Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack, I don't care if I ever come back.

In the past, I've proclaimed my love for afternoon baseball games as a thinly veiled disguise for my love of drinking in the afternoon. Baseball games are a unique social phenomena. Other than (ironically) a gay pride parade, where else can you get shit faced, take off your shirt and shout at strangers during a public day-time event?

So this weekend when the World Baseball Classic rolled through Toronto, I joined the crowd at the Skydome for an afternoon of well-rehearsed debauchery .I was joining my dad and his friend Brian on a weekend-long sports-vacation extravaganza. We already had a Raptors game under our belts and had gone endured multiple rounds of chicken wings and beer.

As we settled into our seats for a match against our arch enemy America, a young female fan in front of us waved a sign in hand-painted red and white, reading: Canada: We're bigger, and on top. Swelling with national pride and thoroughly convinced baseball couldn't get any gayer, I watched attentively until at least the fifth inning, when my attention span began to break and team Canada began to lag in runs.

Ultimately, we were no match for Derek Jeter and his band of Americans. Actually, during the whole weekend not a single home team had a winning game. I guess that's just what it's like to be a sports fan in Toronto.

That said, if anyone's up for splitting a six-pack in the parking lot and heading to the Jays season opener, I'm in.

*Disclaimer: The pops left town last night, and this blog will return to its regular scheduled content tomorrow (IE: gossip, hangovers, fashion and other art-faggy things).

Breaking her achy-breaky Hollywood-Heart.

These days the only thing less appetizing than being Miley Cyrus' publicist is working in the PR department at Maple Leaf Foods. Is there any way to save a formerly wholesome product that's been repeatedly spoiled rotten?

All Disney scarlets love attention, controversy and the occasional "beef", but Miley's latest super-arch-nemesis-forever is possibly her most un-likely to date. Since the Grammy's, Miss Hannah Montana has developed a problem with Thom Yorke and his passive-posse of ultra-quiet rockstars.
According to the southern-belle-gone-megastar, Radiohead turned down a request made by her manager r to set up a quick meet-and-greet.

The band responded, saying they simply don't do that sort-of thing. Insulted and embarrassed (she had already text-messaged all her BBFs saying she was about to meet the only band she would ever "cry over"), Miley decided to "tell everyone" in an attempt to "ruin" Radiohead.

But Mr. Yorke isn't the first to be picked on by big bully Miley. Here's a rundown of her former foes:

First there was the YouTube feud between her and the pint-sized Selena Gomez, where Miley decided the whole internet had to know what the deal with Nick Jonas was. Then there was the time she turned down Katy Perry's offers of a kiss, and instead claimed Perry was jealous of her success.

And of course the time she claimed Vanity Fair and Annie Leibovitz had set her up and embarrassed her, with a series of now-famous partial-nudes; photos that the New York Times reported Miley and her family had both seen and approved prior to publication.

Those photos were followed by an even race-ier snapshot of her and her friends making fun of Asian squinty-eyes. She claimed the photos were of a "goofy face" and in no way racist, but that didn't stop an Asian woman in LA from slapping Miley with a $4 billion dollar class-action lawsuite, representing the state's Asian-Pacific-Islander population (who are apparently, very pissed off).

Now, Miley seems to be running out of potential victims. After taking on another teen star, then moving onto attacking the media at large (for making her into a "bad girl") and following it up with an assault on an entire ethnicity, there aren't a lot of people left to hate.

So Thom, I guess you kind-of had it coming. But still, my heat goes out to you.

I slump my shoulders, sigh, and say, "I feel like I've taken a degree in social media complaining."

I see my instructor's ears perk up. I silently hope I'm not again called "defensive" by someone who has their paycheques signed by the school I pay to attend. He doesn't say a word.

On the walk from school to home we discuss the fourty-odd dollars we had just shelled out, only to have a graduate student pry into us with questions we've already heard.

