While a good girl crush can get the blood pumping and the inspiration sparkles all aflutter, for a straight woman in her 20s, there's nothing quite like a jaunt down the side street known as Crushed Out Boulevard. Now that the weather's nice and I've moved into my parent's place in Stratford, I'm seeing dudes all over the place. And you know what, Stratford men? You are not bringing your A-game.
I re-watched Everything Is Illuminated tonight, and while Alex - played by the incomparable Eugene Hutz - tries a little too hard and never takes off his track suit, there's something adorable about him. Most of the dudes who stuck around my hometown after graduation are not, shall we say, premium. One of the reasons I left was because I didn't want to drink myself to death in a fleabag apartment above a sewing machine repair shop; if I had stayed, that would have been my fate. I'm not even being melodramatic - this town will eat your dreams if you don't tread carefully. So I'm not surprised that, surveying the scene here, the guys on the street are a little, um, seedy. The general trend seems to be that most of the men who stay in this town straighten their lives out by their late twenties or early thirties, but the mid-twenties crowd is still about a year away from being scared straight. I'll be spending the summer trying to keep my nose clean.
In light of this unfortunate black hole, I think I'll be developing my literary and cinematic crushes. I mean, he's nothing special to look at, but William Carlos Williams, in addition to having a great name, writes some lovely poetry. "This Is Just To Say" is one of my all-time favourites; my pal Emily has made up about a thousand variants on that theme. Her subject matter has ranged from dive bars to sweatpants to illicit love affairs. WCW, your work is easy to adapt. My love of David Foster Wallace has been firmly established by now - I swear, I bring him up in conversations more often than I mention my family - and I bought his recently published biography to savour this summer. My crush remains unthwarted.
Celebrity crushes are empty, soulless and vacuous, but they do pass the time. No sweaty lover to rub against tonight? All right, well, get it done and watch yourself a movie. Preferably one starring Mos Def, who is scorching hot and nerdily cute (such a winning combo!) Do some situps and listen to Henry Rollins do some storytelling. I'm not interested in the Us Weekly, airbrushed, blond celebrities who show up on reality TV shows after they've been to rehab and married a former lingerie model. My crushes, both in real life and from afar, tend to be makers and doers, and the famous versions of frat boys are just not really my cup of Earl Gray.
Am I feeling particularly self-deceptive and foolish for even sharing the celebrity-crush-as-substitute-for-hometown-guys strategy? Oh, you betcha. But that's the thing about taking a breather for a summer. Investing in a Stratford guy would be investing in Stratford as a concept - and with the aforementioned dipsomaniacal death, I'm not so keen on that. Toronto is my future; this is just a resting place. Not a place to put down roots. It's a lilypad, one that I'll share with Dustin Hoffman and Dan Savage while I do situps and wait for the fall.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Fancy Dance Parties
The first time I heard the phrase "dance party," my friend's then-boyfriend was telling the story of how dogs got tails. It was one of those "how the raven stole the sun"-type tales, the details of which I forget, but the words "dance party" leaped out at me. I was in love. I mean, it's an amazing turn of phrase - and I love great word usage - but it also just conjures up the best types of fun.
Back in 2003, my hipster pal Jackie took some of the girls on her residence floor to the Manhattan Club, which sounds like a totally fraudulent establishment - fake, or like one of the places TV teenagers go to engage in underaged drinking with Serious Consequences. It was a real place, filled with mirrors and a DJ that was playing The Rapture. It was hella fun, even without the ability to get a drink at the bar, since we were all seventeen or eighteen: it was just sweaty indie rock dancing. We were already tipsy, which is why, when we woke up the next morning and felt like we had just returned from Oz, we had no idea where the damned place had been. We eventually found it again, but when we returned, it was full of silent old mustachioed Portuguese men and no DJs. Weird.
Later, when we lived in the Annex, we used to go the incredibly cheesy and fun Dance Cave, where we would get to both dance and people watch: dudes in furry hats and PVC trenchcoats abound there. Saturday nights are free for students, and there's nothing quite like getting all liquored up at home and then dancing your face off at an establishment where your feet stick to the floor.
Not that alcohol is a necessary ingredient in the dance marathons. Because I was once a ten year old girl, I took dance lessons. Mandatory, you know? Anyway, I discovered two things: 1) even at ten, I was never going to have a dancer's build - you know, the lithe, lean, bony builds that look really awesome in tulle; and 2) I am not particularly coordinated. I made a pretty terrible dance student. I was no Elaine Benes, of course, but the rigid routines and performances in skintight costumes weren't my bag. Now, in my twenties, I like Nia dancing, with its emphasis on pleasure and movement, not strict regimens of moves or appearances. It also helps that the classes are full of women of all ages, shapes, sizes and dance levels, which can really underscore that whole dancing-for-fun thing.
Like most people, I didn't really publicly get down with my bad self for a number of years. All that changed once booze was introduced to the party scene. Suddenly, my pals and I could frequent the dancing venues...in Stratford...which are exactly as glam as you're imagining. But whatever: even though the shots were served in the plastic one-ounce cups that ketchup often comes in, and the music was generic top-40 hip-hop, it was a chance to have some fun. My friend Rachel and I used to dress up in matching chola outfits, split a mickey of vodka and then go to the Sunday night all-ages dance club. No word of a lie: once, we saw a seventeen year old girl wearing overalls strip down to her (white) bra and panties while dancing on the bar. Anyone who claims Stratford is an outpost of culture has never been to Classic's on a Sunday.
