Friday, October 26, 2007

Hocus Poke-Us...

... with your penis! (pronounced "penith" a-la Maya Rudolph's character of Rosa Santiago, a maid of Spanish heritage).

Making no sense making no sense making no sense...

Alls I know is that it's the end of the fucking week, which I am ecstatic about. Yet nervous about. Ecstatic because it's been long and I'm ready to get BIGLIA*, Nervous because I leave for LaLa Land on Sunday... y'all, I hate flying! I didn't as a kid - I loved it... I'd always sit by the window... then 9/11 and the television show "Lost" happened in relative simultaneity... and now I absolutely crap m'slacks at the mere thought of it... like, it makes me wanna tie up loose ends and say my goodbyes in the event.

I would SOOO take a bus if I was super rich/worked at some cheap-bus rental place (as I'd assume I'd get a staff discount on our already discounted buses, which would make it an affordable-nay-necessary option).

But alas, no dice. Anyballs... it's looking to be quite the time. I received word last night from one Miss Rebecca Addelman who's down there right now that she show's are kind of brutal - it strikes me that at their best, they're gonna be like a good night at McVeigh's. Which is a comparison that only people in comedy are going to understand, but meh.

By the looks of things, the writer's strike is going to happen, and on Hallowe'en, of all days. SPOOKY! This article lays it out neatly... far neater than the clothes I'm planning on packing are, I can tell ya that right now... my apt's a mess! Whoa. The entire strike is over residuals, or lack there of, that writers are owed for the wave of downloadable and DVD-packaged content that's boomed in recent years. Apparently, the last time the Writer's Guild's contracts were negotiated (every time I see/say/hear that word, it's like John Travolta as Edna Turnblad in "Hairspray"... neg-eeeowww-shiated... drives me nuts...) was before this boom happened or was foreseeable. So yeah.

It does, however, give me a renewed 'discovery' fantasy about my whole LA excursion that I was sorely lacking before: Because of the writer's strike, producers and network brass will be scouring LA's comedy clubs desperate for non-union comedians, specifically Canadian non-union talent who will work for a green card and some graham crackers.

IT'S TOTALLY GONNA HAPPEN! I'm using the secret! SECRET!

In other news:

Tonight I'm doing a show at a little, intimate joint called "Bread & Circus" in Kensington Market called "Dragons of Comedy". It's hosted by the divine Dawn Whitwell and features the strongest lineup I've played on all-year excluding, of course, every single Bitch Salad that's either happened and/or been conceived of. On tonight's lineup: Me, Debra DiGiovanni, Gavin Stephens, Laurie Elliott, sketch by Aurora Browne & Carolyn Taylor, and improv by Lisa Merchant & Jan Caruana. NUTS! Do you even know how good that fucking lineup is???!!!

I'll be trying the set that I want to do for LA out tonight - so it'll be neutered of its Canadian references. Namely: TTC, Brockville & Jann Arden. TTC's being changed to 'bus'. Brockville's being changed to 'Canada'. Jann Arden's being changed to "Carnie Wilson... PRE-bypass..." Hopefully it all goes swimmingly.

Then I'm off to a Hallow e'en function at Buddies called "Boo Bitch" where I'm acting as """"celebrity judge"""" alongside babelicious Nicole Arbour for a costume contest. Here's a hint to you if you're there and want to win: Make out with me and you'll emerge victorious.


That's right... it's our annual Hallowe'en party... bewitchingly titled "Hocus Poke-us" this year...

It'll be nuts as per usual. I'll have a ton of photos, as per usual. That I'll try my damnedest to blog about as soon as possible, as per usual. But will probably be distracted by something shiny, as per usual.


If you live in LA, which a few of you that I've heard from but brilliantly not kept remotely active contact with do, come down to the McCadden Place Theatre either Monday, October 29th and/or November 1st... that would be sweet...

Wish me the safest trip ever and know that I'll be crapping myself for approximately 6 hours betwixt 6:30 Eastern time and 8:45 Pacific Time...

Smell ya sooner rather than later,

--- Aj

*Short form for "Booze In Gut, Legs In Air"... i.e. be a drunken slut...

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Something to think about...

Cowboys, Indians...

So last night was one of the fucking highlights of my life, although I've been so busy, I haven't been able to digest it nor even anticipate digesting it ---

For, you see, yesterevening, I sat down for an interview with none-other-than PAUL BELLINI!!! There he is, pictured to the left, to the left... for those of you who don't know who the man is, A.) you should be repeatedly branded with a live cattle poker square in your perineum, dumbass, B.) he was one of the writers and creators of one of the seminal comedy programs of mine and many others' youth, "Kids In The Hall". He was frequently featured on camera during the run of the show, wearing a towel in the most unlikeliest of situations.

"Kids In The Hall" was the shit. I caught onto it considerably later... when it was rerun on Comedy Central... I'd watch it every day at 4 after school - we're talkin' mid-late 90's-ish. As far as I'm concerned the Kids In The Hall were the Monty Python of their generation - their humour, style, tonality, phrasing, content, everything was so distinctly theirs and I think their influence can be seen and felt on the construction of a lot of comedy since. Phew.

Anyballs... Paul "had never really thought about it like that before". Which is SO fucking nuts. But, as as with all true brilliance, it doesn't seem abnormal at the time.

So we met for a feature he's doing on me for his column in "Fab" re: the next Bitch Salad - WHICH, by the way, IS NOVEMBER 20TH!!! IT'S GONNA BE RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWW!!! - well actually, it's not solely a feature on me, I'm told. It's sort of a co-feature... on me and - and I can't even believe I'm sharing print with this man, it's so unbelievable - the late Charles Nelson Reilly. Hahahaha. Yep. You know you've made it when... = )

It was an insane amount of fun, and as per usual, I wasn't lacking in anything to say. And there were a few moments that I genuinely had some original insights that I'm fairly certain impressed him - which just gives me the biggest boner of all time. I was able to speak authoritatively about comedy to Paul Bellini... whom I consider a comedy legend.

And after the tape ran out on his recorder - which y'all know it did - he dished about the history of Kids In The Hall. And I think I just sat there grinning, resting my chin on m'hand, listening with undivided attention and childlike enthusiasm for about half an hour or so. It was awesome. And also stuff that I'm not sure if I can divulge here, so I won't. An interesting history, though.

So that was awesome. Without a doubt - one of the highlights of my year. Watch for the actual article in Fab sometime before November 20th...
In other, more random news:

Well, it's not news at all... but...


I was just randomly thinking about this the other day. Maypoles - why were people ever into them? It's just running around a fucking pole attached to a string! You call that fun?! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?

It's like tether ball - WHICH IS ACTUALLY KIND OF FUN - without the tether nor the ball. WHAT THE FUCK?!

Like really - is this how hard-up people were before TV? That a pleasant activity to engage in was holding a fucking rope and running around a pole? A fucking dog would find that boring!? GAH!

I just really don't get it.

I wiki'd maypoles, and even it's history is boring and nonsensical. It's some sort of appropriated pagan ritual and meant to some mix of the sexes. But not really. It's fucked up.

Anyway... again, something to think about...

Smell ya later,

--- Aj

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


Hey muggles...