The Internet? We're connected. Blogs? We have our own. Facebook, A Smaller World, Second Life, Gawker, The Huffington Post, Digg, Twitter. The list goes on. We get it. What we want to know: why are we pursuing a degree that reads like an RSS feed?

Are bloggers journalists? Will print survive? Is the blogosphere democratic? Is there a need for a code of ethics online?

Most of us don't care. Those are questions for ancient print masters and poorly paid journalism professors. For our generation of blogger-slash-journalists, who have always had the Internet and always will, there is only one answer to these questions. To quote Billy Corgan: definitely, maybe.

We've never thought of the media as stable, we weren't expecting to make much money and to us the Internet was never a "fad". YouTube must seem like revolutionary technology to 40-somethings who can explain the finer details of the printing press, but the school is missing something. New classes have never known a world without Friendster, HotorNot, Livejournal or ICQ. To sell the blogosphere back to students is like selling a fish water.

And eventually people will stop buying it. For now, we need that degree. Or, we think we do. As the elevator opens at my floor, my friend and I make a biting realization: had we gone to college, we would probably have jobs by now.

As I reach my front door I'm reminded of a class reading. On page fourty of The Elements of Journalism, Nightline's Ted Koppel is quoted, saying, "Journalism schools are an absolute and total waste of time."

Maybe, I have learned something at J-school after all.

Your boyfriend's back.

I have been back for exactly eight days and have yet to write a proper Toronto-centric blog. The reason?

I haven't spent a lot of time in "Toronto" this week. Instead, I've been locked up inside the RCC, another of the Rogers family name-sakes sitting on the Ryerson campus.After four months of field trips, interviews and bad moods, I'm done the first draft of my third year's major project.

After five days of stress and one euphoric press of the "send" button, I'm back to the social side of the city. On Friday I dropped by a seedy establishment to see friends spin records at the release party for the man behind the Mark.

There, sinking into a second-hand seat and sulking into the bottom of a pint of Stella, I'm delivered this week's number one pick up line: "You're far too good looking to be spending the whole night sitting on a couch."

Oh, the perks of being a wallflower.

Unfortunately, the week's number one pick up line is never followed by the week's number one response. In fact, all pick up lines are met with a blank stare, a glance into a drink and a complete failure to move out of a comfortable seat.

Next week in the life of a wallflower: The dancefloor. Maybe.

Paris, je t'aime.

Paris is a muse. A blank canvas on which you paint what you like. Picasso abstracted it. Hemmingway romanced it. Recently, 18 directors filmed their own take on the it.

The city is yours for the taking. For the some it's a way to escape the pace of New York and play chess in the afternoons. Others see as it as more posh than Melbourne, or more exciting than British Columbia. Somewhere without husbands or parents or cares.

To me it was sleeping late, riding the tube and an endless alleyway of art galleries.

Here are a few photos from the trip:

I didn't go inside.

La fille dans la veste rouge.

This is a desk.

Art.

Sky blue sky.

Nineteen Eighty Six.

The greenest building in all of France.

Perfect.

The Reminder.

Going on vacation gives me the picture-perfect excuse to see as much art as possible. Incase you've been wondering what I've been up to since I dropped off the face of the earth, I've rounded up a laundry-list of the art that's mattered to me over the past few days.

Richard Avedon's black-and-whites of Rudolf Nureyev, Bob Dylan and Edie Sedgwick were almost the end of me. The Foam exhibit, which was the first major retrospective since his death, was probably the best thing I've seen since hopping across the pond.

Alain Jacquet and Gerard Fromanger informed me that in France, the pop was very, very political. Take that, Warhol. In other political "news", while Obama was chatting with Mr. Harper, I was staring at Francis Picabia's L'adoration Du Veau and thinking that it sums up the Harper prime-ministry quite well.

George Grosz's work from Ecce Homo was the most fun I've ever had being sad. Joseph Beuys used felt insulation to protect his art's inhabitants from the noise and dangers of the outside world. And I have to say, I felt safe.