Dancing is fun! The chance to sing along, grind up on some strangers, shake your ass, dress up, drink some rum-based beverages, and howl at the moon is an awesome way to blow off some of that pent-up workaday energy. It's the same impulse that drives people to go camping, without the chance of having to interact with quite so many bears. (Unless that's your thing.) It's harmless fun; it's raucous and sexy, physical and sweaty, loud and funny. Communicating through dance moves becomes an art; conversation falls by the wayside as the music gets louder.
I'm not condoning the cheesy club-district dance clubs, where the girls wear kerchiefs as shirts and the guys wear their body weight in cologne. That's a lame scene, with its meat-market vibe and its generally shitty music. I've only been real clubbing a couple times, and it's a drag. A good rule of thumb is, if the venue looks like the back of a rented limousine, it's going to be a rough night. But the chance to dance - be it in a club, a nautical-looking bar, the comfort of your own living room, the street, the prison yard, or the gym - should not be met with a rolled eye and an ironic sigh. Hoist the flag and your drink - I'll see you on the dance floor.
Back in 2003, my hipster pal Jackie took some of the girls on her residence floor to the Manhattan Club, which sounds like a totally fraudulent establishment - fake, or like one of the places TV teenagers go to engage in underaged drinking with Serious Consequences. It was a real place, filled with mirrors and a DJ that was playing The Rapture. It was hella fun, even without the ability to get a drink at the bar, since we were all seventeen or eighteen: it was just sweaty indie rock dancing. We were already tipsy, which is why, when we woke up the next morning and felt like we had just returned from Oz, we had no idea where the damned place had been. We eventually found it again, but when we returned, it was full of silent old mustachioed Portuguese men and no DJs. Weird.
Later, when we lived in the Annex, we used to go the incredibly cheesy and fun Dance Cave, where we would get to both dance and people watch: dudes in furry hats and PVC trenchcoats abound there. Saturday nights are free for students, and there's nothing quite like getting all liquored up at home and then dancing your face off at an establishment where your feet stick to the floor.
Not that alcohol is a necessary ingredient in the dance marathons. Because I was once a ten year old girl, I took dance lessons. Mandatory, you know? Anyway, I discovered two things: 1) even at ten, I was never going to have a dancer's build - you know, the lithe, lean, bony builds that look really awesome in tulle; and 2) I am not particularly coordinated. I made a pretty terrible dance student. I was no Elaine Benes, of course, but the rigid routines and performances in skintight costumes weren't my bag. Now, in my twenties, I like Nia dancing, with its emphasis on pleasure and movement, not strict regimens of moves or appearances. It also helps that the classes are full of women of all ages, shapes, sizes and dance levels, which can really underscore that whole dancing-for-fun thing.
Like most people, I didn't really publicly get down with my bad self for a number of years. All that changed once booze was introduced to the party scene. Suddenly, my pals and I could frequent the dancing venues...in Stratford...which are exactly as glam as you're imagining. But whatever: even though the shots were served in the plastic one-ounce cups that ketchup often comes in, and the music was generic top-40 hip-hop, it was a chance to have some fun. My friend Rachel and I used to dress up in matching chola outfits, split a mickey of vodka and then go to the Sunday night all-ages dance club. No word of a lie: once, we saw a seventeen year old girl wearing overalls strip down to her (white) bra and panties while dancing on the bar. Anyone who claims Stratford is an outpost of culture has never been to Classic's on a Sunday.
Dancing is fun! The chance to sing along, grind up on some strangers, shake your ass, dress up, drink some rum-based beverages, and howl at the moon is an awesome way to blow off some of that pent-up workaday energy. It's the same impulse that drives people to go camping, without the chance of having to interact with quite so many bears. (Unless that's your thing.) It's harmless fun; it's raucous and sexy, physical and sweaty, loud and funny. Communicating through dance moves becomes an art; conversation falls by the wayside as the music gets louder.
I'm not condoning the cheesy club-district dance clubs, where the girls wear kerchiefs as shirts and the guys wear their body weight in cologne. That's a lame scene, with its meat-market vibe and its generally shitty music. I've only been real clubbing a couple times, and it's a drag. A good rule of thumb is, if the venue looks like the back of a rented limousine, it's going to be a rough night. But the chance to dance - be it in a club, a nautical-looking bar, the comfort of your own living room, the street, the prison yard, or the gym - should not be met with a rolled eye and an ironic sigh. Hoist the flag and your drink - I'll see you on the dance floor.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Sir Mix Tapes A Lot
My best friend and I, in high school, used to make mixed tapes for each other all the time. Admittedly, mine were way less varied than hers, since I accidentally put "Brick House" on every single compilation I ever produced. "This is totally, 100% new music," I would promise her, and she would dutifully pop it in, straining for the alleged new music...and then the words "She's a brick...hooouse" would come blaring out of her speakers. Cue the eye roll. To her credit, she didn't point out that I was musically monotonous until years later, when it was too late to do anything except turn it into a punch line.
I love a good mix tape. My uncles make them all the time, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to awesome bands like 2 Men, A Drum Machine And A Trumpet (which I loved when I was eleven) and Midlake and Antony and the Johnsons. When I was in middle and high school, they were actual mixed tape - as in cassettes, as in ancient stuff these days, since they've graduated to compact discs. Which is equally good, since I can now rock out to mixes on the MP3 tip. Love that!