Sorry about the no bloggage yesterday - it was kind of a big day. Kind of.

Last night I hosted the 2007 Tim Sims Encouragement Fund Nominee showcase. There's the poster to the left, to the left. And no, the one face that could have moved tickets - MINE - was not originally on it. So, I remedied that. Too little, too late, m'fraid...

No. I'm kidding. They did just fine - the shit was rollickingly sold out, as per usual... filled to the brim with each nominee's respective supporters, nay-sayers and everything in betwixt...

As you can see, this years crop of nominees is an all-male bunch... I guess it was an effort to counter the Vaginapalooza that last year was - am I right? am I right?

Anyway - terrific group of guys who seem to have genuine camaraderie with each other... which is again, so different than the 24/7 cat fight that last year was. Again... kidding... or am I? No... it was just really chill last year... Desiree just kind of did her thing... Nathan, his... Rebecca stressed over her plethora of tech queues... the Roses hummed their optimum pitch in opposing harmonies... and I guzzled back wine and swore a lot... these guys were very different - chumming around fancifully. Really.

I didn't know how fresh in m'memory HOW FUCKING NERVOUS I was last year would be... but it was fresh a daisy. Y'all, I was nervous last year. It was effin peanuts this year - PEANUTS. Well, not quite - I had 8 million points of information to give out in my 'opening monologue'... I basically did 8 new minutes of time about the Tim Sims Encouragement Fund that I wrote from scratch that day. It almost killed me. And it was executed far from seamlessly.

I tried, and succeeded in some capacity, to weave this American Idol comparison to the process of Tim Sims Encouragement Fund... which I will still maintain to my death bed was APT! I then went into this long bit about how it's tradition that they get the unofficial runner up to host the nominee showcase each year, and went through every single pairing of winner and runner up of American Idol, comparing them to myself and Nathan Fielder...

It's like I was sexy, beat-boxin' wigger Blake Lewis... to Nathan's stately, Melato songstress Jordin Sparks...

It's like I was sultry, bulimic chanteuse Katherine McPhee... to Nathan's silver-haired Soul Patrol captain Taylor Hicks...

It's like I was whiskey-slingin' classic rock star Bo Bice, to Nathan's robotic rodeo princess Carrie Underwood...

It's like I was peppy teen queen Diana DeGarmo, to Nathan's gospel-tinged illiterate single mother Fantastia Barrino...

And perhaps in the most telling American Idol-related comparison I can make between Nathan Fielder and myself...

It's like I was smarmy, homosexual balladeer Clay Aiken, to Nathan's morbidly obese velvet teddy bear Ruben Studdard.

Yeah. There was this one woman in the front who SO fucking into that bit. Like, this woman knew her American Idol and I was pounding away at her comedy and pop-cultural G-Spot.

Not enjoying that bit? Nathan Fielder! Well... it's not that he wasn't enjoying it, per se... he wasn't there - MOTHAFUCKER WASN'T EVEN THERE AND I DID A CUSTOM BIT ABOUT THE BITCH! Apparently he's on This Hour Has 22 Minutes, which films out in Halifax... so he's excused... but still... *shakes fist*...

Anyballs... the show went great! I purposely didn't watch anyone's set so I wouldn't be able to judge them and give emphasis or favour to anyone in particular... well, that and my head's just generally up my ass and you'd be amazed at how easily I can kill time admirin' m'own reflection in the looking glass. But yes - everyone got laughs in my estimation, so it's anyone's guess who'll take the crown.

Well, that's bullshit. Of course I have an opinion, but this is hardly a forum I can be candid in - a fact that was tidily reinforced to me this weekend when I was confronted by two people who work on Project Runway Canada regarding my blog proclaiming it to 'suck'.

Anyway - on m'way out, I ran into the one and only Debra DiGiovanni who was fresh off the heels of a visit to LA and a stint at the LA Comedy Festival - which I'm also doing, and heading down to on Sunday. She said it blew. Hard. 20 people there her first night. 11 people the second. Including, apparently, the booker from Jimmy Kimmel.

Wow. Yeah. If I could cancel m'ticket now, I would. But I can't. So I won't. Blah. What with the bush fire currently toppling Malibu and San Diego, and the impending writer's strike set for the 31st, it looks like high season to be going down to LA... cherry on top of this being a good-old-fashioned hell-gig to go to.
Anyway... that's about it... it's really overcast here and I've been reading Rosie O'Donnell's blog all day, so I'm a bit depressed. Sorry for that.

--- Aj

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Don't get me started...


On second thought...

DO get me started.

So here's the deal... Tuesday night I went to Buddies In Bad Times theatre to - shock of shocks - NOT troll for boy beav as per usual, but instead, to actually see a show. Can you befuckinglieve that? It's almost too much.

The show in question was the starter of their 07-08 season, entitled "Arthouse". It's essentially a scattered history lesson on queer culture told through cabaret and burlesque. One of my sort-of-guilty, nerdy pleasures is all things to do with the history of queer culture as I find it entirely fascinating, and this certainly didn't disappoint...

I'm not going to break it down in review formation - go here or here or here to read a far better review than I could give/have time for. It was some extremely fascinating stuff and some very powerful visuals... particularly powerful in the visual department? When Sasha Van Bon Bon and Kitty Neptune came out to do a punk striptease in gorilla masks in an ode to The Guerrilla Girls - a group of feminist artists formed in the 80's devoted to creating guerrilla art to promote women and ethnicity's in the arts. WELL... bitches done stripped down to nothin' but theyze gorilla masks and produced two skinny red boas from THEY VA-J-J's!!! Oyoyoyoyoy.

Y'know, recently I've talked a big game about being a spectator of vaginal performance art - I believe I expressed interested in exploring the when's, why's and how's of that Thai woman who can peel a banana with her vagina - but that's all it was... talk. I simply couldn't handle it! AHHH!

Anyway... the entire thing was fantastic, save for some very random, misplaced tap routine set to the funeral address by the Earl of Spencer at Princess Diana's funeral - like what the fuck did that have to do with anything? The musical interludes were amazing - that dude on the piano had a voice like almond butter and resident chanteuse, Paula Wolfson, was dazzling.

There were two things addressed in this glitzy history lesson that I didn't know about beforehand: 1.) I'm kind of ashamed to admit this, but I had no idea who Anita Bryant is/was. I think I had heard the name before, but assumed she was a tennis player or something.

Just who is Anita Bryant? She's a notable torch singer from the 50's, former spokesperson for Florida orange juice and the most notorious female anti-gay crusader in US history. Yeah. I didn't know that either. Back in the 70's, she lobbied to remove an ordinance protecting gays, lesbians etc from hate crimes.

That's her, pictured to the left, to the left... and yes... that sign DOES say "Save our children from Homo Sexualites". Yes! She was successful in doing this and in passing a slew of other anti-gay legislation - including the law against gays and lesbians not being able to adopt in Florida. Anyballs, this supercunt started to spread her seed of hatred and was one of the leading forces in the mobilization of the 'religious right' - a group that founded the marriage between a religious agenda and political agenda.

One of the most seminal moments in queer history came during a televised news conference that bitch held in Des Moines, circa 1977, when one of the most ass-rockingly awesome gay activists ever through a pie in the bitches face...