Daniel Buren proved that stripes are always in season, Jeff Koons Ushered In Banality, and Gilbert and George took a dump on religion.

And at the Palais De Tokyo I signed wavers, played with electricity and found out that the United States is controlling my every move through electro-waves in Alaska. Five dollars says Sarah Palin is involved.

Bob Marley cover band buildings.

The four most important things my first 48 hours in Amsterdam have taught me:

Smile: (Almost) Everyone here is friendly. So when an aryan prince or princess is gawking at you with a toothy grin, smile back.

Go green: Everything is created for stoners. Yesterday we ate at a restaurant that offered two pages of specialized pancakes. We chose Indonesian: chicken, sprouts and peanut sauce... on pancakes. Today we're heading to the fluorescent light museum and then going to a boat filled with kittens to play with. While these activities are evidently created by someone who was herbally intoxicated, they are not without merit.

Dockers are necessary: I'm sleeping on a bunk bed in a small sea-liner. Almost everything in the city works with a nautical theme (or a Breaker High reference).

Everything is old: The museums, churches, art galleries, apartments, department stores and schools are all in buildings that look ancient in comparison to the modern-silver sky scrapers that line the Toronto horizon. But the best old thing in Amsterdam is the clothing. Affordable, eclectic vintage is an easy find. Finally.

More from Paris, over the next few days.

One day, we're going to move to Paris, I promise.

The four most important things my first 24 hours in France have taught me:

Stay thin: Paris hates fatties. Elevators are tiny, hallways are thin and it turns out XXXL is a size that only exists at Old Navy.

Keep it clean: Parisians will always be better dressed than you. The key to keeping your self esteem in check is staying as well groomed as possible. Never leave the house without showering. If possible, shower twice.

Pack chapstick: You must kiss each person you meet on both cheeks. Even strangers and especially enemies.

Give up on the gay-dar: Most Parisian men are fashion forward, affectionate and hyper-stylized. Without North American skate shoes, unkept hair and the inability to dance, it's impossible to make a call between gay and Euro-sexual. 

I have more rules to learn this afternoon in Amsterdam. Until then, bon soir. 

How I learned to stop worrying and sing along to Katy Perry songs.

Last week there was a 40 minute display of the human body at the Royal Ontario Museum. Inside the crystal fantasy was a display much more bold and daring than the architecture.

It was a display of human flesh. Naked female bodies, gyrating against each other: Pornographic and insulting. Crude... but sensual. Erotica at its finest. Finally, the ROM has gone in a bold new direction. These are the things the critics might have said, had they seen the display.

The two girls met at the Museum's entrance. With anticipation running down their backs, they hunted for the best place. In these situations, there is always somewhere to go. These things happen, even if we don't see them.

The staff at the Museum saw the girls, but they did not see the performance. The young, warm bodies were the building's best kept secret that night. Even the climax went unseen.

Unseen, but not unappreciated. The singular review is in, and it's good. She says there will be another date.

Professional Video Gaming Tournament Day 3:

The final shot:

By this point in the weekend, the men’s washroom smells like a damp hockey bag. The hotel’s cleaning staff cannot be impressed.

The techies running the website have not eaten in twelve hours. Games are running late. Almost every other person is wearing sweatpants. If it weren’t for the army-sized supply of AMP energy drinks, people would be sleeping in corners.

Realizing I have been in the Renaissance for three days without hearing the phrase “hotel party”, I make a decision. I break the most obvious rule of sports journalism: I go home before the final game is over. Luckily, I can watch a broadcast of the championship live, with streaming audio commentary from the comfort of my couch.

Thank god for the Internet. The Internet, and free energy drinks.

Update: My team loses. I’m not sure if this is good for my story—or bad. But thanks to the live commentary, I actually understand what's going on.

I am tempted to write the line: There is a shot. Then a fall. He whimpers, shakes and goes limp. Deflated, his soul leaves his Robotic blue body. I have been up far too long.

M.I.A. saves viewers from pre-award show boredom.