I used to say that if people wanted to woo me, all they had to do was show up with a few cases of Diet Coke, but mix tapes are a game changer. Even if the relationship goes south, you're left with a legacy: someone made something for you. The first time I got a mix from a suitor, it totally blew me away. It was an actual mix tape, too, which, like, double points. Here was a dude who had crafted a cute little indie blend of Sloan and The Postal Service...and then, to top it off, he tacked on the legendary quote from Back to the Future, which made me want to tear his clothes off in the diner. As a courtship tactic, it was a rousing success. Who doesn't love Back to the Future? Stupid people, that's who.
I think it goes back to my early love of soundtracks. I love movie music - not scores, but pop music - because it plays to the very appealing idea that your life is fancy and therefor deserves a soundtrack of its own. I mean, if I got a montage every time I had to get dressed or pack my apartment, I would be a much happier lady. And soundtracks reinforce the idea that our lives need musical punctuation: we like it when we have a song to graft our emotions onto. I mean, it's all a little High Fidelity (which, like, a movie [with a soundtrack] about pop music as the soundtrack for our lives...meta!) for reality, but pop songs give structure to our lives. We get to sing along and mean the lyrics with all our hearts. Even if we didn't make the music in the first place, we get to own a piece of it.
A well-crafted mix can be a hipster badge of honour - I remember a few mixes I made that I got cocky about, thinking to myself, "I am so good at this, I should make soundtracks," which is just blatantly and hilariously false. Because it shows you're into music, into the esoteric and the popular, and that you listen...all highly desirable traits during the hipster mating ritual. (Sidebar: I sometimes forget the name of this blog, and devolve into blathering about cupcakes or whatever. Sorry, hipsters!) But there's the other part of a good mix, which is just that good music is timeless and transcends ridiculous posturing, and becomes accessible and fun, easy and pleasing. I got a superb and much-appreciated mix earlier this week and have been using it as both packing music (stomping around to Amanda Palmer) and as a bridge into this long-awaited summer (grooving on Joe Strummer).
I sometimes think about the mix tapes, the ones with "Brick House" all over them like a freaking rash. I still listen to the same songs over and over again - maybe they're like chapter headings in my life, or musical security blankets - but now I know more songs, and I love more songs, and I belt out more songs like a lunatic (and I never do this, but right now, I'm obsessed with both the original song and the fantastic "cover" behind that link, so click it, please) at the top of my lungs. Especially in the shower. Thanks, in part, to the fantastic mixes I've received over the years. We may not need roads where we're going, but it'd be nice to have some mix tapes for the ride there.
I love a good mix tape. My uncles make them all the time, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to awesome bands like 2 Men, A Drum Machine And A Trumpet (which I loved when I was eleven) and Midlake and Antony and the Johnsons. When I was in middle and high school, they were actual mixed tape - as in cassettes, as in ancient stuff these days, since they've graduated to compact discs. Which is equally good, since I can now rock out to mixes on the MP3 tip. Love that!
I used to say that if people wanted to woo me, all they had to do was show up with a few cases of Diet Coke, but mix tapes are a game changer. Even if the relationship goes south, you're left with a legacy: someone made something for you. The first time I got a mix from a suitor, it totally blew me away. It was an actual mix tape, too, which, like, double points. Here was a dude who had crafted a cute little indie blend of Sloan and The Postal Service...and then, to top it off, he tacked on the legendary quote from Back to the Future, which made me want to tear his clothes off in the diner. As a courtship tactic, it was a rousing success. Who doesn't love Back to the Future? Stupid people, that's who.
I think it goes back to my early love of soundtracks. I love movie music - not scores, but pop music - because it plays to the very appealing idea that your life is fancy and therefor deserves a soundtrack of its own. I mean, if I got a montage every time I had to get dressed or pack my apartment, I would be a much happier lady. And soundtracks reinforce the idea that our lives need musical punctuation: we like it when we have a song to graft our emotions onto. I mean, it's all a little High Fidelity (which, like, a movie [with a soundtrack] about pop music as the soundtrack for our lives...meta!) for reality, but pop songs give structure to our lives. We get to sing along and mean the lyrics with all our hearts. Even if we didn't make the music in the first place, we get to own a piece of it.
A well-crafted mix can be a hipster badge of honour - I remember a few mixes I made that I got cocky about, thinking to myself, "I am so good at this, I should make soundtracks," which is just blatantly and hilariously false. Because it shows you're into music, into the esoteric and the popular, and that you listen...all highly desirable traits during the hipster mating ritual. (Sidebar: I sometimes forget the name of this blog, and devolve into blathering about cupcakes or whatever. Sorry, hipsters!) But there's the other part of a good mix, which is just that good music is timeless and transcends ridiculous posturing, and becomes accessible and fun, easy and pleasing. I got a superb and much-appreciated mix earlier this week and have been using it as both packing music (stomping around to Amanda Palmer) and as a bridge into this long-awaited summer (grooving on Joe Strummer).
I sometimes think about the mix tapes, the ones with "Brick House" all over them like a freaking rash. I still listen to the same songs over and over again - maybe they're like chapter headings in my life, or musical security blankets - but now I know more songs, and I love more songs, and I belt out more songs like a lunatic (and I never do this, but right now, I'm obsessed with both the original song and the fantastic "cover" behind that link, so click it, please) at the top of my lungs. Especially in the shower. Thanks, in part, to the fantastic mixes I've received over the years. We may not need roads where we're going, but it'd be nice to have some mix tapes for the ride there.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pack 'Em Up, Move 'Em Out
Right now, I'm just boiling with rage. I think a lot of that has to do with being on a monster Louis C.K. kick, because he's a comic with some serious rage issues. Hilarious rage issues - I especially like his bits about his kids, even though they're just awful jokes that are going to scar his offspring once they're old enough to walk the f-bomb sprinkled field he's constructed as his home turf - but mostly it has to do with packing.