Afterwards, she's heard to joke that "at least it was a fruit pie". ZING! Good one, Anita. Bitch, youze lucky that wasn't me who baked the shit. Because if I did, it wouldn't be no fruit pie. It'd filled gonorrhea discharge, schmegma and the unfortunate-yet-all-too-inevitable mixture of lube and fecal matter. And it'd be up in yo face. Shiiit.

Anyballs, happy ending to this story. In 1979, a gaggle of celebrities urged people to join in a boycott against the Orange Juice products that she endorsed, and as a result, bitch was dropped. Then in 1980, her husband divorced her ass and she lost her credibility with the Christian right. She's since filed for bankruptcy twice, had a string of nightclub act flops, and I think she was an alcoholic or something. Whatever. I hope she gets violently raped to death by a Mexican wrestler.

Moving on - something ELSE I didn't know about until going to see Arthouse that I found entirely interesting was a story about an experiment performed on toddlers in the 1960's known only as "The Lollipop Experiment" performed by drag performer Stephen Lawson...

No, it's not how many licks it takes to get to the centre, but rather a fascinating study of the Id and character. It's a god damned shame that I can't find anything about it online, but oh well... here goes...

What happened was a bunch of toddlers were gathered together and given a lollipop. They were told that if they didn't so much as touch the lollipop for an undetermined amount of time, they would be given two. They were then left a lone for AN HOUR. Obviously, some of them succeeeded in resisting the temptation, others failed miserably.

YEARS LATER all of these kids were contacted and surveys were conducted to form a profile. What the scientists found was resounding uniformity in that the kids who were able to resist the temptation were leading normal, functional lives, with spouses, kids, houses, good jobs, stability. The kids who ate the lollipop were wayward, restless, moved away from their hometown, transient in their career, still searching for 'something'... etc... then, the drag queen opened a brief case and dedicated a riveting lip-synched performance of Judy Garland's "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" to "all the lollipop children out there". Nice touch.

Anyway... found that interesting...

Also interesting?
Today marks the 20th birthday of one Mr. Zac Efron.

I thought he was like 16 or some shit.


This makes the raging boner that I and the rest of the world have for him soooo much less wrong. Hurray.

That's right - I've cracked. I'm over his questionable smug and smarm.

Work it, girl.

Work it.

In other news:

Does anyone listen to the radio anymore? Because shit, I know I don't. I'm going to be on Proud FM tomorrow morning at 7:40 AM with the morning hosts Ken Kostick and Mary Jo Eustace...

Two things that are going to prove very difficult about this:

A.) Being somewhere for 7:30 AM.

B.) Not constantly dropping Tori Spelling references. If you'll recall, Mary Jo Eustace is the jilted ex-wife of Dean McDermott, who Tori Spelling snatched from right under Mary Jo's snatch. I'm sure I'll slip up somewhere. Which is why you should listen.
7:40 AM!!!
--- Aj!!!

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Birthday She Wrote...

What a morning!

What makes is 'what a morning'? The fact that I've been squaring off with this hyper-aggressive Asian real-estate agent lady via telephone is what.

Holy shit this bitch will not quit! Remember that Simpsons' when Marge becomes a real estate agent - the episode was brilliantly called "Realty Bites"... awesome! - and she meets a hyper-aggressive Asian real-estate lady named Cookie Kwan who insists that Marge "STAY OFF DA WEST SIDE!"? Yeah... that's who I've been talking to all morning... she's got this thick thick THICK Pan-Asian accent and does not believe in letting other people speak... luckily, neither do I, so I'm able to easily talk over her. She wants in to look at a bunch of suites down at 1 King West, but my bosses aren't about to let her. They're like "tell her we need to talk to her bosses before that happens". Bitch claims she don't got no boss... actually, I'm not sure what bitch claims, because I can't understand what bitch says no way... for realsies, she might has well speak in her native Vietnamese or whatever her mother tongue is because she's not at all audible... anyway, she's not taking 'no' for an answer and keeps asking to be 'transferred' to my boss... and I'm all "no one's here right now and this is the 18th time that I've told you this" and I'm just starting to be an outright smug asshole to her and it's fun because I can and there will be 0.0 repercussions from it... so yay...




That's right - Angie L, star of "Murder She Wrote"/"Sweeney Todd"/"Bedknobs & Broomsticks"/"Mame"-fame turns 82 years young today!!!

And by the looks of it, is no worse for the wear.

Can you honestly believe that? I always thought Angela Lansbury was like eternally 50 or some shit... but no - 8FUCKING2!

TRIVIA: Did you know that one of Angela's sons was a follower of the Manson family, so she put her career on hiatus and uprooted her entire family to rural Ireland for a period in the 60's? Well, he never killed nobody, so by looks of it, it worked like a charm.
I love Angela Lansbury. A.) She really reminds me of my Nana in both physical appearance and demeanour, B.) she's aged more gracefully than a stork soaring on a summer breeze. Wow. That was outrageously gay. Whatever.

Upon finding out that Angela Lansbury is 82, it prompted a conversation in my office... would you rather be dealt the cards that Angela Lansbury's been dealt and act and appear 50 years old for the better part of your life OR be a smokin' hot babe who gets banged constantly for a short period of your life and then get completely busted and unusable for the autumn and winter of your years...

I haven't done a poll in some time, so here's one to mark the occasion:

Who would you rather age like?
Angie or Prissy
Angela Lansbury-stylez
Priscilla Presley-stylez

In other news:

This might be of 0.0 interest to you, but it's mildly interesting to me. It seems that those crazy kids at Queen's University have done it again... The annual ghetto orgy of substance abuse and violence known as homecoming has made some more national news... I remember back at Queen's it was such a big shit deal when homecoming made national news... as not too much happens in Kingston... aside from the more-than-occasional Dan Ayckroyd spotting, this is really all we had.

I have no idea why I included this. I guess mainly because I'm wistfully longing for my University years more and more as I approach the 4 year mark of being out of them...

Viva forever,

--- Aj

Monday, October 15, 2007

big whoop! who gives a bibble? gabba gabba hey.: Canadian Television Edition

Meh. Just another manic Monday.

Welcome, welcome, welcome...

So a few odds 'n ends regarding Canadian television that range from moderately interesting to not-at-all interesting...


This from The Toronto Star:

"Star Daily, one of several Canadian clones of Entertainment Tonight, has suddenly gone off the air.On Thursday, 22 employees of the show – a staple of the specialty Star channel – were given notice they have lost their jobs. The last show was telecast Wednesday.The decision to kill the show was made by CTV, which recently took over Star and 17 other specialty channels from CHUM.The show has the dubious distinction of being the first victim of the takeover – which will make people nervous at other channels.It came as no surprise to insiders who were aware that Star Daily had perilously low ratings – only about 7,000 viewers – especially compared to CTV's daily eTalk, which draws close to 400,000 viewers."It was a case of two similar shows," says Jordan Schwartz, vice-president and general manager of CTV's entertainment group. "We went with the one that made a priority of Canadian content."Most of those who lost jobs were at the level of production assistants."

