Monday, July 28, 2008

Billy Fuccillo, where have you been all my life?

Hey cookies...

Happy Monday to you and yours.

How was your weekend? Mine was spent with me and mine, as opposed to you and yours, of course. That's right - I went back to Brockville for a familyola reunionthing that was both amusing and informative... I say informative in that it was disclosed that one of my aunts (who shall remain nameless... ... ...) BREASTFED HER KIDS UNTIL THEY WERE UPWARDS TO AND INCLUDING (BUT NOT LIMITED TO) 5 YEARS OLD!!!!


There's a rule of thumb that if you can ask for it, you're too old for it. So, in theory, that could mean two... But fucko - by FIVE, not only can you speak, but you likely have political opinions... fuck, you probably have a list of favourite non-fiction novels by that age!!! NUTS!!!

Further amusement came after my Saturday morning treadmilling, standing in the kitchen where my mother happened to have the local oldies station on... When, y'see, following Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" an extended radio commercial by none other than one Mr. Billy Fuccillo floated o'er the airwaves...

Billy Fuccillo is a bit of a legend in the Eastern Ontario/Upstate New York region... his commercials for the Fuccillo 'Automall' - featuring his signature pronunciation and delivery of the word "HUUUGE!" - are the stuff that dreams are made of. Observe:

Yep. In many ways, I feel as if I was raised by Billy Fuccillo... he certainly feels like part of my family, anyway.

I can remember back in University, during on the sketch shows that I did, there was potentially the most entertaining sketch ever created entitled "Kill Billy Fuccillo" - a takeoff of the "Kill Bill" movies that were ever-so-popular at the time. Yeah. Basically, the sketch revolved around Uma "The Bride" Thurman going after Billy Fuccillo and his criminally insane deals and steals on Hyundai's. I think that was pretty much all there was to it. I can't imagine what MORE there would have been to it than that...

Anyballs... fun times. Also fun times? TOMORROW NIGHT:


Yep. TOMORROW TOMORROW TOMORROW!!! It's, also, going to be HUUUGE!!!

I'm not leaving you with that, though...

Today, the people in my office challenged each other to think of the funniest name we'd ever heard. Robert "Bob" Lawblaw (Bob Lawblaw... say it! SAY IT!) won out, but my offering was a close fourth*... (*fourth was last place. fuck.)


YES. AHHHH!!! I think it's the funniest name EVER! I said that it was the name of the regional manager of the DMV in Brockville - but I was TOTALLY bullshitting... it was the name of a character that Maya Rudolph played in a sketch called "Sheila Choad's Los Angeles Face" - a mock-talk show discussing the joys of botox (click the link to view... it won't let me embed... and you will WANT to see this):

That was for all of you stay-at-home non-moms out there...

Anyballs... UNTIL TOMORROW -

--- Aj

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Since I've Been Go-ooo-one...

... YOU can breathe for the first time...

Not really.

Anyway - HI!!! Sorry I've been so MIA of late. Various reasons. Mostly good. But that's a story for another time...

So what can I possibly tell you? It's raining like cats and dogs here in the T Dot. I'm currently sitting at my desk, presiding over whatever business it is that I preside over, listening to Melissa Etheridge's Greatest Hits like a sorghum-raising, Simone de Beauvoir-quoting lesbo (of note about Melissa Etheridge: her songs kinda sound the same) and watching oodles of obnoxiously precocious child actors and their equally obnoxious stage parents sashay their way past my office door - y'see, as I mention on here from time to time, I work at the Mirvish building, for a company that handles the Mirvish real estate, um... 'ventures', we'll call them... and down the hall from my office is the rehearsal hall, where auditions are often held... this week, they're seeing candidates for the Von Trapp children (in the upcoming Mirvish production of "The Sound of Music" - CAN YOU NOT FUCKING WAIT?!?! YES!!!) - and from what I can gather, they must be seeing the younger ones of the set - so, Kurt, Brigitta, Marta and of course, Gretl - because these bitches look youuung.

Anyballs - a lot of these kids are in for some searing disappointment. Anytime I see one with red hair, it's like "you've got red hair, you won't be a Von Trapp kid."... conversely, anytime I see one that looks remotely 'exotic', they're ruled out as well - basically, unless you look like you could be humming a Nazi anthem whilst you make schnitzel, FOR. GET. IT.

In semi-related news: I saw Mamma Mia! this past Thursday night. Two thumbs DOWN! Gah - I was not amused. But really, I don't know what I was expecting - I mean, it was a farkin' jukebox musical featuring the songs of ABBA adapted from a cheesy-as-hell yet thoroughly entertaining stage show.

Well, strike that, I do know what I was expecting: Hairspray. Which I had pendulous trepidations about... in terms of how effective it would be transferring to the big screen... and then -SHAZAM- it turned out to be fucking amazing. I guess I thought that of Mamma Mia, too. Nope. The whole thing seemed kind of kids-film-esque to me - hokey and edge-less. The text was stale (read: your mom will LOVE this shit... she'll think it's the funniest, most outrageous romp she's been on since "Monster In Law"), there were far too many 'stand and deliver' scenes (in which people sing songs to each other in dead earnestness as if they were exchanging dialogue, resulting in them looking like crazy people) and generally outside of the rules of the contemporary, successful movie musical. Not to mention that there was this insane chorus of Greek islanders that drove me NUTS, pictured in the background dancing b'hind Meryl & co...

