life I've experienced my own share of heartache over lost pets. The sight of a hand-drawn "Lost Dog" or "Lost Cat" poster, with the requisite family pet photo, on the bulletin board at my local grocery store brings me to tears if I stare at it for too long. So don't think I'm a callous and horrible person for questioning whether the search for Vivi should continue. I mean, I watched The Incredible Journey more than a few times as a kid and it seems to me that if a pet wants to come home, it will try to get there. When that's not possible, it will at least allow itself to be brought home by those who want to help it. But Vivi doesn't seem to want to be helped. And this has been one hell of a tough pill to take for the throngs of people who have joined the search for Vivi.

A recent L.A. Times article included the following quote from Bobbi Giordano, an animal rescue worker from Queens, on the emotional toll that the suspense of the hunt has taken on its participants: "It's like alcoholism....You just have to find out where, when, why. It's an obsession now. I don't think it has to do with the breed, or that it's a famous dog or anything. I don't even think it's the money anymore. I think it's just the love." Some, like Oklahoma pet detective Karen Goin, worry that the mean streets of New York may be too tough for the coddled California canine. Goin told the Times: "She's displaced, and has no bonds to anybody here....I've lived in cities, and I can assure you: New York was very different to me, and I'm a human."

It's a bizarre case of the hunter hunted, with people leaving out large hunks of cooked meat and other treats in the hopes that the troubled pooch can be lured back to captivity. The monetary reward that has recently been offered for Vivi has drawn some pragmatic Queens residents to the search who might not otherwise volunteer to wrangle a $15,000 whippet. Witness the following anecdote from the Times:

"Posters throughout the area advertise a $5,000 reward, which has brought another wave of searchers onto the scene. Among them is Vinny Chieffo, a cake delivery man, who has been scanning wooded areas after his shift ends at 3:30 a.m. Chieffo said his 14-year-old son wants to go to camp this summer, but the family could not afford it. The whippet seemed to offer an answer. "I mean, I like dogs. I'd really like to see this person get her dog back," said Chieffo, 48. "But I really need the money.""

Now that's a news headline I'd like to see: "Whippet Windfall Gives Deserving Queens Youth a First Chance at Summer Camp." It's so Dickensian, or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Unfortunately, the longer Vivi is at large, the more likely she will revert to being completely feral. I've heard most whippets live on the edge of feral-ity (?) all their lives. Maybe Vivi wants it this way. Who knows--she may turn up at a rehab clinic in Palm Springs a couple months from now, unkempt, apologetic, and ready to talk to Oprah about the whole experience. Or maybe she'll spend the rest of her life in the mountains of Idaho, her life interrupted only occasionally by fleeting reminiscences of her high-flying past.

Vivi is the veritable Patty Hearst of lost pets. The future may hold few explanations as to the reasons for her escape from civilized society. In the meantime, maybe her owners could learn to love another pet--this time one from the local humane society that has been waiting all its life to run towards a home, not away from one. I'm getting choked up just thinking about it. Jeez, no more pet blogs. It's just too damn hard. Why, Vivi, why?

Snakes on a Plane

Albeit belated, I thought it was about time I wrote an entry on Snakes on a Plane, the much ballyhooed, Samuel L. Jackson vehicle due out this August that has snowballed into the biggest blogfest of '06 (N.B.--I don't really understand why the film isn't titled Snakes on the Plane. Why the indefinite article? WHY?) Just in case anyone who happens upon this has not heard of "SOAP," or perused a sample of the mountains of fan artwork devoted to it, I thought I would pass on a couple of links. The very premise of this movie (summed up entirely in its title, true to Hollywood-high-concept-on-crack form) is just too hilarious. My personal favourite contributions to the web frenzy over SOAP include this great cartoon as well as the riff on "McArthur Park" that can be found among the fan posters on this site (you'll need to scroll down a few to see it). More fan posters created specifically around a "Snakes... fill-in-the-blank-rhymes-with-plane" format can be found here. Be forewarned that some are highly offensive due to their racist and/or homophobic content. But most are just plain wacky; the ones I like best are "Snakes Who Look the Same," "Snakes Who Shift Blame," "Snakes Who Like Train," "Snakes and Elaine" (as in Benes) and the Gretzky homage, "Snakes Used by Wayne."

It doesn't really matter what the actual SOAP movie ends up being like; the multitude of parodies it has spurred are by far more entertaining than many Hollywood films end up being these days. The next logical step for high concept moviemaking is to just do away with the films themselves. Apparently, to generate a pop culture phenomenon, all you need is a kick-ass title, a trailer, a poster, and Samuel L. Jackson. Emperor's new clothes, indeed.

I will say that I find the idea of actually being on a plane with snakes absolutely terrifying.
If it ever happened to me, I guess I'd just tuck my feet up onto my seat. That'd show those snakes. And I hope it wouldn't be on a long flight, because hell if I'm getting up to go to the bathroom if there's snakes on the plane. Hmmm--this is starting to sound more uncomfortable than terrifying. Maybe I could deal with snakes on a plane after all. But let's hope it never comes to that.

Coffee Shop Confessional

I have a confession to make. By saying what I am about to say, I fully recognize that I am running the risk of alienating myself not only from my peers, but from my entire generation--which, the last time I checked, was Generation Y. Or maybe it's X to the power of three. I should consult Douglas Coupland on this, although I'm pretty sure that he too would shun me for what I am about to write here.

I don't like coffee shops.

Like, I really don't like them. I don't like patronizing them, writing in them, or socializing in them. What I particularly can't stand is loafing around in them, doing none of the above, just sitting around reading The New York Times as if I'm enjoying it and acting as though savouring the whole coffee shop experience is a valid pasttime unto itself (NB--I should say that I've actually never done this, but based on my observations of what people who like coffee shops do, it seems like a highly popular activity).

The thing is, I feel that I am completely and utterly alone in my anti-coffee shop sentiments. Sure, I tried to like them, back when I was 15, just like I tried to like Tori Amos music and wearing weird-smelling "vintage" clothing. But just like the other stuff, I found out soon enough that coffee shops just weren't me. Will this undeniable truth have a devastating impact on my career as a writer? Probably. Am I worried? Not enough to start haunting coffee shops, that's for sure.

Lest coffee shop fanatics read this and think that I am missing out, let me mention the coffee shop alternatives that I have found to be ultimately more satisfying in my post-teen years:

1. Timmie's: We're talking plastic chairs, fluorescent lighting, fast food-style service and flocks of friendly older folk fresh off the curling rink. It's about calling a "small" a "small" and a "large" a "large," the superiority of Timbits over tiramisu, and not feeling ashamed about reading the Sun sports section instead of Foucault. Not that I haven't been known to indulge in a little post-structuralist theory now and then--just not with my donuts, thanks.

2. Bars: You say chai latte, I say Courvoisier. Socializing need not be any less intellectually rigorous and almost always proves more entertaining in a bar or pub setting than at a coffee shop. The music is better (more AC/DC, less Jewel) and no one is going to be sitting there typing away at their laptop, making you feel guilty that you "forgot" to bring that file home from the office.

With these two viable alternatives to turn to, I've not really missed the coffee shop these past few years. I wonder why it even seemed like a good idea in the first place--I think So I Married An Axe Murderer made the whole coffee shop scene look like more fun than it actually is. So there's my confession. Needless to say, no coffee shops were frequented during the composition of this blog entry.