Sometimes I see people in public I think I know.

It turns out that everyone everywhere just looks the same. 

In the spirit of Fringe I wanted to share this experiment I stumbled across online today. The video takes me back to my street improv days, of which there were two. During the first I got into a screaming match with my friend Amy, over our imaginary break-up. We scared an entire patio of club-goers as she slapped me (hard) across the face and I screamed that she was a cheater.

The second time I participated in street theatre was by accident. One minute I was shopping in downtown Glasgow and the next I was on an street impromptu date with an well dressed Scandinavian boy, much to the delight of the nearby pedestrians. He offered me a seat at a tiny table covered by a checkered tablecloth and topped with a flower. He gave me a box of sea shell chocolates and a Marlboro light, and asked me,

"What's the most important thing in the world? Is it happiness?" 

I had to admit, I really wasn't sure.

Either way, the homeless people heckled us until we agreed to sing "Wonderwall" with them, and the tourists took pictures. And that my friends, is what street theatre is all about. 

Breakfast in Oban, Scotland.

There is nothing like a break. Whether its 5 minutes outside for a cigarette or two years bumming around Thailand, everyone needs a break. That's why they have Kit-Kats. It's also why I am heading home tomorrow. 

I miss watching the swans peck at garbage while I eat fish and chips from newspaper wraps in sleepy towns in Scotland, but I also miss eating left overs and drinking beer with my parents late at night. My parents live in the sleepiest town of them all.

Though they spent the weekend salsa dancing in Vegas, my bets are saying that they are outside on their big deck watching as nothing happens on their sprawling lawn. My mom is sun-tanning, and my dad is reading non-fiction. He is preparing my camping supplies, and my mom is packing economic size bottles of sunscreen, worrying I will get skin-cancer.

And I am stuck sitting at my desk, daydreaming about the outdoors.

Not another "Did you like the Sex & the City movie?" conversation.

The Sex & the City movie taught us all sorts of things. 50 is the new 40. TV shows can make blockbuster hits. D&G makes ugly belts. Patricia Field needs a new job (Payless will do). And finally, you probably should have just stayed home and watched the box set of DVDs. But I want to take a step back and remember something the TV show taught me: why baseball rules. 

Baseball games are one of the only places it is socially acceptable to be wasted during the middle of the day. Plus there are lots of exciting things to watch once you are hammered on $8 beers. Idiots will be screaming louder than you (depending on your personal level of idiocy and intoxication). Thanks to facepaint someone will always look sillier than you (hopefully). And baseball games usually end early, so there is plenty of time to take a nap before you head out for the evening. 

In the vain of baseball and beer, I stumbled across a new blog this morning. Its called Drunk Jays Fans. It has hilarious stories, incoherent ramblings and a load of cheap shots at whoever the bloggers are currently blaming the Jays failure on. What more could a sports fan ask for?

Dean & Dan: Dsquared. Milan 2009 Spring RTW.

Why is it that the boys behind Dsquared so often look better on the runway then their models do? Regardless, the twins are charming, talented and Canadian, so I'll let some misses slide. 

But this one is too much to ignore:

Boys: it's D&D not D&G. Put some clothes on your models.

And send me this blazer in an XXS. I'm into it.

Everyone left Manhattan for Brooklyn.

Can't we all just move to East Egg and get along? Doubtful. We'd overdose on cheap cocaine or sleeping pills or compliments. The latter being the most dangerous of the three.

I can't take compliments and I can't give them. When someone compliments me, I smile awkwardly and freeze up, forgetting to return the favour. I usually forget to say thank-you. Or I will try to think quickly and say something nice about them.

But it always comes out wrong. Everything I end up saying is a double edged sword. It sounds like a compliment, but the connotation is all wrong. Or I say the first thing that comes to my head, which is usually rude, but true.

At least I say it with a smile. Usually.

Happy Independence Day.

I once dated someone who confused the word "independent" with the word "stubborn". That was a lesson learned. I've spent the past few years drifting through different towns and cities; attending dinner parties with new friends and finding new clubs to go to. There is always a new club to go to. Someone new to talk to. Someone new to sleep with.

I moved six times in two years.

Spending so much time in new places makes you feel independent. But being alone doesn't make you independent, it makes you lonely. So on July 4, I drank to good company.

And I know all the cool kids are on team Obama, but I'm still putting my money on Baby Suri.

Urban picnic. (all you can ask for is friends and rum).

Wednesday was the opening of Fringe. We saw a philosophical poet rant about the shopping mall for an hour. It was the gospel according to Jem Rolls, titled How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Mall; a clever play off on a classic film title. 

Finally a play about how the mall is such a scary place. The message was clear: the world is on a downward spiral, and it's pretty much our fault. Ever notice that despite the baby boomers 1960s counter-culture revolution, everything is pretty much their fault?