Hmmm... well hardly surprising. 7,000 viewers? Yikes. My blog pulls in comparable numbers and includes none of the unpleasantness that is Sean Gehon. Shoot. Hardly-er surprising considering that the launch of E! Entertainment Television Canada took all of its American counterparts' programming that was previously featured on Star, leaving it with programming that could only be classified as sub par at best ("This is David Gest", anyone?) But perhaps most unsurprisingly of all is the fact that Star and all its fellow former-CHUM owned & operated channels are now owned by Bell Globemedia, the same media giant that owns CTV and all of its broadcast family. It's long been suspected that the entire former CHUM empire would be quietly and quickly euthanized in favour of CTV - is Star Daily the first nail in the coffin? Time will tell...


Like much of the world, I loves me some Project Runway. It's reality television at it's absolute best and most interesting. I find the American version positively gripping. Not only are the characters within the show incredibly compelling, but they're actually brilliantly talented. The show always resulted in very entertaining, fiery, dramatic story lines and really fucking pretty product. It seemed like a no-lose formula. Seemed.

The Canadian version is soooooo, well, Canadian. Everyone is very polite and guarded. It is so unbelievably mundane! Their sound bytes consist of "I was just hoping that the model was able to walk well. And also, hoping that the judges liked my outfit. As well, I was nervous about going on to the runway. Furthermore, I sure do hope I return next week". Literally. It's that interesting. It's 100% of the formula of the US Version - right down to the white background with the dress form that they do their interviews in front of - with 0% of the buzz.

The best part of the show is Iman and that's not saying much. She seems like the only one who understands that this is a fucking show... y'know? The one that has CAMERAS? That record what you're doing? Intended for broadcast? Presumably, as entertainment? Whatever.

The one thing I couldn't handle was that Iman's Project Runway catchphrase upon dismissing contestants is "I'm sorry. But you just don't measure up." GET IT?! "MEASURE"? AS IN CLOTHES? Oh shit, that's rich. That must have taken a team of writers all year to dream up. If I was one of those contestants, I would have busted up right then and there each and ev'rytime bitch says it. Because I'm Canadian - therein being the problem --- Canadians are way too apathetic for that shit and, by and large, not desperately grappling at their 15 minutes of fame like Americans... therefore, pretty historically bad subjects for reality television.

Anyballs... I probably won't be watching to see who does "measure up".


It is just beyond me what is going through the heads of Lorne Michaels and Marci Klein this season on Saturday Night Live. What the fuck is the deal with these hosts? First it was LeBron James... I can forgive that... they often have waste-of-skin athletes come on... then Seth Rogan... an obvious choice albeit imperfect fit... then JON BON JOVI?! Way to strike while the iron is hot. What the hell was that? WHY the hell was that? He sucked it. He was another musician who comes on that they try to flatter in every sketch he's in and ends up bombing. HANDS DOWN the best part of the night was Maya PK Rudolph's character Rosa Santiago during Update:

Yep. That was the best part. And I am counting Kristen Wiig's Bjork. I'm sorry... I am SO over Bjork impressions. T'might have been funny in 1998, but it's just turned into such a standby party trick for 'quirky' girls in recent years --- kinda like their equivalent to what Borat is for 20-something douchebag dudes. Me = OVER IT! That is to say that I was ever under it...

Anyballs - yes, it's true that if I had my way, every week would be hosted by either Molly Shannon or Alec Baldwin, but this is getting ridiculous. Two weeks from now it's been announced that NBC newsman Brian Williams will be hosting... so it looks like this stunt casting will continue. At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if the next 5 hosts are Barack Obama, Venus & Serena Williams, Tony Danza, Masi Oka and Hootie from Hootie & The Blowfish. Good grief.


Good grief,

--- Aj

Friday, October 12, 2007

That "What The Fuck Am I Going To Be For Hallowe'en!?!" Blog

D'afternoon... it's going to a pretty quick albeit colorful post today...

So it's about that time of year now... when a young man's thoughts turn to those of fancy, and a young woman has an excuse-nay-order to dress like a full-tilt skank for one night... TALKIN' BOUT HALLOWE'EN!

But what to be? What indeed...

... Well thank goodness for the site, because after an exhaustive perusal, I guess I have a few ideas...

This site, of course, rocketed to semi-infamy over the past week or so. One of the leading purveyors of sexified renditions on classic costume concepts - i.e. "Sexy Witch", "Sexy Nurse", "Sexy Vampire"... normal stuff, just 'sexy' - it arguably crossed the line with this "Sexy Anorexic", or, "Anosexic" costume...

The costume, now mysteriously absent from the site's inventory, came with the skeleton dress, measuring tape belt and a heart badge that I assume has some anorexic mantra on it like "nothing tastes as good as thin feels" or something...

And in either a masterstroke of irony or of monumental retardation, it comes in normal and PLUS sizes...

Sadly, that option seems shot straight out da window. But don't fret - there are dozens if not hundreds of other options to make this Hallowe'en your most festive and sharply-dressed one YET!

Options like...

Sexy Pirate Queen!
...Sexy Referree!
... Sexy Valet!
... Sexy Jockey!
... Sexy Cat! Meowzers.
... Sexy Convict!
... Sexy Cab Driver! [Is there any other kind?]
... Sexy Robin Hood!
... Sexy Construction Worker! [Notice the resourceful use of cones...] ... Sexy Mental Patient!
... Sexy Bunch of Grapes!
... Sexy Slot Machine!
... Sexy House!
And perhaps most enchanting of all...

A costume simply titled, "Down For The Count".
You're very welcome,

--- Aj

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Andrew Johnston Looks At The News

Today: An article of interest...

1.) Strip-Search Case Victim Awarded $6.1 Million

Have y'all heard about this? Because I sure as fuck didn't. I need to start watching news magazine shows more... Anyballs... this shit just blew me over six ways to Sunday when I read it...

The scene: All-American girl next door Louise Ogborn is picking up some extra shifts at a Kentuckian McDonalds one faithful evening back in 2004. The timid, optimistic, virginal 18 year-old was just trying to do her part for her family - whose matriarch had fallen ill and lost her job.

T'was the middle of the dinner rush - and WHAT a rush! Out of nowhere, Louise is summoned into the back room by the shift supervisor, whose name is - and I shit you not - Donna Summer. Yes, Donna Summer. Not the Donna Summer, mind you. But a Donna Summer just the same. Donna Summer.

Shift supervisor Donna Summer says that she's on the phone with a police officer who claimed to be on the other line with the store manager. Apparently someone matching Louise's description - pretty, teenage girl in a McDonalds uniform - had stolen a purse from a customer, and by Donna Summer's estimation, Louise was the only one who that could be. Again, not reigning queen of disco Donna Summer, but rather a McDonalds shift supervisor in Mount Washington, Kentucky ALSO by the name of Donna Summer.

Pressing on: What happened next could easily be described as a nightmare. A hysterically upset Louise begged and pleaded, insisting that she hadn't done this and had no idea what they were talking about, and was given a choice: submit to a guided strip search in the store or receive a police escort out of there. I guess she found it 'less of an incident' to go through with the strip search. Alongside Donna Summer's urging that they both follow the orders, Louise was ordered to strip completely naked except for her soiled McDonalds apron. Yeah. This is just making all kinds of sense already.