A blond with a vaseline smile conks her head and points a microphone at a very pregnant Mathangi Arulpragasam. “Finish this sentence for me!” she says with sing-song dripping from her lips. “All I wanna do is….”

Mrs, Arulpragasam looks at her with Bitch Please all over her face. “Stop the genocide in Sri Lanka,” she says.

She pets her bursting, sequin-covered belly and announces that she is prepared to go into labour at any moment. Nearby there is a go-cart to take her to a parked helicopter, which will then fly her to her home, where she will have a home-birth in the pool. That is, if she goes into labour.

If M.I.A. stopped showing up to award shows, we’d be stuck listening to Miley Cyrus talk about her K-Mart jewelry.

Thanks M.I.A., we owe you one.

Professional Gaming League Tournament, Day 2.

Ian Camacho speaks like a military Sargent. He means every word.

He has been playing video games since Pong was popular. Now he plays Gears of War with his 18-year-old son.

Camacho is the leader of a troop of roughly 300. Each one wears a black t-shirt with a white "TKS" slogan. TKS is Camacho's online gaming league. I'm told TKS stands for "Too Kool Squad" (although it might be "Too Kewl Squad"). Camacho also helps organize trips to tournaments and gets other parents involved. Right now eight boys are staying at his house in Toronto.

He has a code of conduct for his gamers. He punishes for cheating and disrespect. Players must possess both skill and maturity. Camacho gives advice and helps out when he can. He says he's become a father figure to many of his gamers.

Comacho is a man who usually looks like he is on a mission. Poised is an understatement. And if Ian Comacho really were a Sargent, he would probably be very good at defense.

"Someone made up the story of the psycho loser playing in his bedroom," he scoffs. "If that's the typical gamer, where is he?" He swings his right arm. He scans the room. "If that's the typical gamer, where is he?" he asks again. "He's not here."

And to be honest, he really wasn't.

Because no one reads blogs on weekends, here's something most of you don't care about (but should): video games.

Professional Gaming League Tournament, Day 1.

Quarterback sized blonds with matching haircuts are running the event and the guys who are winning seem way cooler than the ones who are loosing. It’s a lot like high school, except one thing. Everyone is getting along.

In the first hour and a half of the tournament, only five females enter the room. Two appear to be mothers of gamers. Two appear to be girlfriends of gamers. Only one touches a controller.

There are a few odd parents displaced throughout the room. One is sitting at the back by himself, a briefcase under his seat, talking on a cell phone. Another, a mom in heels, watches her son play.

The uniform is a hooded sweatershirt, a ballcap, baggy jeans and skate shoes. The average attendee is probably below the legal drinking age.

A pre-teen on his cell phone summed up the general appeal: “Seriously, you should come. It’s so sick. They’ve got huge TVs they’re giving out huge cans of energy drinks.”

This song is for the people
Who tell their families that they're sorry
For things they can't and won't feel sorry for

Cancel your plans to go dancing, drink cheap beer and attend art-gallery after-parties. Stay home and listen to the Mountain Goats. Enjoy the weekend.

Last week I got an unexpected call.

It was Canadian Blood Services. They were interested in having me donate, again.

I thought back to the donor form, ticking off where I had travelled, what I had pierced and which medical problems I suffered from. Luckily, I haven't got any tattoos in Thailand, but I did remember one line on the form I couldn't ignore.

"I'm sorry, I'm no longer able to donate." I mumbled.

"Oh? Is it a medical problem?" the woman asked.

I was silent and focused on the word "problem". Eventually I spoke. "Um, sort-of.." I hesitated. "I guess."

I was transferred to another woman, who was to take me off the donor list. She asked me what kind of medical problem I was having. Awkwardly stumbling on my words, I made announcement I have stumbled over in the past. One I have lied about, avoided and side-stepped whenever possible.

"I uh.." I took a deep breath. "I had sex with a man."

"Oh.." she said. The woman was clearly uncomfortable. "When did this happen?" she asked.

