I just look at the dopeness. But you, it's like you just look at the Wackness.

So that was all bullshit right? All that stuff about embracing your pain, making it a part of you? You can't do this, you can't just give up. Life is hard and it's full of pain and what-not, but we take it cause there's great stuff too. And we can do it cause we have friends- because we have each other.

Happy Thursday everyone. I'd write something, but I don't want to. I just want someone to come over and watch the Wackness with me, again.

I don't have cable. Fortunately, my neighbours are entertaining.

Housewives where I grew up would go on long walks around town so they could see into the windows of of everyone's homes. They liked to keep tabs, to see what was going on.

I don't need to go for long walks. I have what would be a view of the waterfront, if it weren't for the tall building that stands directly in front of my window's view. However obstructing, this building contains a constant source of entertainment: people.

When people leave their windows open, I always assume they want others to look in. I'm not sure who's life is more depressing, the man who lives across from me and does nothing but watch television in his underwear or me; the man who has nothing better to do than watch his neighbours watch television in their underwear.

Update: Today two men were in his place in their underwear. My life is officially more depressing.

Update # 2: There is a small ground of men sitting in a circle in his apartment. Occasionally one will get up and dance by himself. The others will appear impressed. I assume this is a mating ritual.

Above Underwear Man is a Korean couple that does nothing but cook, cuddle, and sometimes combine the two. Their lives are as dull as mine, but I'm half hoping that one day he cheats on her with a prostitute and she throws a glass vase at his head.

It would be more like cable.

Somewhere in a graveyard in Paris, Oscar Wilde is smiling.

Just in case you were hiding under a rock, had better things to do, more pressing things to talk about or more "important" sections of the paper to read, here's a look at the week that was, in fashion.

Adam Senn did something this week that Whitney Port and Oliva Palermo do very rarely. His job. Adam, an actual model, walked the runway for D&G at their Oscar Wilde inspired fall/winter show in Milan.

People talked about what Michelle Obama wore for the most of the week. The reviews were mixed. And throughout most of the inauguration all I could think about was the Vogue cover rumour. That, and Aretha Franklin's suspiciously large (and fantastic) hat.

The rumours about an Anna Wintour 60-minutes special are likely a pr move either to keep people talking about Vogue or an actual attempt to soften Wintour's ice-queen image. Don't worry Anna, though we're afraid of you (and convinced you may have superpowers), we love you dearly. Long live the queen.

Designers in North America are worrying about their bank accounts, canceling parties and showing collections off-site to avoiding the steep prices of Fashion Week, but things in Sao Paulo's textile industry aren't so bad.

In Milan news, NYT fashion critic Guy Trebay wrote the best line printed in the style pages since all the other sections started using the word "recession". Dark times call for dark coats.

Thom Browne staged something of a human instillation to showcase his men's line in Florence. Innovative concept, beautiful clothing and immaculate execution. Very Anthony Goiciolea. Well played, Mr. Browne.

If our own lives were more interesting, we wouldn't need television.

We turn on the television to disappear into a world of fantasy, forty minutes at a time. Until the credits roll we get to pretend we're as slick as Jack Bauer, as stylish as Carrie Bradshaw and as clever as Tina Fey. But when you're over-worked, under-paid and facing a recession; do you really want to be reminded that, compared to the tiny people living inside your TV set, you're, well, poor?

The middle-class heros of TV past (think Angela Chase, DJ Tanner and Kevin Arnold) have all but disappeared, making way for trust fund socialites and "real"ity TV. If you're staying at home trying to forget that your pockets aren't full of paper, here are a few shows to avoid when you flick on the tube.

Californication- The life of an out-of-work writer has never been so glamorous as on this show. Hank Moody's monthly budget for cigarettes is probably more than your annual income. Plus he drives a nicer car than you, has a better sex life and is much, much more successful than you... even if his current job title is "blogger" (and let me tell you, blogging doesn't pay the bills.)

Gossip Girl- For those of you who watch Gossip Girl religiously but skip the news, I hate to break it to you, but... New York is in some serious economic trouble. Even Upper East Side "It" girls are being forced to cut back on their Saks shopping sprees, thanks to their fathers shrinking stock portfolios. So as you're sucking back a seven dollar bottle of sparkling wine and watching "B" and "S" brunch, let the dream die ladies. Your not a Waldorf and you (probably) never will be.

The City- After indulging in one full episode and three online re-caps, I'm still entirely unsure of what exactly it is that Whitney Port does. She works at Diane Von Furstenberg, but doesn't do any work, has friends with whom she isn't yet friendly and watches men fight over her; but they never, you know, punch each other or anything. Though I'm still not clear on what she does, I know what she doesn't do: budget. The clothes, hair, make-up and parties are all paid for by a daddy most of us will never have: Father MTV.

Entourage- Now here is a storyline everyone can relate to. An "actor" who spends most of his time doing peyote in the desert and buying his friends cars. Forgive those of us who didn't spend the '90s rapping in the funky bunch, starring in Boogie Nights and dropping our drawers for Calvin Klein.We're a tad bit jealous. No one is buying us a car, or, well anything.

With that in mind, I'm off to take the subway too an evening of Monday night television viewing with friends. Happy Watching.

Last night I went to one of my favourite watering holes to bid farewell to a good friend.

I was sitting along the bar with an open seat to my right when a gentleman walked up and asked if the seat was taken. It wasn't. 

