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.