Really? I thought. Does she want to know the details? Regardless, I told her when. And I insisted I hadn't donated since. She seemed to believe me.

"Just so you know," she said. "This is a permanent closure. But I want to thank you for saving six lives."

I wanted to say something. Something about hypocrisy and outdated stereotypes and a tory government. Or something about the people dying from a lack of transfusions. But all I could think about was the lives I wasn't saving. And why I wasn't saving them.

I probably should have said something. But I didn't.

I just mumbled a goodbye, and hung up.

It hurts to be the first to put up a white flag.

Admitting you are wrong is the worst of it. Especially if you spent a lot of time insisting that you were right. But, push always comes to shove, and eventually someone has to give up. Otherwise, you will both end up with a black eye, or worse.

If it helps you sleep, you can chalk it up to being the better man (or woman). You can tell yourself you are bigger than them, smarter, more compassionate, more realistic and the giver--not the taker.

You, being this bigger, smarter, more compassionate and realistic giving person, realize that at a certain point you must put the old wars in your life to rest. You've watched the history channel. You know that, eventually, even the Berlin Wall fell.

But if you call cease fire, they better point their cannons down. Because if they decline your invitation to dinner, ignore your calls or worse--pretend not to know who you are--it's on.

If that happens, remember the rule: they don't get a black eye. They get two.

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.

A Case of the Holidays

Saturday 7:00 pm (or some time not unlike 7:00 pm)

The plane shakes, intensifying your headache. You feel strange and sober and immediately depressed.

Two hours ago you arrived at the Winnipeg airport to an unruly line-up of irritable holiday travelers who had no doubt come directly from returning their Christmas presents at the nearest Wal-Mart location.

An airport worker gives four passengers permission to cut you in line. As the last woman passes you, you mutter under your breath, “This is why you show up to the airport on time.” Your sister insists this makes the woman cry. You feel no remorse.

The worker then informs you that your flight has been delayed and you will not be able to make your connection. She smiles and offers to put you on a flight the next afternoon. You give her a hateful glare and tell her it will be a snowy day in hell before that happens. Your family is embarrassed.

Eventually you agree to spend the night in the Montreal airport, waiting for a red eye flight back home. On the plane you are irritated to be sitting next to the fattest woman on the aircraft, until you discover that she is funny. You are momentarily cheery. All fat people should be funny.

An overbearing man in a worn Boston Bruins hooded sweatshirt is grumbling behind you. He swears (to no one in particular) that he is never returning to Winnipeg for Christmas again. You silently appreciate his sentiment and hope the floor of the Montreal airport is comfortable.

Thanks for reading.

Dorothy, we're not on Queen St. Anymore.

Last week I quietly slipped onto a bus with a plane ticket neatly tucked into the front pocket of my bag and made my way to the airport.

A week later, I've let my blogging duties slip. But you can't blame a guy for taking some time to catch up with the life he once lived.

Since making the prodigal's return to Manitoba, I've sipped beers, smoked shisha, and caused as much trouble as possible celebrating friends both new and old.

With Christmas morning now making its inevitable appearance, I'm starting to get worn out, ready for my own bed in my own condo back in the city that has firmly become home number two.

With a new ticket to Paris arriving in my e-mail inbox this morning, I'm in debt, and happy.

Merry Christmas.

Oh, and My dad rules, hard.

Newsprint fingers.

As an underemployed writer pursuing an education to work in a rapidly disappearing industry, I am on one of the lowest rungs of the impending recession.

To pinch an invisible penny I spent the afternoon wrapping gifts in a newspaper I picked up for free. Each gift is wrapped in the recipient's favourite section. My mother: life, my father: sports and my sister: the crosswords.

If the economic situation gets any worse, I may have to stop taking Mondays off and actually go into the office. Until then I'll continue to spend my days waking up late and having coffee dates with Toronto's most quote-able "fringe-hipster."

That or I'll start a prescription pill addiction, like everyone else. God bless the holidays.