He pulled out a tattered copy of a Hemingway novel and a small black notebook, sat them both on the bar in front of him and ordered a pint of Guinness. Was he really planning on squinting through his thin-framed glasses and attempting to read in a near pitch-black bar? At midnight? With a crowd of strangers shouting drink orders over his shoulder? Was he trying to be ironic? 

Curious to see if this guy was serious, my friend casually inquired about his books, to which the man responded that the notebook was for work, the novel for pleasure. What kind of work, she wanted to know. He said he was a writer. A writer of what, she asked. He explained that he writes for several publications. Which publications, she asked, apologizing for being nosy. He claimed he'd rather not say. 

We assumed he was sad and out of work and let him go back to his beer. He dove into his novel, turning the pages with rapid succession. After six or seven pages, he put away the novel and pulled out the notebook. He stared deeply into the blank page, waiting for inspiration to come. Then he quickly began scribbling. Three lines later he abruptly pulled away his pen and stared at the chicken scratches. He appeared extremely pleased.

I would have snooped over his shoulder to see what he had written, but I didn't have to. I was just happy to have found someone in this city who is way more pretentious than me. 

Welcome back to Monday morning.

I haven't done a news round up in a month or two, so I figured I would lay down what's happening in the world this Monday, Jan 12: Obama is still everywhere, cocaine is still being widely used, Americans still love celebrities and Canadians still hate smoking. Enjoy.

Obama's people have been busy scheduling the president elect's first international trip. It seems they got ahold of Harper's people and have scheduled a play date for the boys. Obamania is heading north!

In other Obama news, Vogue is denying rumours that Wintour is being considered for a position as ambassador to France. First Arnold Schwarzenegger, then  Caroline Kennedy and now this? Which celebrity will make the next guest appearance in the US government? I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Lindsay Lohan is named ambassador to the lesbian community.

Christopher Nolan accepted Heath Ledger's first posthumous award. When Heath gets his Oscar, I'm voting for Matilda to accept the award.

White power/white powder: as it turns out, white teenagers love cocaine. Who knew?

The city of Toronto is considering extending its smoking ban to include playgrounds, an area it apparently forgot to ban citizens from lighting up in back when they took the ban to strip clubs, dive bars and other locations not frequented by children. Word is, if this passes, we may even have to stop smoking at the zoo.  

I don't have cable. Fortunately, my neighbours are entertaining.

Housewives where I grew up would go on long walks around town so they could see into the windows of of everyone's homes. They liked to keep tabs, to see what was going on.

I don't need to go for long walks. I have what would be a view of the waterfront, if it weren't for the tall building that stands directly in front of my window's view. However obstructing, this building contains a constant source of entertainment: people.

When people leave their windows open, I always assume they want others to look in. I'm not sure who's life is more depressing, the man who lives across from me and does nothing but watch television in his underwear or me; the man who has nothing better to do than watch his neighbours watch television in their underwear.

Update: Today two men were in his place in their underwear. My life is officially more depressing.

Above Underwear Man is a Korean couple that does nothing but cook, cuddle, and sometimes combine the two. Their lives are as dull as mine, but I'm half hoping that one day he cheats on her with a prostitute and she throws a glass vase at his head.

It would be more like cable.

The importance of being Ernest.

Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write an entire story in six words. He wrote, "For sale: baby shoes. Never worn." He won the bet.

I challenged several of my friends to do the same. Here are some of the results:

He missed his train... years ago.

He said. She said. They vanished.

"What's on your face?" "Teeth marks."

I don't write... but I'll write.

Fuck, no papers. Wait, the pipe!

"Do you have a minute?" "No."

And, of course: The start. The middle. The end.

All comments (include those made anonymously) must include exactly six words.

Hotel California

I always sleep better in hotel beds. I don't know if it's the blackout curtains or the way the maids fluff the pillows to perfection, but if I could wake up in a room with foreign wallpaper and single-serving mints every day, I would never be sleep deprived.

In the days before I owned a television, I used to sleep in at my ex's apartment and watch PVRed re-runs in bed, pretending I was in a hotel. I fancy hotels to be the perfect mix of comfort and escapism.

Plus, any decent hotel has another necessity: a bar. The number of hook ups that go on in hotel bars give even clubland and the gaybourhood a run for their money. In a room full of horny strangers, your chances of waking up to room service are plentiful, even if you secretly live down the street.

After a late night date with a haunted hotel on vacation and a last minute family weekend in the type of establishment that houses a waterslide, I was ready to return a very Toronto hotel bar.

What's in the box at the Drake provided me with everything I need in a night out: a good (but not great) local band, a few shameless cougars to provide comedic relief and a basement full of good looking drunks who are too self-involved to bother me.

One more whiskey sour, please. Oh, and what time is check out?

Two thousand and eight reasons to keep trying.

In all likelihood, 2009 will be exactly the same as 2008. We will spend a lot of time talking about the economy, complaining about our political leaders and hoping our sex lives pick up. There will be a new number at the end of the date, but our lives won't feel any different.

Britney Spear's PR machine will convince us that she is either a) making a comeback or b) taking a well deserved break. iPod commercials will provide us with new bands to adore and then complain about when we discover other people like them too. And formerly respectable publications will continue to print overly-analytical articles about the mystique of "hipster culture."

New bars will open that are almost exactly the same as the bars we already go to, but we will insist the new ones are much, much better. The artists and the gays will move further into the ghetto, and will soon be followed by pricey coffee shops and condo developments. We will complain, just like we did last time.

I will continue writing wordy, self-indulgent blog posts, and you will continue reading them, even if it's only so you can make fun of them later, with your friends.

It's going to be that kind of a year... just like it was last year. I wish you all the best, in 2009.