Had Meryl Streep not rocked out with her sizable cock out, it would have been absolutely unwatchable. Like, had it been Melanie Griffith or Goldie Hawn or another similar actress of a certain age, it would have been one gigantic pile of barf, but Streep weaved her signature brand of magic. She seemed like she was REALLY having fun and really relishing the experience, which was nice. And she can definitely sing - unlike SOME people I know (*cough*Pierce Brosnan*end cough*)... yeah... regarding: Pierce Brosnan... they might as well have cast Leonard Cohen in the role - BITCH CANNOT DO ANYTHING THAT REMOTELY RESEMBLES THE WORD 'SING'...

And anutha thang!!!: I hate to play logistics police (not really... I actually fuckin' love it!), but the film was rife with age and timing inaccuracies. It's made clear that Amanda "Sophie" Seyfried is 20 years old... Meryl "Donna" Streep is pushin' 60... this would mean she had Sophie in the late-late-LATE 30's... which is a little late in life to be musing whimsically about summer loves in one's diary-ladies, am I right? Anyballs... that's about it...

In other news: I'd be remiss if I didn't make mention of the passing of Estelle "Sophia Petrillo" Getty... I think we're all torn up about it... she was a woman who lived her life committed to two things: tellin' it like it is and being an active senior. Let us have one for Estelle, one mo' time...

Sad. Sad sad sad sad sad.

Don't worry - I'm not about to leave you on that note: here's a clip of Alaina "Rose" Hall, Jackee "Sandra" Harry and Marla "Mary" Gibbs who, thankfully are all still very much with us, from 227 serenading Sherman "George Jefferson" Helmsley with a cover of the Pointer Sisters' "Jump"...

OH - one more thing...



--- Aj

Wednesday, July 16, 2008



I most certainly am. Although you wouldn't know it from the frequency, or rather infrequency, that I've been a'bloggin'...

So where have I been? What have I been doing? Why I haven't I been blogging? When have I been doing all of these non-blogging things? All good questions - each and every last one of them.

Perhaps we'll never know...

One question, however, that I DO rather gleefully have the answer to, however, is what would happen if you combined these two things:

What is the sum?

THIS is the sum...


Horrifying. Actually kind of disgusting. Oh well.

I'm going to see an advance screening of Mamma Mia tonight, and am all too excited about it. I'd say expect a full-tilt spoiler of it tomorrow, but the entire thing is kind of spoiled if you've remotely seen the stage show, which approximately 15 million people worldwide have (which, by the way, is more plentiful than the world's Jewish population, which, at last count, clocked in at a measley 13.3 million... only 300,000 of which are in Canada... yep... the amount of people that have witnessed live stage antics set to the music of ABBA outweigh the amount of people in the world who subscribe to the philosophy that Christ didn't come again, having sex through a hole in a sheet and brisket. BRISKET!!!) then you'll easily know that everyone fucking gets married in the end and they sing us out to "Dancing Queen". Whattheballsever... I loves me some Meryl Streep more than I loves me some life...

So that's exciting...

What else is exciting...


OHHHHH yes. Just under two weeks. Hold onto your hats.

'Til T'morrow...

--- Aj

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

A very "Wanted" review... UNABASHED SPOILERS WITHIN!!!

Really? That's the best I could come up with? Yep. Yeppy yep yep yep.

You know how sometimes you just get a craving for something specific? Like something, if you close your eyes and expend an iota of concentration on, you can practically taste it? For me, those cravings are often chocolate, olives, brie cheese, tzatziki sauce and cinematic instances of Angelina Jolie kicking ass like it's never been kicked before.

So... last night, experiencing a jones-ing for the latter, I took in the latest action-packed Angelina Jolie vehicle, "Wanted". And what a roller coaster ride it was...

Warning: if you don't want to soak in blatant, unabashed spoilers, avert your gaze/gays NOW...

The first thing that struck me is how specific the previews are for movies. In that, the previews for the last movie I saw - Sex & The City: The Movie - were for absolute estro-swill like He's Just Not That Into You and Sisterhood of Travelling Pants 2: The Womanhood of the Venturing Schpants/Jorts... the previews for Wanted were for all for skid-mark sporting dudes - shit starring Shia LaBeouf like Power Guns 2: The Wreckoning or GUNCARS! or something that I would have 0.0 interest in seeing...

Anyballs... we start off at an office party celebrating the bosses' birthday - she's a rotund lady named Janice, very reminiscent of 'Mimi' from Drew Carey. We're treated to an expository voice over by the character of Wesley, played by star-on-the-rise James McAvoy. He talks about how similar his day-to-day existence is and how miserable that makes him.

Apparently he suffers from anxiety attacks - where his heart starts to race, his face gets all red-like, and he processes climactic moments in slow motion.