This is my reaction to being punched. This is Zach's reaction to my being punched. Circa 2004.

Boys Night Out-I got punched in the nose for sticking my face in other people's business is the first song I'm putting on my playlist for my trip home. I plan to listen to each song in a very specific place in Manitoba. This band put out two terrible records, but recorded two very specific great songs that bring back amazing memories.

Long titles that don't-mean-anything-but-sort-of-mean-a-lot please me. They remind me of the days before Ashlee Simpson had heard of Fall Out Boy. Also, this title is special because it actually happened to me.

In high school I made a girl cry one night when I had been drinking and didn't think much of it. A few days later her boyfriend found me and forcefully shoved his knuckles into my face. It wasn't until my friend threatened him with a skateboard that he backed off. I was stunned the entire time; I hadn't even set down my beer. But I learned an important lesson that day: make friend's with anyone who skateboards.

My December, two thousand and eight.

The days blend together sleepily between solitary late breakfasts and compliments in the work place.

You are a Decemberist. In the winter things change, but not too quickly.

At work, new furniture has been purchased in a colour scheme reminiscent of the IKEA furniture that was all you could afford to put in you're home. It's still all you can afford.

But as you remind the cashier in the smoke shop, things could be worse. You are thankful when someone else cooks you dinner. You only drink when you can sleep in, and every morning you wake up uncharacteristically well rested. It's about time.

So you take the phone off the hook, put the plane ticket on the table and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling is very pretty, in its own way.

Puck Fuck?

The NHL just got a little bit sleazier.

At my high school, the hockey players got all the girls. Despite their missing teeth, scarred faces and tendency to shower with other men, they had their pick of the ladies. Girls with bleach blond hair and the sluttiest snowboots money can buy flocked to games in hopes that they would be the girl chosen to spend the night drinking Coors Light with whoever was at center ice.

Most of the guys who played hockey for my high school team have long since gotten chubby, grown bad goatees and found jobs at gas stations. But for a few lucky hockey stars, the good times continue to the major leagues, where they ditch their old puck bunnies and date b-list celebrities.

Sean Avery is the Dallas Stars resident bad boy. Ed Belfour used to be the team's
troublemaker, who coincidently did go to my high school, before I ever attended. During his days as a Star, Belfour caused enough chaos to inspire the phrase "Goin' Belfour"; as in: JR has had about 8 drinks so far...he's goin' Ed Belfour.

Recently, Avery has easily outdone Belfour's legacy. Before facing off against the Calgary Flames, and his latest arch nemesis, Flames defenceman Dion Phaneuf, Avery decided to have a quick chat with the press.

Avery called out Phaneu, who is dating his ex-girlfriend and fellow Canadian, Elisha Cuthbert. Before dating Phaneu, the former Girl Next Door was linked to Mike Komisarek of the Montreal Canadiens. Avery decided he had had enough.

Facing the cameras, Avery spewed, "I just want to comment on how it's become like a common thing in the NHL for guys to fall in love with my sloppy seconds.

This is exactly the type of excitement the NHL needs if it wants to attract viewers south of the border, where most of its teams play. But in true Canadian tradition Don Cherry got his plaid pants in a twist and the league slapped Avery with an indefinite suspension for the comments.

Which serves as a reminder: gentlemen, this isn't high school anymore.

I'll trust anyone with a kitten.

Whether you support the villainous tyrant with the beady eyes, think the Francophones are crybabies, dream of taking the Via Rail with Elizabeth May or are trying to grow a mustache to rival that of Jack Layton, one thing is certain.

This is not about any of them. It's not about men in over-priced and under-styled suits or women whose heels tap as they walk down the long hallways ontop Parliament Hill.

It's about you.

So find your MP, shoot them an e-mail, and let them know what you think.

Participating in a democracy is like having sex with the government. If you let them do it alone, it'll just be a bunch of politicians jerking off.

The Good Times Are Killing Me.

You never know who is going to show up to a Broken Social Scene show.