I hate packing.
The last time I moved, I was living in a room in a house. I had all the standard goofy crap that people accumulate: photographs, posters, books, clothes. Lamps - so many lamps. But it was one room's worth of goofy crap. Now I live in an apartment, with a bunch of closets and cabinets and things like dishes - dishes! Seriously, I eat 98% of my meals out of the same three bowls, and I have like 25 plates, just cluttering up my cabinets and making angry. GOD! - and chairs and shit. I have so much more stuff than I did three years ago, and I am mad at all of it.
I'm not mad at myself, because I brought all this stuff in in tiny little increments. Backpack-sized chunks: a magazine here, a pair of shoes there, like I'm smuggling it into my own life, until all of the sudden, I have, like, a thousand pounds worth of possessions, and I can't remember why I bought any of it. Like, I keep magazines, which is a fun and whimsical habit - "Oh, each issue is like a little time capsule!" - until I actually have to put three hundred flimsy little books into boxes and lug them down three flights of stairs. Then I just stare at them, seething, hating every printed page, every fashion spread, every article.
"Use this as an opportunity to purge!" I can hear you chirping. Sure. Sure, I'm doing that. I threw out a bunch of magazines. I'll be getting rid of, like, all my old school work; seriously, I graduated...who needs that? I'm not going to grad school. My GPA was middling and my work ethic is terrible, so grad school sounds about as smart as keeping issues of The Atlantic around for seven extra years. But I can't just leave all the stuff I'm getting rid of behind. No, I have to lug that stuff down three flights of stairs too, and then heave it into the recycling bin, and then stomp back up three flights of stairs and curse.
Oh, there has been much cursing today.
Luckily, I live not far from an LCBO, which always has a bunch of boxes. I loathe trying to acquire boxes, because in May, in a student district, those things are like the freaking abominable snowman. You can't find them anywhere. Last time I moved, I raided three different liquor stores (one of which was in Stratford) to get enough cardboard to lug all my stuff around. This time, I can just go up the street and get them, six at a time, and bring them home to stuff my stupid belongings into.
This could be a great opportunity to take stock of the things I hold dear. Hang onto photographs and gifts, books and favourite clothes. Tee shirts from concerts, invitations to parties, letters from friends: all the standard stuff people keep. Jettison the rest overboard. All the unfinished art projects and mementos from ex-friends and lovers, the ugly paintings and the Halloween wigs that startle me every time I see them. All that stuff is getting pitched. But as I've gotten older, my life has gotten bigger. Three years ago, I could have packed all my stuff into a bindle and set off, whistling, down the train tracks. Sure, I could do that now - but how would I bring my toaster oven?
Packing means moving, moving means change, and change, mes amies, is hard. Walking out the door of your home, leaving the lights off and the ceiling fan going (third floor apartments get damned hot in the summer. Turning off the fan would be uncharitable to the next tenants), locking the door for the final time - all that means that this chapter in my life is over. The last three years of life, the years I spent at this address, hanging out on my patio and sleeping on my bathroom floor when it was so hot that to sleep in a bed was to risk death by heat exhaustion, were some of the most turbulent, intense, rewarding and challenging years of my entire life. In some ways, I feel like I grew up in this apartment. It's hard to walk away from that.
So the cursing and the moaning - and I spent a sold 20 minutes today, literally yelling at a shelf full of books for existing - are just a symptom of my complicated emotions re: change. According to Kubler-Ross, I'm well on my way to dealing with the change in a healthy, albeit rage-y, way. I expect tomorrow I'll be trying to bribe my friends to come help (bargaining) and Thursday, I'll just be weeping. And, as a friend pointed out tonight, it's helpful to remember that this time next week, all this moving stuff will be over. All the moving and packing, sure, but also all the time spent here. The parties, the lovers, the friends. The sleepovers and the shots of bourbon. The halfhearted hobbies and unmade beds. That will be for another place, soon.
All that's left to do then is turn out the lights and lock the door behind me.
I hate packing.
The last time I moved, I was living in a room in a house. I had all the standard goofy crap that people accumulate: photographs, posters, books, clothes. Lamps - so many lamps. But it was one room's worth of goofy crap. Now I live in an apartment, with a bunch of closets and cabinets and things like dishes - dishes! Seriously, I eat 98% of my meals out of the same three bowls, and I have like 25 plates, just cluttering up my cabinets and making angry. GOD! - and chairs and shit. I have so much more stuff than I did three years ago, and I am mad at all of it.
I'm not mad at myself, because I brought all this stuff in in tiny little increments. Backpack-sized chunks: a magazine here, a pair of shoes there, like I'm smuggling it into my own life, until all of the sudden, I have, like, a thousand pounds worth of possessions, and I can't remember why I bought any of it. Like, I keep magazines, which is a fun and whimsical habit - "Oh, each issue is like a little time capsule!" - until I actually have to put three hundred flimsy little books into boxes and lug them down three flights of stairs. Then I just stare at them, seething, hating every printed page, every fashion spread, every article.