Being a busy dinner rush, Donna Summer needs to go and check on the store, but the 'authorities' forbid her to leave naked-save-for-an-apron Louise alone. So D-Sum gets some random dude who makes Filets o' Fish to watch her. He storms out of there in bewilderment and disgust. In his place - and oh my God I can't even believe this happened - the """police officer""" told Donna to CALL HER FIANCE and have HIM come and watch Louise.

Within 15 minutes, Donna Summer's fiance, a man named Walter Nix arrives. Again, if you're just tuning in, this is not THE Donna Summer of dancefloor classics such as "Hot Stuff", "Bad Girls" and/or "MacArthur Park", nor her husband Bruce Sudano that I'm speaking of, but another Donna Summer whose fiance's name is Walter Nix. He's 43 and in the extermination business (read: a fucking catch).

At this point, I find it necessary to point out that Donna Summer honestly believes she's simply following instructions and that there is nothing out of the ordinary about this. Okay? Are we clear on this? Because this is where the story starts to get really ridiculous/horrifying.

Now under the watchful eye and persuasive hand of Walter Nix, Louise is ordered to remove her apron - rendering her now completely nude - stand on a chair, and bend over. For what purpose exactly? I don't know, I guess to prove that the missing purse isn't up her asshole.

Then - and this is just about too much - she's instructed to do jumping jacks. Yes. JUMPING JACKS. To "shake anything loose that she might be hiding". Save for a cigarette lighter and half a roll of Tums, nothing falls out. Kidding, kidding. Nothing fell out, obviously. Upon receiving that order, this is where anyone with half a brain would anticipate Ashton Kutcher jumping out of the broom closet saying "you've been very distastefully punk'd". Like COME ON - JUMPING JACKS?!? To shake things loose? Wow.

This gets so much more reprehensibly worse... When she doesn't refer to Walter Nix as 'sir', the police officer orders Nix to take her over his knee and SPANK HER. What's worse? This was all caught on surveillance video and one spanking session alone reportedly went on for 10 FULL FUCKING MINUTES! Yeah. Wow.

Donna Summer kept floating in and out of the back room to check on the action and each time Walter Nix would throw the apron at Louise telling her that she better be quiet. Hmmm. Louise allegedly pleads with Donna Summer to call the police, with Donna responding that she's still awaiting their arrival. This torture at the hands of Walter Nix culminates some three hours later with the 'police officer' ordering Louise to perform a sexual act on Nix. Yeah. Is this still the protocol of interrogation in the American Police system? I smell a rat...

Following this real-life torture-porno, the police officer instructs Donna Summer to bring in someone else - and in keeping with the long line of dead sexy predators, she chooses a 58-year old maintenance worker who refuses to go along with any of the strange demands. Walter Nix gets a little red in the face.

Redder in the face? Donna Summer. To find out that her 1985 album "The Wanderer" was neither a hit with critics or with fans... whoops wrong Donna Summer. Sorry. Okay - Donna Summer THE SUPERVISOR calls store manager Lisa Siddons who the 'police officer' claimed was on the phone the entire time. Yeah, bitch was totally sleeping and all "WTF?" That's when Donna Summer gets a hunch that this entire thing was a HOAX! That's right - a SHAM! A SNOW JOB! FLIMFLAM! A GOOD-OLD-FASHIONED COCK & BULL STORY! Yowwwzers!

So who's to account for this gruesome and sexually destructive game of Simon Says? Through elaborately tracing the use of a single calling card, cops later come to identify him as 38-year-old David Stewart. Not David Stewart, the male half of 80's supergroup The Eurhythmics, but David Stewart, a corrections officer from Panama City, Florida. ANNND this was hardly his first call. Apparently there were incidents exactly like this one stretching as far back as a decade. Jeepers effin' creepers.

What was David Stewart's motivation? To what? Form The Eurhythmics? Probably a vision for a new way to make music and it didn't hurt that Annie Lennox could sing like a bird and was easy on the eyes. What was the other, criminal David Stewart's motivation? A psychologist in the article sites "virtual voyeurism" to feed a "god complex"... he goes on to say that fast food restaurants were an easy target because everything is 'by the book', this is how it's served, this is cleanup procedure, etc... and that once you get them away from the 'manual', they don't have a clue...

There was never enough evidence to convict David Stewart of the crimes, and he was found not guilty. However, no more such incidents have been reported to have happened. Hmmm...

Anyway, Walter Nix, a genuine sexual predator as far as I'm concerned, was sentenced to 5 years for a whack of sex crimes. He pleaded guilty but asserted that he was following orders. Yeah... someone really had gun to your head in order for you to administer a 10-minute long spanking session, sodomize, imprison and humiliate an 18-year girl for three hours. Hmmm... Methinks the whole evening a real 'happy accident' from Nix's perspective...

Suffice to say, Donna Summer was fired after the incident. She was charged with basically everything that Nix was, save for the sex crimes, and entered an Alford plea in that she doesn't admit that she's guilty, per se, but that what she was 'tricked' into doing is worthy of conviction.

My verdict is that this woman is as retarded as bowl of cold gumbo. Jesus in heaven! WHO DOES THAT?!

Anyway... in the end over 6 million was well-deservedly given to Louise Ogborn's family. McDonalds' restaurants was found liable of not warning employees that such a hoax had been occurring for night on 10 years. Try as they might to deflect responsibility - for real... they had a psychologist testify and try to persuade the jury that Louise Ogborn had "grown in some way from the experience"... WOW! - those grease-slingin' motherfuckers had to pay.

Anyway. That's pretty much it for today.

Da-da-da-da-da, I'm lovin' it,
--- Aj

Friday, October 05, 2007

Thksgvng Roundup... err... Rndp...

Hey everybody.

I hope everyone's emerged from their respective tryptophan haze from this weekend. I know I have. Mainly because I don't eat turkey, but that's neither here nor there.

Thanksgiving weekend started with a bang on Thursday night with an annual event I look forward to more than Christmas, Hallow e'en and the season premiere of American Idol combined - THE PUMPKIN PIE PARTY! Hosted by my dear friend, the divine Meredith Shaw, in her nothing-short-of-regal childhood home nestled in the heart of Rosedale.

Pictured the left: the hostess with the most-ess, to say the least-ess. Making her grand entrance popping out of a gigantic pumpkin pie. Only Meredith could manage to emerge completely unmarked by pie innards, by the way...

Anyballs - FUN TIMES BY ALL. I arrived pretty late as I was performing at Yuk's downtown for a crowd made up of people from Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous. Yeah. Not the most festive bunch. I think I ended my set by saying "Thank you, I'm Andrew Johnston! Good night and remember - stay the course!" I was being entirely patronizing. So sporting the mood of absolute career fulfillment, I saunter in there at like 9:30, and get right down to business, mackin' on some pie, y'all. The spread was truly awe-inspiring... every year, bitch manages to discover 5 more species of pumpkin pie or some shit. It's fucking nuts.

Another thing that was f-in' n's was the fag quotient this year. There was a record-high amount of homos up in there - many of whom I didna know. Just something that struck me funny.