It has been six years since the so-called "indie supergroup" released You Forgot It In People, five years since I first heard Anthems For A Seventeen Year Old Girl in a car ride on a lonely road off Lake Huron and four years since I saw them play for the first time, at LeRendezvous, a club in Winnipeg's French quarters that I'm told has long since been plowed down and redeveloped.

Since then I have skipped numerous BSS tours, all but wrote off the slew of solo albums and tucked the old BSS disc next to Feist's Let It Die in the section of my music collection labeled "mostly for when I'm hanging out with mum".

Then last night I found myself in an over-crowded over-sized music hall with large screens lining the walls, playing the concert in real-time (admittedly more high tech than my beloved LeRendezvous), at yet another Broken Social Scene show. But even stuffed into a crowd of people who were all easily one-head taller than me, Kevin Drew, Brendan Canning and their pack of superstar, indie darling friends, reminded why I loved Broken Social Scene so much.

Mr. Isaac Brock took to the stage , even squeezing some Modest Mouse tracks into the set. Former Winnipeger Julie Penner lent her violin skills and Emily Haines looked surprisingly happy as she provided the vocals for several tracks, including Anthems For A Seventeen Year Old Girl.

I felt like my wide-eyed summer of 2004 all over again.

Recent politics have suggested that everything we thought we knew was wrong. But against an economic meltdown and a major shift in global power, and in a time of complete uncertainty, one thing remains completely unchanged: the relevancy of the lyrics to Bob Dylan's the times they are a-changin'.

Come senators, congressmen

Please heed the call

Don't stand in the doorway

Don't block up the hall

For he that gets hurt

Will be he who has stalled

There's a battle outside

And it is ragin'.

It'll soon shake your windows

And rattle your walls

For the times they are a-changin'.

Tonight over ribs, mashed potatoes, nachos, macaroni, chicken wings, cake and pie we had what is possibly the most offensive, insensitive and un-politically correct argument.

I know you've all had it.

Which is worse: Breast Cancer or Prostate cancer.

In this type of argument, everyone looses. But you have to participate. Everything you say makes you look like a jerk, even when you're right.

Here is the description of prostate cancer:
Prostate cancer starts in the prostate gland, which is part of the male reproductive system. It is the size of a walnut and surrounds the urethra just below the bladder.

This is a terrible argument, so I won't say which side I was on. But if you're in seven guys with a painful extra walnut down under, I salute you.

There are some places cell phones should not go.

I'm at the library and I've just finished an iced tea. I'm trying to convince myself that if I give Microsoft Word the evil eye for long enough, the end of my essay will suddenly appear and I will be able to go home.

My cursor blinks twice. Nothing. It's time for a break.

I head to the washroom to unload the iced tea. As I push the door open I can hear a loud conversation. When I turn around the corner I realize the guy talking on his cell phone. It's the middle of the day, at the library, not the Beaconsfield where the washrooms are clearly designated for sex and drug-use.

I head into the stall, so that I can flush, sending a message across the phone line that yes, this asshole is in a public washroom. When I leave, I press the hand dryer, twice.

I hope whoever he's talking to is questioning their friendship.

At just under three million inhabitants, Toronto is a tiny city.

At 5PM every day the skyscrapers leaks commuters towards Union station, banishing them back to the "GTA", and forcing those of us who actually sleep in the downtown bubble to bump into strangers with familiar faces. Even in a city of three million, we all know the same people.

This hit me today as I was downing sesame chicken with a friend on a "business" lunch date and swapping horror stories of our most recent social mishaps. 

Once we got past our mutual friends not-so-secret sex lives and the layoffs hitting our workplaces, the talk turned to a certain socialite's slimy side-kick. 

The line tried on me: "Do you work in retail?", which translates roughly to "I used to eat New York Fries in the mall and watch you from afar". 

My comrade wasn't so lucky, receiving a swift hand towards a private body part in a very public place. 