"Use this as an opportunity to purge!" I can hear you chirping. Sure. Sure, I'm doing that. I threw out a bunch of magazines. I'll be getting rid of, like, all my old school work; seriously, I graduated...who needs that? I'm not going to grad school. My GPA was middling and my work ethic is terrible, so grad school sounds about as smart as keeping issues of The Atlantic around for seven extra years. But I can't just leave all the stuff I'm getting rid of behind. No, I have to lug that stuff down three flights of stairs too, and then heave it into the recycling bin, and then stomp back up three flights of stairs and curse.
Oh, there has been much cursing today.
Luckily, I live not far from an LCBO, which always has a bunch of boxes. I loathe trying to acquire boxes, because in May, in a student district, those things are like the freaking abominable snowman. You can't find them anywhere. Last time I moved, I raided three different liquor stores (one of which was in Stratford) to get enough cardboard to lug all my stuff around. This time, I can just go up the street and get them, six at a time, and bring them home to stuff my stupid belongings into.
This could be a great opportunity to take stock of the things I hold dear. Hang onto photographs and gifts, books and favourite clothes. Tee shirts from concerts, invitations to parties, letters from friends: all the standard stuff people keep. Jettison the rest overboard. All the unfinished art projects and mementos from ex-friends and lovers, the ugly paintings and the Halloween wigs that startle me every time I see them. All that stuff is getting pitched. But as I've gotten older, my life has gotten bigger. Three years ago, I could have packed all my stuff into a bindle and set off, whistling, down the train tracks. Sure, I could do that now - but how would I bring my toaster oven?
Packing means moving, moving means change, and change, mes amies, is hard. Walking out the door of your home, leaving the lights off and the ceiling fan going (third floor apartments get damned hot in the summer. Turning off the fan would be uncharitable to the next tenants), locking the door for the final time - all that means that this chapter in my life is over. The last three years of life, the years I spent at this address, hanging out on my patio and sleeping on my bathroom floor when it was so hot that to sleep in a bed was to risk death by heat exhaustion, were some of the most turbulent, intense, rewarding and challenging years of my entire life. In some ways, I feel like I grew up in this apartment. It's hard to walk away from that.
So the cursing and the moaning - and I spent a sold 20 minutes today, literally yelling at a shelf full of books for existing - are just a symptom of my complicated emotions re: change. According to Kubler-Ross, I'm well on my way to dealing with the change in a healthy, albeit rage-y, way. I expect tomorrow I'll be trying to bribe my friends to come help (bargaining) and Thursday, I'll just be weeping. And, as a friend pointed out tonight, it's helpful to remember that this time next week, all this moving stuff will be over. All the moving and packing, sure, but also all the time spent here. The parties, the lovers, the friends. The sleepovers and the shots of bourbon. The halfhearted hobbies and unmade beds. That will be for another place, soon.
All that's left to do then is turn out the lights and lock the door behind me.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Esquiring Minds Want To Know
Leafing through Esquire's May 2010 issue - ostensibly dedicated to women, if "women" is defined as "sexy, sleek, somehow rumpled and gorgeous scotch-drinking babes" - it becomes hard not to fall into that despairing pit of WTF. I also love women, but I'm not sure Esquire would love me.
The cover model is a heavily Photoshopped Christina Hendricks; she's undeniably fantastic-looking, but I somehow doubt a woman with a rack that size has thighs the circumference of a baseball bat. I'm not a regular reader of Esquire, so I'm not sure if they use curvier broads on their pages all the time, but I'm glad to see it, Photoshop aside. And Hendricks is such a babe! They've got her posed on this red backdrop, with her famed breasts on display. I love it.
Inside the mag, there's a bunch of stuff going on. Some of it is cool, some of it is decidedly lame. I mean, a profile on Paris Hilton? Does the world really need that? It's more of the same blathering drivel: she's different in private! She has pets! She does actually do stuff! She's not as wild as they say! Shut it, princess. I stopped caring about you and your prancing bullshit years ago, and Esquire didn't need to remind that you're around. Colour me resentful.
Same with the halfhearted profile of Lady Gaga, written by a friend who, it seems, might have stopped hanging out with her in 2007. I have a soft spot for the pantsless diva. Her music is catchy, and her public persona is so interesting. She's sort of like Andy Warhol, in that they both seem to hold a mirror up to the American and global public, but the reflection is distorted and strange. Illuminating. Anyway, the Esquire profile didn't really crack any Lady Gaga-related mysteries wide open, which is a shame. I know she's a busy woman, but they couldn't talk to her? Boo.
There was also a survey of women - 79% of us like the size of our boobs! Whoopee! - taken from Esquire's website, along with a handy guide to women: what we mean when we answer the phone, or what we want when we get the sniffles (a flu fort made of Vick's VapoRub and all the blankets in our apartment, apparently, which I'm not going to argue with).
I'm not sure how I feel about this issue. Frankly, the reason I like men's magazines is because they seem to promote the idea of having a good time. Women's magazines seem so serious. They're all about relationships, sexy-at-all-costs, and the dire consequences of just about everything fun. Men's magazines have a devil-may-care attitude that are all about brown leather bomber jackets, graying hair, knowing how to grill a lamb chop, digestifs, dating latina supermodels, and knowing what an orchid looks like. They show off the finer things, and regardless of your station in life, you can generally find something in your price range. Can't afford the $138 dollar skin serum? Then try the $4 moisturizer.