At least that's the way I'm going to spin it. 

My solution: screw Harper, Obama and Gordon Brown. Next election everyone should vote for Baby Suri. I hear she's secretly L. Ron Hubbard's kid. I'm sure she'd make a great leader.

I learned everything I know from Hunter S. Thompson.

Well, that's a lie. But I have picked up a thing or two about writing and substance abuse since finding Fear & Loathing in the bookshelf of the house I was staying in while finishing high school.

One thing I learned from Mr. Thompson is that it is always time for a vacation. The weather is changing by the minute in Toronto. Downpour. Sunshine. Wind. Downpour. Violent sun. Overcast. Repeat. Day after day. I've grown tired of it. 

To avoid further confusion and aggravation, I am spending a couple of weeks out of town. I will spend one weekend camping in the wilderness amongst naked hippies on acid, and another poking around someone else's city, people watching in train stations and spying on strangers from my hotel room.

Hunter would be proud.

Who knew people still went to raves?

I thought that raves died out after the kids on Dawson's Creek stopped going to them. Turns out I was only half right. The raves of the mid-90s are dead. All the abandoned warehouses where they were held have been turned into condo buildings and all the early ravers have got office jobs or have moved on to harder drugs and softer parties. The sales of fun fur, candy necklaces and water bottles may never recover. 

Since then I have discovered two kinds of raves: darkraves and club-raves. Last year I stumbled upon a darkrave full of gothic pill-poppers dancing in a scuzzy bar on top of a Shopper's Drug Mart. I made jokes about it for at least a month; but I have to say, if the darkrave crowd is one thing its friendly. No one even made fun of me for my lack of studs and eyeliner. 

This weekend I found out about another type of "rave". Suburban gangsters from all across the GTA met up at the Guvernment entertainment complex on Monday for a blend of dub, house, electronic. Someone even died of an apparent overdose on "herbal extacy", a drug I didn't know existed.  All connotation aside, the Guvernment is a handsome club. And I found a room with paisley red walls and some decent electronic. 

I won't write the night off, but there won't be many more "raves" in my future. 

And really what better did I have to do on a Monday night? 

"Eternal nothingness is fine if you happen to be dressed for it." 

Sometimes I worry that as I age I will become Woody Allen. Then I think, "Wait a minute. Woody Allen rules." 

With that in mind, this weekend Woody Allen's 'Manhattan' is coming to Bathurst. I am excited to dress up in black and white, drink too much and watch another Winnipeg ex-pat head to New York. 

To brighten up your morning, watch this montage reading of On The Road. I love Kerouac, no matter what anyone says. One day I plan to go missing and show up a few months later having done the pancake tour of America. 

H&M is about to go Avant-Garde.

Once a year poor fashionistas everywhere rejoice and head to H&M for the annual designer collection. The likes of Karl Lagerfeld and Stella McCartney have produced cheapie-lines for the store in the past. H&M just announced that this year's collection will be designed by Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo, the woman behind Comme des Garcons.

Don't expect too much; this is still H&M we're talking about. The fabrics won't be expensive and the seams might rip, but the designs are guaranteed to be a conversation piece, at the very least. I fared well at last year's Cavalli sale. Perhaps too well, considering by the time I got home VISA had me on the phone, explaining they thought someone may have stolen my card. You can read about that and other Roberto Cavalli antics here.

Before the pushing and shoving gets started and everything but XL underwear sells out on the opening day in November, expect leaks and previews soon. And look out for the advertising campaign. Lagerfeld's campaign was genious and the mock-wedding Victor & Rolf staged wasn't bad either. But I would have expected a bit more from a house with an immaculate website and an upside down flagship store.

Here's to Garcons. Let the biting, tripping and discount shopping begin. 

The only thing we were parading was ourselves.

This morning all the gays will shake off their cocktail hangovers and and head back regular rainbowless Mondays. But its been a colourful few days. All of the city's straight girls got giddy and headed to the gaybourhood to shop for new bestfriends. And I found the only place in the country I could my wear bright yellow shorts in a crowd and look mundane.

Thanks to Marc for saving me from a forest of hungry bears, without you who knows what could have happened. It's been a blast, but until next year I hope I won't find myself in another situation where no one is alarmed when creepy strange old men are trying to touch my chest.

Keep it your pants gentlemen.

Meet Kerry. You probably won't be seeing much of him around these parts anymore. He's heading to Alberta this morning. Having him around our condo has been fun. My relationship with Kerry is like my relationship with my dad. He doesn't understand the things I do, but he thinks my jokes are funny.

Or at least he pretends to, like my dad does.

They had no idea we were kidding.

To get into the spirit of the pride weekend I have made a list of things I would and wouldn't be proud to be caught wearing, doing or even standing near during pride. And I took photos of them so I can forever remember my own do's and don'ts.