As the night wore on, the more 'boisterous' contingent of the party retired to the back deck where Meredith encouraged us to make smores over the open fire. Try as she might, it didn't happen... and believe me she tried. I agreed to assist her in trying to start the smore trend. We toasted smores and over-acted like we were having fun, but kept on getting looks from everyone 'round the fire as if to say, "Stop trying to make smores happen! They're not gonna happen!"

Too bad.

We then moved into her living room/parlour - which looks like it's equipped to host aristocracy - and ogled the Royal Doultons, one of my favourite pastimes at Chez Shaw. Betcha didn't know that about me - I have a bit of an eye for figurines. A bit.

After a blitzed night out a Crews on Friday, I made m'way back to Brockville Saturday on an outrageously packed train... I felt like some sort of Central American refugee or something... only obviously less pungent. There's a bit of a ritual that's developed upon my arrival in Brockville: I get there and am greeted by the Mrs., equipped with smoked salmon rolls and a Diet Coke, because why the fuck should I wait until I get home to binge on niceties. We then make our way to the local Jumbo video where I go in, well-intentioned enough, to catch up on a whack of films I haven't seen. But instead of getting "Evening", "Away From Her", "Miss Potter" and other more legitimate fare, I get "Knocked Up", "Blades of Glory" and "Year of the Dog".

At this point my mom wants to stop at Walmart so she doesn't need to go later. I hesitantly agree. Okay... have y'all been to a Walmart lately? Do you know how fucking HUGE they've gotten?! The Brockville maga-WalMart is easily as big as a stadium. Easily. I was terrified upon setting foot inside. The first thing I see is a sign advertising a missing child that had disappeared two weeks ago. I, in dead earnestness, wondered if the child went missing IN this actual WalMart and still hadn't been found. I really wouldn't rule it out. Wow. Anyway - WalMarts. They're gettin' big. It's nuts.

When I got home, I forewent watching any movie I just paid for, but instead flipped on the TV and what happened to be gracing the airwaves? "UNCLE BUCK"! The John Candy vehicle circa 1989! I don't know how many times I watched that fucking movie when I was a kid... let me tell ya...

So I just simply HAD to revisit it now. As with every time I've recently sat down to reacquaint myself with things I loved as a child, this movie offered a wealth of entendres that went straight over my head as a child. One that jump to mind: They're in the bowling alley. Tia is sitting the game out and this slimy guy twirling a toothpick around in his mouth comes up and starts hitting on her. She says that she can't speak because her throat is very sore. He says "I got a cure for that". As a child, methinks "Cough drops? Lemon lozenges? Throat spray?" - and the greatest thing is that not only can I remember that reference, but I can remember the actual rhythm and thought process by which I digested that. Anyway, as an adult watching it, I automatically understood that he was suggesting she give him head. I had no idea was fellatio was at the time! But I learned... believe me... I learned...

Anyway - revisiting Uncle Buck was lovely. Then came "Year of the Dog", which was interesting... I wouldn't say I wouldn't say I didn't enjoy it... I wouldn't say that I absolutely did enjoy it... It was quite interesting. Molly Shannon was just as delightful as she ever is, and I found her dramatic capability very unexpected and will likely go unappreciated and underused. How the hell sad was it when her dog died? Answer: SO! I was like "moral of the story: Don't become someone who's livelihood hinges on animal companionship."

"Knocked Up" was terrific. One of the best things I've seen in a long time. I love things that can really marry haute comedy and very accessible entertainment value like that. Not since "Mean Girls" do I consider myself seeing that. Naturally, I thought Kirsten Wiig stole the show as the Katherine Hiegl's boss. Naturally, I also thought the shot of the baby crowing was was of the most disgusting things I've ever seen. No. Thank. You.

"Blades of Glory" sucked all the ass, balls and shit in the world. It was just insultingly bad. Talk about formulaic. Wow. Bad bad bad bad bad.

Sunday, after supper, I was treated to a visit by longtime hometown BFF, Laura Di Labio. Drinks were poured, and we started talking about people from high school, as we usually do, and if information is available, what they're up to now. And talk turned to an uber-religious duo, Ross Silke and Sarah McCann. Oh, they were quite the duo. Not a couple, mind you. Just like-minded super-religious BFF. Sarah McCann, quite specifically, was quite an interesting character... I remember I had her on my ICQ back in the bad old days. Her screen name was "-->>@!!!JeSuSfReAk!!!@<<--". Anyway - apparently she's teaching early childhood education now and had a place of her own.

Building on that, what proceeded was us hypothetically discussing further details in her life... if she has a husband (our conclusion: she does)... how she met him (our conclusion: at church council meetings)... how old he is (our conclusion: Old. Like 60's... maybe 70's)... whether or not they've consummated their marriage (our conclusion: Of course. He's got marital rights and God forbid she stand in the way of them)... what she wore the night of (our conclusion: a thick, totally opaque nightgown that would have been raised waist-high for the deed)... how long the physical act of love lasted (our conclusion: 7 minutes, give or take)... what she did afterwards (our conclusion: called her mother [it was only 7:30 PM, after all] and prayer)... and on and on...

Yeah... this lasted far longer than it should have. Look for it to become a new feature on my blog... "Hypothesizing Adult Lives of People I Went To High School With"...

Anyway - that's pretty much it. I promise no more blogs about my life this week.

Also, I'm on an episode of Video On Trial airing all this week. It's on at different times. On MuchMusic. Check your local listings -
Smell ya later,
--- Aj

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Nuit Blance, Jour Noir


Might I be able to post this fucking blog recapping Nuit Blanche today? Might I? Might?

Let's do it.

So following the mighty love-in that was the SNL Season Premiere, the group of us - each one now obsessed with Solid Gold and, as a result, jazz-running across every intersection - headed for the St. Clair West subway... the one in the mega-Lawblaws/the most convenient-thereby-greatest subway stop in the system. We was told that the subway would be open until somewhere in the neighborhood of 4 AM. Not at St. Clair West, though. Nope. That renders St. Clair W considerably less awesome in turn. Fuck.

Anyballs - so we jazz-run up the escalator (pictured is Yerxa, up to his usual hijinks. And yes. I retouched the hell out of it. You're welcome, Yerx), which then saw us jazz-run over to Bathurst and catch a fleet of cabs which we instruct to take us to Trinity Bellwoods park where, we're told, there is a gigantic chocolate stag being carved and its innards distributed for consumption. You: "What the fuck?" I know. I had no idea what the balls was going on m'self.

So we get there, amidst a sea of young-ish people walking around aimlessly and drinking in public. Yerxa made a very good point when he said that it reminded him of homecoming - at Queen's anyway. I don't know if it's like that for you with your respective Alma Matter's homecoming, but at Queen's, the Saturday of homecoming is like this super crowded, rowdy Mardi Gras (loosely translated: Fat Tuesday). It's so rowdy, that it made national news a few years ago and some dude on top of a tipped over car made the cover of MacLeans or some shit. ANYWAY - bottom line: that's what it seemed like.