So. When a lad's mag puts out the women's issue, there's a bizarre intersection between why I read men's magazines and what it means to be a woman. Because I am not the target of Esquire's lust. Sure, they've got some foxy/normal 27-year-old babes in their pages, spouting things like ""I always had this dream of being an overhyped starlet. That I'm not one is rather disheartening." But the reality is, I'm an anxious, too-curvy young woman who fails to adequately maintain her eyebrows. I'm not really seeing myself in the pages of Esquire, and that's not a surprise.
Because the Valentine to women, from Esquire, is for a certain type of women. Oh, sure, she's confident. She's professional. She's sensual. She enjoys a great, meaty red wine and laughs throatily with her head thrown back. And, without any judgment at all, those women are all about men. The throaty laugh, the sensuality...whether it's natural or engineered, those women carry men's attention everywhere they go.
Men don't do that. Even the most proficient of lady-killers (I'm looking at you, Clooney) has something that retains a boys-only vibe. Maybe it's because the type of man Esquire men aspire to be live in a very male world: the world of top executives, of high-end chefs, of golf, of politics. Rarely do men in those circles see women as peers. They're usually not. So women, at that level of success, are exemplary at holding at catching a man's attention because it's part of who she needed to become in order to succeed. And those Esquire types get used to that. They come to see it as normal.
Maybe that's why the women's issue rings a false note. With the notable exception of Hillary Clinton, most of the women featured in this issue will never rise to the level of success a man might. Those who do, do it in superficial fields. They're models, singers, actresses: women who don't have the power to affect change on a global level. Sure, Lady Gaga might be changing the face of entertainment, but it's pop music we're talking about. It's not exactly moving political mountains. That's not entirely their fault: I wish they'd take a gamble and interview someone who wasn't directly tied to being professionally attractive for their next women's issue, but for women, being attractive is part of the deal when it comes to success.
I appreciate a lot of what Esquire was trying to do, and the issue was well-curated and an interesting read. I lied when I said wasn't an Esquire babe: we're all Esquire babes in some way. I happen to mostly not be an Esquire babe, but I like scotch and flu forts, and I like men and trying to figure them out. And men, apparently, are trying to return the favour.
The cover model is a heavily Photoshopped Christina Hendricks; she's undeniably fantastic-looking, but I somehow doubt a woman with a rack that size has thighs the circumference of a baseball bat. I'm not a regular reader of Esquire, so I'm not sure if they use curvier broads on their pages all the time, but I'm glad to see it, Photoshop aside. And Hendricks is such a babe! They've got her posed on this red backdrop, with her famed breasts on display. I love it.
Inside the mag, there's a bunch of stuff going on. Some of it is cool, some of it is decidedly lame. I mean, a profile on Paris Hilton? Does the world really need that? It's more of the same blathering drivel: she's different in private! She has pets! She does actually do stuff! She's not as wild as they say! Shut it, princess. I stopped caring about you and your prancing bullshit years ago, and Esquire didn't need to remind that you're around. Colour me resentful.
Same with the halfhearted profile of Lady Gaga, written by a friend who, it seems, might have stopped hanging out with her in 2007. I have a soft spot for the pantsless diva. Her music is catchy, and her public persona is so interesting. She's sort of like Andy Warhol, in that they both seem to hold a mirror up to the American and global public, but the reflection is distorted and strange. Illuminating. Anyway, the Esquire profile didn't really crack any Lady Gaga-related mysteries wide open, which is a shame. I know she's a busy woman, but they couldn't talk to her? Boo.
There was also a survey of women - 79% of us like the size of our boobs! Whoopee! - taken from Esquire's website, along with a handy guide to women: what we mean when we answer the phone, or what we want when we get the sniffles (a flu fort made of Vick's VapoRub and all the blankets in our apartment, apparently, which I'm not going to argue with).
I'm not sure how I feel about this issue. Frankly, the reason I like men's magazines is because they seem to promote the idea of having a good time. Women's magazines seem so serious. They're all about relationships, sexy-at-all-costs, and the dire consequences of just about everything fun. Men's magazines have a devil-may-care attitude that are all about brown leather bomber jackets, graying hair, knowing how to grill a lamb chop, digestifs, dating latina supermodels, and knowing what an orchid looks like. They show off the finer things, and regardless of your station in life, you can generally find something in your price range. Can't afford the $138 dollar skin serum? Then try the $4 moisturizer.
So. When a lad's mag puts out the women's issue, there's a bizarre intersection between why I read men's magazines and what it means to be a woman. Because I am not the target of Esquire's lust. Sure, they've got some foxy/normal 27-year-old babes in their pages, spouting things like ""I always had this dream of being an overhyped starlet. That I'm not one is rather disheartening." But the reality is, I'm an anxious, too-curvy young woman who fails to adequately maintain her eyebrows. I'm not really seeing myself in the pages of Esquire, and that's not a surprise.
Because the Valentine to women, from Esquire, is for a certain type of women. Oh, sure, she's confident. She's professional. She's sensual. She enjoys a great, meaty red wine and laughs throatily with her head thrown back. And, without any judgment at all, those women are all about men. The throaty laugh, the sensuality...whether it's natural or engineered, those women carry men's attention everywhere they go.
Men don't do that. Even the most proficient of lady-killers (I'm looking at you, Clooney) has something that retains a boys-only vibe. Maybe it's because the type of man Esquire men aspire to be live in a very male world: the world of top executives, of high-end chefs, of golf, of politics. Rarely do men in those circles see women as peers. They're usually not. So women, at that level of success, are exemplary at holding at catching a man's attention because it's part of who she needed to become in order to succeed. And those Esquire types get used to that. They come to see it as normal.