After enduring awkward come-ons in isolation, we came to the realization we'd both been macked on by the same downtown dweller. ("The one with the really long face?", "Yes! Exactly!!")

I think it's time to move, or get a new dating pool. At this point, I'm considering lesbians an option.

Any takers ladies?

The second phase of Hope.

Here's the new Shepard Fairey poster, a statement on Prop 8. It's no iconic Obama, but I'm a fan. It's the last thing I'll post on American politics this week, I promise.

Have a good weekend.

Dear John McCain:

I'm writing to let you know I think we can still be friends. It's not that people don't like you, it's that they don't want you to be president. You were funny on Letterman and your concession speech was earnest, tactful and humble.

Hat's off Mr. McCain, you're a likable man.

And I'm sorry to hear about you're wife. If you're feeling lonely, give me a shout.

I'll buy the drinks.

Dear 5:30 am: please stop tempting me.

There's a difference between not being able to sleep, and not wanting to sleep. I've spent the past few nights staring at my ceiling, pressing my eyelids together as hard as possible and praying for sleep to hit.

Tonight, no more.

I'm staying up. I conned friends into one drink at the bar and turned it into an all nighter, complete with take-out chinese, fresh coffee and the odd grunt across a kitchen table to complain about our abstract essay topics.

7 pages letter, my eyes are wandering off the computer and onto the couch. I'm ready for the best two hours of sleep I'll have all week.

Happy Thursday,
R

Working Girl.

Her hair is stiff from too many dye jobs and is tucked under a floppy, oversized hat.
Caked on make-up circles her eyes, which are too large and full of wonder to be set on an adult face.
Her breasts are big enough to raise eyebrows, but too perky to be fake.

After all these years, I secretly wish she ended up a whore.

Oh, and go see Filth & Wisdom.

When winter inevitably sets in, we'll listen to the Beach Boys and wear floral indoors.

An open letter to someone who may or may not be Owen Pallett.

Dear Owen,

I know that when I showed up to see your band play last week with your haircut, it seemed like I was copying you. I promise it was an honest coincidence. When I saw you last summer and had the same haircut as you then... that was also a coincidence.

Anyways, I just wanted to say that I think that your music is, you know, pretty good. My roommate went to see you speak and said you sound a bit like a pretentious jerk. Don't worry, people say that about me, too. And I like that you made up a universe in your head. I do things like that too.

The point I'm trying to make here is that when winter hits and people stop going to the park, we can go there together and drink wine from the bottle and shiver. I mean, if your into that kind of thing, that is.

If you're reading this, consider it an invitation. And if you are weired out, and want to hate me from a distance, that's cool too.

Last night people were screaming from their balconies. Drivers were honking their horns. Pedestrians were smiling as they passed strangers on the sidewalk. And people were dancing in Dundas Square, two large flags waving in unison above the crowd. There were painted faces, baked cakes, empty glasses, and an unmistakable sound of silent excitement as people perhaps too young to understand the full importance of what was happening gathered around a television set to hear the three words their generation had few reasons to believe in.

A thick baritone voice brought the same silent excitement to a crowd of people in Chicago. People who had reason enough to be cynical, but chose to believe.

In places like California, hope was overshadowed by hate. There is, after all, danger in investing all of your hope into a single idea. But as one man crossed one stage there was reason for millions of people, in millions of places, to be believe that anything can happen.

yes, we can.

A good old who-dun-it

We dressed up as great moments in rock and roll history. The sleep in. The day the music died. The first official band-aid. We insisted on staying in character. And instead of heading for our usual haunts, we traded in our dancing shoes for a dark-lit dive bar, and seats close to the stage.

But at a certain point we realized our beds were more comfortable than bar stools, our own washrooms are the safest place to pee and as far as this Halloween thing goes, sex is better than chocolate.

Though some of us fell asleep at an hour we counted early, the morning cab ride home felt better with a head freshly rested and full of coffee.

I'll leave you with a (very) short film featuring my favourite Charlie. Happy Halloween.