1. At pride don't sport: Armbands. When did those come back? I clearly missed the boat. But I have to confess, I think the jumper is a hit.


2. At pride do: skip the Eurotrash, and instead hang out on top of the trash bins.


3. At pride don't: support your friends with anything but crude laughter.

4. At pride do: remember to hydrate yourself. And pick something fruity.

5. At pride don't: break any laws, there are gay cops everywhere.

6. At pride do: incorporate colour into your outfit. But be careful how far you take it.

7. At pride don't: take your shirt off, you never know where your photo will end up.

With that in mind, parade photos may follow tomorrow, depending on if I can get out of bed.

It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm exhausted.

The last thing I want to do is go to work. But in 74 minutes that is what I will be doing. I have three minutes to finish this blog, 10 to shower and 12 to pick out an outfit that I can wear both to the restaurant and out afterwards. People think I am crazy for working 60 hour weeks. I am. But I'd rather go out at midnight with money than at 10 without it.

Big Primpin' tonight.

Oh, and I'd like to say thanks to Max Cameron for the exquisite impromptu backyard concert last night.

Northern Yonge really does put the "We" back in "The West".

Regardless of where we move, we'll always be in Winnipeg.

My story is age-old. The naive bright-eyed kid heading to the bright lights of the big city. Macaulay Culkin did it much better than me in Party Monster. As I count my minor successes in Toronto I am awaiting the second half of my film-story. 

Underdog-in-the-big-city stories are like films about drugs. In the beginning everything is fun; there are drugs, money and parties for everyone. But if you make it to the end of the movie you have to see Johnny Depp or Jared Leto face down in a dirty motel bathroom toilet bowl. 

Will this happen to me? I secretly hope so (I've always been a Jared Leto fan). But odds are it won't, because as far as I migrate, I leave with friends. Winnipeg is a city that follows you around like a lost puppy; even when you kick it, it wants to be your friend. 

So instead of kicking dogs, I'm having drinks with my former city. And Genna and I intend to have many drinks this summer. 

Here's to hoping Jared Leto isn't hogging the toilet when I have to throw up in the morning.

Strangers are always taking my photo. 

The thing about strangers taking your photo is that you never know where the picture will end up. And now everyone who owns a digital SLR thinks they are a party-blogger. You can thank Mark Hunter for that. 

Its not that I care about my privacy, I really don't. I work in a cubicle with portable walls, and there are cutouts where you can look into adjacent pods. And I live in a comfy two bedroom condo, but the only thing separating my room from my roommate's is two thin sliding plastic walls. I sometimes worry she can hear my breathing loudly in my sleep. 

Plus, I spend a good amount of my time exposing my self on the Internet. I write online and have few qualms about embaressing photos of me making their way onto Facebook. But still, even if I look good, I don't want to end up on one of those tacky photoblogs; the type with bad lighting and 905ers.

At least I have no aspirations for fame. If winding up in a photo on You Got Pegged scared me, I can only imagine what being featured on Go Fug Yourself or having Perez draw cum on my face would do to me.

With that in mind, say cheese.

When did we become people that stay in?

Winter in this city is frigid. It's warmer than Winnipeg, but it's not cardigan weather. So from December to April everyone cabs to and from work, hides out indoors and refuses to leave their apartment for anything. Or at least I do.

When it warmed up this spring, suddenly people were walking their dogs; carrying coffee cups and smiling. Couples held hands on the subway, and it wasn't irritating. That lasted about a week.

Now the city is filled with tourists and awkward suburban high school students on summer vacation. Families are everywhere and the bars are filled with American college students.

Now I'm looking for someone to drink wine on my balcony and watch traffic. You bring the wine, I'll bring the binoculars.

q: What's an arts festival without big name sponsors and branded content? 

a: Don't know. Don't care. Ask someone who lives in Montreal.

Now that I have that out of the way, check out my corporate blog for Marketing. I did daily coverage on L'Oreal's Luminato festival.  

Every year I dread it. And every year it comes. 

Friday was the first day of summer. That means beaches, picnics and long drives down abandoned roads, right? Wrong.

It means tourists, noise and way too much Hollister. Let's get this out there right now: I am one of those people who happens to look better with their clothes on. There are lots of us. We're usually quiet, unassuming and immaculately dressed. Until summer comes. 

Flip-flops hurt my feet. I have awkward legs, which I like to cover with comfortable, full-length denim. I stay almost dangerously thin, regardless of how much I eat. This rules out tank-tops. I'm not even a big fan of t-shirts. And I know most people dream of being bronzed like a greek god, but I think tans are tacky. 

To combat my disillusions of summer I have come up with a new look for warm weather: Miami Vice. 

At least I don't have to wear socks anymore.