Here's a picture of the nicest kids in town in front of one of many random art installations - clockwise from the top: Heidi, Yerx, Anth, Caswell, Gail and the nobly squatting Georgia. She's Sheanna's friend from Australia - replete with accent and all. Something Georgia's never heard before: "Oh hey Georgia! You were just on my mind! Get it?! Get it?! Like that song?! 'Georgia On My Mind'!? From Academy-Award winning bio-pic Ray?". She's heard it before.

Anyway - we perused the park as best we could in the pitch dark, and serendipitously enough stumbled upon a plumb-tuckered-out hobo slumbering underneath a tree. I think everyone got about 8 pictures of him. Sleeping next to him. Sleeping on him. Holding their bare ballsack over his face completely unbeknownst to him while he was in a deep, rubbing alcohol-induced sleep. Yeah. Nice. And yes, that really does look like an enormous, drying puke stain that his makeshift pillow is laying on. Faaaancy.

Nowhere to be found? Sheanna. Who, by the way, shared the most perplexing anecdote I've heard in a long, long time: you know how it's fairly common practice to find Thai strippers who shoot ping-pong balls and like out of their ass-ginas? [See: Priscilla Queen of the Desert.] Anywhoozits, she claims to have heard of a local celebrity back in Australia who could do those bitches one better... this bitch, and I don't know how the fuck she does it, but this bitch can PEEL A BANANA WITH HER VAGINA.

If anyone, and I mean ANYONE, can find any information about this woman, please notify me IMMEDIATELY. I need to know how this is done. I just can't imagine it for the life of me. I've been Googe-ling it all morning and have nothing except for some erotic fiction. Come on!!!

Pressing on: eventually Sheanna reunited with the pack, and we made our way over to the evening's main attraction... the chocolate stag. It was just beyond me how a chocolate sculpture of a deer that was unceremoniously decapitated was such an attraction. It was nuts. Not the chocolate - I'm pretty sure it was nut-free. But the crowd - it was slightly out of control. It seemed like a distraction for something shady.

It reminded me of that Simpsons' episode where Marge starts the pretzel wagon, and to drum up publicity for it, they stage a fake parade to "Welcome back Space-Girl"... and Space Girl is just Lisa wearing some aluminum foil atop her head, sitting in a convertible. It really rang home the idea of "if you build it, they will come". I just didn't get it. Ahhh well...
We sifted through some of the tents... nothing remotely exciting... a lot of Scotiabank tents that no one was going near... I guess they thought they could bait a bunch of dirt-poor artist-type 20-somethings interested in mutual funds at 2:30 AM... well they thought wrong. I honestly think the most exciting thing in the 'fairground' was one of those things y'stick y'heads in... I'm sure there's a proper name for it, but who's got the time to find out what they're called...

The real fun of the evening actually happened as soon as we got to the end of the path feeling entirely anticlimactic. For reasons known only to myself, I suggested the group sing the theme song to the show "Cheers", because, I don't know, it's awesome. So we did. What then occurred was nothing short of phenomenology...

People started flocking over to our small circle like rats to the Pied Piper. What ensued was an enormous group singalong of what had to have been dozens of TV Show themes... "The Nanny", "Full House", "Golden Girls", you name it... it was quite surreal. Talk about youthful exuberance... anyway... that's pretty much it... pretty much...

It really didn't turn out to be that eventful of a blog after all. Whatevs.

In other news, I FINALLY got my assfucking ticket to LA yesterday. I leave Sunday night which means that I can still get comfortably blitzed the Saturday before Hallowe'en, which I'm ecstatic about. I'm still slightly undecided about what the be, though. It all depends if I can grow my hair out in time...

Speaking of L.A. - the website is updated - go HERE to check it out. Quite a smorgasbord... and TONNES of Canadians as well. Deb DiGiovanni, Alex Nussbaum, Rebecca's Addelman and Kohler, Mark Bennett, Sandra Battaglini, Jay Malone, the list goes on. Well actually it doesn't. That's pretty much it - but it's quite a list!

There are a tonne of Last Comic Standing people on the bill - the frighteningly hot red-headed chick from Season 4 is on my night! A lot of these people have actually done shit... like any given person has a recurring role on "Entourage" or has recorded a live DVD alongside Paula Poundstone or something... hand's down my favourite comedian is a sassy black number by the name of Cocoa Brown. For the simple fact that when we had to put down what it is we do, and if you're a standup you'd just put "Standup" or "Stand-Up Comedian", SHE puts "Stand-up (but I don't tell jokes, I tell the TRUTH)". Oh Jesus. Why am I not on a show with her. Dammit!

Anyway... s'it for today.

--- Aj

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Memo to:

I don't have terribly too much time today, so let's just get right fucking down to it...

Subject: You done lost custody of yo kids, bitch.
Body: Bright side: You'll have a lot more time to party and drive around with an invalid license.

Hmmm. I didn't think push would actually come to shove, but it did. Wow. She lost custody of her kids, y'all. And hardly kept a low profile because of it - going tanning, checking into a hotel and going to the DMV. There's a fine line between "O-Bla-Di, O-Bla-Da, life goes oooo-ON!" and utter, utter shamelessness, Brit-Brit. Guess which side you're on.

Memo to
Subject: Your appearance at a random Unicef function
Body: Kudos to you for leaving your house at your present weight, with your present hair configuration and general visual presentation. Not something I would do, but different strokes for different folks.

Maybe he's just on his gay period and retaining water. Maybe.

Anyballs, tragic follow-up to this picture. Just mere hours after this shot was snapped, an aggressive easterly wind took hold of Clay Aiken and two other blimps resulting in a three-way collision in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh. The death toll is estimated at 3,000,000 and counting. Oh, the humanity!

For serious, if Clay Aiken had trouble getting barebacked by dishourably discharged soldiers-turned-gay escorts before... I'm guessing that their hourly rates are going to skyrocket now.

Subject: STOP BEING SO SEXY!!!!!!

For real! How is it possible for a baby to be that stunningly gorgeous? I showed my boss that picture today and she was like, "yeah, my babies were never that cute." Mothers will actually conceit that they're kids are visually subpar against Shiloh-Novel - THAT'S how attractive that fucking baby is. Nuts.

What's more adorable? The fact that her parents have enough money and power to buy her all 13 known moons of Neptune if she so desired, but that little cherub's toy of choice is A ROLL OF SCOTCH TAPE! Amazing.

Even more? Can someone please explain those lips to me? They're absolutely out of control. If this kid doesn't get into show business, the world will suffer a great disservice. I can already tell ya what this kid's first gig would be - she could easily fill in as the mouth for the Rocky Horror Picture Show logo if/when it's remade.


Nuit Blanche recap action tomorrow. For real.

--- Aj

Monday, October 01, 2007

Solid. Gold.

Oh wasn't that so clever it just made y'head spin.

K. D'afternoon and happy October to y' and y'rs. My head is currently hazier than a bayou in the deepest part of the deep south. Bayou. Fun word. Does anyone remember that movie "Eve's Bayou"? No? Well it's a good thing I do! It was about a black family in 1960's Louisiana that was headed by a philandering father and the effects that his adulterous ways had on his young, idealistic, protagonist-daughter, Eve.

It ended with a gargantuan bareback orgy-turned-murder-suicide. No. It didn't. It wasn't nearly that eventful. I watched it one overcast afternoon on Cinemax back in the bad old days when I was living in Brockville.

WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT RIGHT NOW???!!! BLAST! I'm making no sense whatsoever.

I just got back from an audition for Futureshop - you know one of those quirky, Dudely Duderson types? The breakdown said "very average looking comedic performer" a-la Seth Rogan/Paul Rudd. I e-mailed me agent back and was like "Really? Really? Wow. Is this what it's come to?"

Apparently - it has. Anyway - the audition saw my 'character' mulling over buying a gift for his girlfriend or giving her a song that he's written instead, that happens to be an 80's power-ballad. So, my Michael Bolton impression came out in full force and stunned all involved. Now my voice is kind of raw and in pain, but it was worth it. I don't know how M-Bo did it all those years. It really took a stripe offa me. And I was just pretending to be Michael Bolton for 5 minutes. He IS Michael Bolton, 24/7/365/80-or-so if he take his vitamins and stays out of harm's way. So golly, is the point.

Anyballs - this weekend was craziness. And the best part is it cost me NOTHING. Friday night was spent at Dance Cave, which I always seem to have an okay time at despite the fact that I'm also so resistant to going. Hmmm. Funny how that works out. Anyway, as the crowd never fails to be straight out of a tickle trunk in terms of their multiformity, there was some dude wearing goth-ified makeup and a mothafuckin' top hat. Naturally, everyone insisted in having their picture taken with him.

Saturday was considerably more interesting. Starting off uneventfully enough - I went shoe-shopping. I bought a pair of white Pumas that look exactly the same as the last pair of white Pumas that I bought. Meh. Then to the gym. - things took a turn for the dramatic on m'way home from the gym.

At St. Clair station - where my gym is - there was a good old fashioned jumper. Yeppers. Someone fucking jumped. As if to say "Not only am I going to end MY own life, but I'm going temporarily inconvenience YOURS in the process. Muahaha". It truly is the most destructive form of suicide. I count subway jumpers right behind belligerent obese people and wayward teenage mothers on my list of "Pirates of my Convenience" on the TTC.

I find out that this is a jumper by politely asking some random mangy girl of Mediterranean heritage who just came up from the station if they had just been evacuated. She gives me a once-over and very snidely goes "... yes." To which I laughed in her face and said "Oooooh... attitude..." It was all I could do to hold my tongue and tell her that if I looked like some gypsy whore straight off the barge, I might not be packin' that attitude, but didna as y'all, them Gypsy's is crazy. They're like starving rabid squirrels - they're just not afraid to die!

No matter... I was super pissed that I needed to walk to Yonge as it's like 5 kms and I just did cardio... and the whole point of me doing cardio is so that I don't fucking need to walk! So this is just counterproductive!!! I took my pissed-off-edness out on an unsuspecting mother out for a stroll with her baby carriage that nicked me in the Achilles' tendon. I looked back at her with an absolutely bone-chilling look of disdain, then turned my head back around and laughed. It was ridiculous. Anyway... I'm extraordinarily long-winded today... what's that all about?

My pissed off-ed-ness was replaced by delicious curiosity when I FINALLY got back home and noticed that it was customer appreciation day at m'local Dairy Queen. Do you know what this meant? HALF-PRICED CAKES. So I went in, just to get the lay of the land, as it were. I was like "Cakes is half-price?" and he's all, "Yep". So I was like, "Oh... I'll have one then!". AND I DID!!! I GOT A WHOLE FUCKING BLIZZARD CAKE. Which I devoured yesterday. It was both incredibly delicious and incredibly shameful... but I'll choose to focus on the positive.

Anyway - Saturday night was important for two reasons: A.) T'was the season premiere of the 33rd season of Saturday Night Live, B.) It was Nuit Blanche... a citywide, high-end installation art-exhibit on the streets of Toronto sponsored by my bank, Scotiabank (pronounced Sco-see-a Bank, of course).

A slew AND I MEAN SLEW of us gathered at Anthony's house in picturesque Clairhurst (that's actually what the neighborhood at Bathurst and St. Clair is called... which is retarded... it's like me calling my neighborhood of Broadview & Danforth something like Broadforth or Danview or Droadfow or Brandviewth or something crazy like that), a gathering made extra-extra special by the presence of none-other than SHEANNA JAMES!!! Freshly back from a prolonged schooling excursion in Australia and back into our hearts! (Pictured to the right w/me and Caswell)

Anyway... SNL was more hit than it was miss - although LeBron James sucked it as much as any athletic figure they for-some-reason get to host, it was positively joyous to see Maya Rudolph back in action. The Penelope sketch made us weak in the knees. The high school musical sketch was hilarious and particularly poignant for one Heidi Brander. That digital short featuring Jake Gyllenhal and Adam Levine of Maroon 5 was glorious. Weekend Update had some sheer brilliance, especially Amy Poehler's "A man in Boston used a crossword puzzle to propose to his fiance. However, this comes 6 months after he used a word jumble to divorce his last wife." That word jumble is pictured to the left, to the left. I figured it would be more effective and less time consuming to just replicate the actual graphic than explain what it looked like, so there.

My personal highlight of the episode, however, was that motherfucking Solid Gold sketch. For those of you who don't know what Solid Gold is/was, I don't blame you. It was before my time, too. But it was fantastic. The best way I could describe it would be to say that it was the "So You Think You Can Dance" of its generation - not in that it was a competition, but that it was a dance show. It was like American Bandstand, or Soul Train, or Hullaballoo or any one of those shows that featured live, lip-sync'd performances by popular artists of the day that went the way of the dodo after the advent of music videos --- except it had a stable of dancers that would execute intricate, pelvis smashing jazz-dance numbers with military execution alongside or behind the artists and most titillating of all, there would be a weekly countdown narrated in movement by the Solid Gold dancers. For some reason, the douche bag who uploaded this clip disabled embedding, so I IMPLORE you to go and watch THIS CLIP of the Solid Gold dancers. And upon watching it, I defy you to not get a boner/lady boner.

A few things of note re: that clip. A.) I'm under the impression, right off the bat, that this show was shot in the 1980's. Just a hunch. B.) If you watched the actual countdown, you'll note that I have every single one of those songs on my iPod right now. Heart, ABC, Starship, oh hells to the yes... C.) How amazing was their routine to Starship's "We Built This City"? Answer: very.

Suffice to say, they became superstars in their own right - much like the So You Think You Can Dance kids did and have. Darcel, Jamillah, Beverley, Elaine, Coolie, Marc, Nicole, Pam. And for some ungodly reason they were big about disclosing their height and weight as evidenced in this almost-surreal clip:

I love it when I can find the exact youtubings that SNL bases their parodies on, and the above two clips were just that. In the sketch, they had an interview portion in which all of the dancers said their names, height and weight and their interests. They ranged from "making vests" to "roasted whole turkeys" to "jazz-walks on the beach". So of course we went apeshit over this, and subsequently jazz-walked and/or jazz-ran everywhere the livelong night. It was like we were the modern day Solid Gold dancers. A point driven all the way home with this promo shot we had taken to commemorate the occasion.

And yes, that is me as Darcel.

That's it for today.

Tomorrow - a recap of our Nuit Blanche, and, corresponding Jour Noir.

--- Aj