Maybe that's why the women's issue rings a false note. With the notable exception of Hillary Clinton, most of the women featured in this issue will never rise to the level of success a man might. Those who do, do it in superficial fields. They're models, singers, actresses: women who don't have the power to affect change on a global level. Sure, Lady Gaga might be changing the face of entertainment, but it's pop music we're talking about. It's not exactly moving political mountains. That's not entirely their fault: I wish they'd take a gamble and interview someone who wasn't directly tied to being professionally attractive for their next women's issue, but for women, being attractive is part of the deal when it comes to success.
I appreciate a lot of what Esquire was trying to do, and the issue was well-curated and an interesting read. I lied when I said wasn't an Esquire babe: we're all Esquire babes in some way. I happen to mostly not be an Esquire babe, but I like scotch and flu forts, and I like men and trying to figure them out. And men, apparently, are trying to return the favour.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Walking Dude
I am a terrible traveler. Why would I make such a self-loathing remark? Because right now, I'm updating this blog from the comfort of my home, instead of using Via Rail's complimentary wireless service, because I, like the Mensa candidate I am, forgot my passport in my desk drawer.
I'm visiting a friend in America this weekend. The dudes in my family do an annual sojourn around one of the great lakes, and I guess this year, Lake Michigan won the battle, and there will be much grunting and consideration of baseball. I'm tagging along for the first leg of the trip, then flying back to Toronto on Monday, with a layover in Philadelphia, because that makes no sense. The itinerary seems pretty low-key: driving, playing mixed CDs and leafing through magazines. My job is dozing in the backseat.
The traveling, on the other hand, isn't really off to a great start. I'm not a bad traveler - I don't get airsick or make stupid jokes in airport security lineups, and I'm polite to the oft-harassed employees of various transportation companies. On the other hand, I'm consistently late for everything, all the time, and departures are no exception.
Two years ago, my sister and I flew down to New York City for a concert. Ignoring my father's advice (more on that later) to leave at nine a.m. for a four-thirty o'clock flight, I meandered onto the subway heading to Pearson around two. This was a mistake. The subway was slow, the shuttle to the airport took forever (and, sidebar for anyone who's ridden the 192 bus out there: what is the deal with that one bus stop? It's seriously in the center median of the 427. I have no clue how people actually get there, because anyone trying to wait for a bus would have been killed by one of the six lanes of traffic), the lineup for security was a nightmare, I had no idea how to fill out the customs form, and the departure gate was located in, I swear, a different area code. It was the furthest one down. When I got to the gate, after sprinting for 15 minutes, it said it was boarding for Paris. As in France. I found that they had changed the boarding location, got there, and promptly burst into tears. My sister, who had gotten sick on her connection flight, joined me.
Not a great story for anyone involved, but it illustrates just how bad I am at the whole timing thing while traveling. My dad, who is afraid of the border police and practically salaams the customs people, is always nagging me to show up earlier when there's a deadline to make. I pshaw him - fathers are so adorable! - and continue to be the very last person on the train/bus/plane/ferry/whatever, because that is just how I roll. His preference is to get there comically early. Like, if we leave at noon, we start moving at dawn. It's just his way. It makes the rest of the family totally nuts.
Because, let's face it, travel can be mega-boring. The waiting spaces generally suck. They're airless and grimy and uncomfortable, with bolted-down chairs and silent television sets. Airports are harried and anxiety-provoking, especially in the States (Canadian airports are just repositories of embarrassing Canuck tchotchkes and ugly mid-1980s vintage lighting fixtures). Getting there late means spending the least amount of time in those spaces. Granted, I'm woozy from the stress of getting there with thirteen seconds before they shit the doors, but it sort of beats hanging out in places like the Kitchener Waterloo bus station.
I like traveling, and have a bunch of destinations in mind for the next few months. But I dislike actually traveling, as in the act of moving my stupid body from one place to another. The romance of the train is long dead for me, and the bus is kind of embarrassing, and flying is smelly and annoying. My future dreams include a teleporter that doesn't kill you, because getting around is such a drag.
Will I enjoy my weekend away? Oh, absolutely. Chicago is great, and I'm stoked to see my pal. And I'm glad I'm flying back, even though I'll inevitably screw it up somehow and end up in, like, Regina by accident, due to some complicated machinations with passports and stopovers and airline food and customs. Wish me luck. At this point, even the subway might be tricky.
I'm visiting a friend in America this weekend. The dudes in my family do an annual sojourn around one of the great lakes, and I guess this year, Lake Michigan won the battle, and there will be much grunting and consideration of baseball. I'm tagging along for the first leg of the trip, then flying back to Toronto on Monday, with a layover in Philadelphia, because that makes no sense. The itinerary seems pretty low-key: driving, playing mixed CDs and leafing through magazines. My job is dozing in the backseat.
The traveling, on the other hand, isn't really off to a great start. I'm not a bad traveler - I don't get airsick or make stupid jokes in airport security lineups, and I'm polite to the oft-harassed employees of various transportation companies. On the other hand, I'm consistently late for everything, all the time, and departures are no exception.
Two years ago, my sister and I flew down to New York City for a concert. Ignoring my father's advice (more on that later) to leave at nine a.m. for a four-thirty o'clock flight, I meandered onto the subway heading to Pearson around two. This was a mistake. The subway was slow, the shuttle to the airport took forever (and, sidebar for anyone who's ridden the 192 bus out there: what is the deal with that one bus stop? It's seriously in the center median of the 427. I have no clue how people actually get there, because anyone trying to wait for a bus would have been killed by one of the six lanes of traffic), the lineup for security was a nightmare, I had no idea how to fill out the customs form, and the departure gate was located in, I swear, a different area code. It was the furthest one down. When I got to the gate, after sprinting for 15 minutes, it said it was boarding for Paris. As in France. I found that they had changed the boarding location, got there, and promptly burst into tears. My sister, who had gotten sick on her connection flight, joined me.
Not a great story for anyone involved, but it illustrates just how bad I am at the whole timing thing while traveling. My dad, who is afraid of the border police and practically salaams the customs people, is always nagging me to show up earlier when there's a deadline to make. I pshaw him - fathers are so adorable! - and continue to be the very last person on the train/bus/plane/ferry/whatever, because that is just how I roll. His preference is to get there comically early. Like, if we leave at noon, we start moving at dawn. It's just his way. It makes the rest of the family totally nuts.
Because, let's face it, travel can be mega-boring. The waiting spaces generally suck. They're airless and grimy and uncomfortable, with bolted-down chairs and silent television sets. Airports are harried and anxiety-provoking, especially in the States (Canadian airports are just repositories of embarrassing Canuck tchotchkes and ugly mid-1980s vintage lighting fixtures). Getting there late means spending the least amount of time in those spaces. Granted, I'm woozy from the stress of getting there with thirteen seconds before they shit the doors, but it sort of beats hanging out in places like the Kitchener Waterloo bus station.
I like traveling, and have a bunch of destinations in mind for the next few months. But I dislike actually traveling, as in the act of moving my stupid body from one place to another. The romance of the train is long dead for me, and the bus is kind of embarrassing, and flying is smelly and annoying. My future dreams include a teleporter that doesn't kill you, because getting around is such a drag.
Will I enjoy my weekend away? Oh, absolutely. Chicago is great, and I'm stoked to see my pal. And I'm glad I'm flying back, even though I'll inevitably screw it up somehow and end up in, like, Regina by accident, due to some complicated machinations with passports and stopovers and airline food and customs. Wish me luck. At this point, even the subway might be tricky.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Put The Funny Between Your Legs
Last night, I went to a cycling event, again, because this time of year, cycling events are basically continuous. The warm weather hits and people freak out: they haul out their rusty, wobbly claptrap rust emporiums and go tooling around the streets of Toronto the Good. I love seeing those folks, who are the real winners in the ongoing feud between Toronto's street users. They get to stay warm and toasty in their Mazdas in the winter, and then take the kids down to the lake in May. Who doesn't love that?
While it's true that it's the hard-core, scary cyclists who are the true generals in the war for more bike accessibility, it's Ma and Pa fin-de-semaine, that swing vote, who make the biggest difference in actually getting bike infrastructure installed. The good of the many outweigh the needs of the few. If there were only, like, fifteen cyclists in the city, there would be less interest in creating a viable and usable bike network. But since there's all levels of user rates and interested parties, it becomes harder to ignore.
Although, going to events like the Dandyhorse release party, it sometimes seems like there are only a handful of riders, and many of us seem to be insufferably hip. Don't get me wrong: I love me some hipster effrontery. My bike crush, a mechanic at one of the local shops, was in attendance, all tattoo-bedecked and punch-dancing to Lady Gaga. Cute, hilarious dirtbags are basically the Toronto bike scene's standard-issue participant, and they show up en masse for events like the Dandyhorse launch.
But there's also that complicating factor when it comes to bike hipsters, which is that something that should be for everyone, regardless of taste in music or interest in carbon, has been co-opted. Anyone who's read that David Foster Wallace essay about the State Fair knows what I'm talking about: the urge to turn an idea/event/item into some talismanic thing that is “for us.” Not that people in “the scene” - and here, I'm not talking about the Toronto cycling scene in particular, but any unifying cause, be it American Apparel employees, internet message board users, or fans of the Sweet Valley High series – aren't open to people getting involved with their interests..but they're fiercely protective of their community. That protectiveness can sometimes read as aggression.
Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. I play mama bear to a lot of ideas – co-op housing, or my right to wear unflattering sweatpants in public – but being so immersed in something can strip folks of the ability to see the absurd side of their interest. Even though the bike community in Toronto is frothing with hipsters, their ability to poke fun at stuff they hold dear is not well documented. (And I have to interject here, because I'm not sure if I'm a hipster [if only there was some sort of quiz I could take!], so my use of of “they” and “their” might well include me, unflattering sweatpants notwithstanding.) Other stuff, sure: Lady Gaga is totally fair game, but mock their top tube cozies and you'll be rewarded with a withering snit and epic eye rolling.
I think that, in order to become a legitimate driving force in cities, especially Toronto, the bike scene would do well to hone its sense of humour. Anyone who's slogged through an August rainstorm on two wheels knows that bikes aren't exactly the most dignified way of getting around (although they're practically stately compared to Rollerblades, which are just awful). And we can be so snippy and self-righteous, which are two states of being that are so easy to mock. Recognizing that being funny makes you likeable, while being shouty (as is often our way) only endears you the Rachel Berrys of the world.
In short, we need to get over ourselves. The cycling community needs to open ourselves up to being laughed at, to taking ourselves less seriously. Because you know what? That ultimately gives us power. Folks want to help out people they like, and becoming likable is the first step in making the streets for people of all stripes and types.
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