Cut to: a drugstore, Wesley's getting his prescription meds filled alongside his best friend (who just so happens to be fucking his girlfriend, a fact that he's all too aware of, but meh, what's down-on-his-luck Wesley gonna do about it?) Enter Angelina "Fox" Jolie - who, throughout the entire film, looks exactly like the photo to the left. I'm not kidding - THIS JOLIE WOMAN DOES NOT HAVE AN OFF SWITCH.

She barely speaks in this movie, and when she does, that's the only time she's not perched statuesquely, pouting ominously-yet-seductively. It was amazing to see how many scenes she'd just be looming in the background, observing the scene yet not contributing anything whatsoever other than a static, ominous pout. SHE IS ALWAYS ON. It's amazing.

Even when she fought, she'd still retain her pout. It would turn into 'ass-kicking-pout-face', as per evidenced below:

Yeah. Anyballs. Angelina pops up beside him at the pharmacy counter and tells him that his father, one of the world's greatest assassins, was killed today and the man who killed him - Mr. X - is coming after him. Said Mr. X happens to be right around the corner down the feminine hygiene aisle, and just like that - a good-old-fashioned gun-fight ensues. The Jole-ster manages to finagle Wesley out of there with her into her sexy red car, and a good-old-fashioned car chase ensues.

Blah blah blah blah blah guns guns guns cars cars cars, chase-y chase-y, shoot-y shoot-y, car flip-y into bus, bus crush-y police blockade, the dust settles and Angie and Wesley are still alive, the end. Wesley wakes up in a warehouse where he's surrounded by a cast of colourful characters, and receives the information that he's the son of one of the greatest assassins in the world and destined to follow in his footsteps. Wesleys' all "my father left my mother and I when I was 7 years old" and starts to have an anxiety attack - when the ringleader of these colourful characters, played by Morgan Freeman in what must be his 1,000,000th wise, reverent black man role, tells him that his anxiety attacks are misdirected adrenaline that, when harnessed correctly, would make him a superhuman killer.

Morgan then explains the back story - they're this covenant of assassins carrying out fate's work called "The Fraternity" and up until recently, his father was one of them - the best, until he was killed by a rebel "Fraternity" member who is picking them off, one by one. The only one who can avenge his father's death is him and this is his destiny, blah blah blah. Wesley's still not sold - he goes back to his day job, realizes that his father's substantial assets had been transferred to him (to the tune of 3 hundred million dollars) and starts to acquire his taste for life in the fast lane. This comes to a crescendo when his boss Janice has one particularly zesty confrontation over an expense report and he goes ape shit on her, tell her to shut the fuck up, exits the building, and bashes his philandering best friend/co-worker's skull in with his ergoboard (whatever happened to those things? I used to have one and really liked it... whatever...)

He marches out of the building and who should be waiting for him in her sexy, stealth black car? Why none other than a pleasingly pouty GeGe JoJo, ready to whisk him back to Fraternity headquarters.

All is not so sexy and glamorous, however - turns out Assassin central is really a textile factory. What's that? "A TEXTILE FACTORY? Now I've seen everything" - I know. Then Wesley is introduced to potentially the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen... Morgan Freeman explains to Wesley that the Fraternity is carrying out orders dictated to them by, *ahem*, the loom of fate. YES. THE LOOM OF FATE. An enormous loom that spells out names of people numerically and they must die in order for thousands to be saved or some shit.

After this, Wesley is put through a prolonged period of 'training' - he basically gets the fuck beaten out of him repeatedly and is nursed back to health by way of some sort of wax-bath that stimulated white blood cells... during one of which, the audience is treated to the ample, tattooed backside of Angelina Jolie (I'll be she hated that scene...)

Anyballs, after a montage of many a bloody trials and errors, The Jole-ster and Morgan Freeman come to the conclusion that Wesley is ready for his first job. The Jole-ster accompanies him, and when push comes to shove, he can't do it. He doesn't know why he's supposed to kill someone not knowing if they've done anything wrong... The Jole-ster then explains to him that years ago, there was a little girl whose father was a judge - he was assigned to a case where the accused wanted a judge who wouldn't be so stringent, so a hit was put out on him. This particular assassin - named Phillip Frisk or something - came to the judges house, tied up the judge, poured gasoline on him, burned him, and made the little girl watch as it happened. Then, he took a red hot coat hanger and branded her... Well, THAT GIRL WAS ANGELINA. A fact made BEYOND obvious by the lips on the bitch they got to play 7-year-old Angie... for reals... it was a dead ringer...

Anyballs, Angie says that shortly after she joined the assassins, she found that Phillip Frisk's name had been called by the "loom of fate" some two weeks before her father had been murdered, and whichever Fraternity member had been assigned to kill him chickened out - so that's why Angie always follows through, no questions asked.

Time passes, he finally gets some balls and starts offing people, and decides he's ready to finally take out Mr. X. During a previous confrontation with Mr. X, they find one of the custom made bullets he uses, and somehow traces it to Arabia. Yes, Arabia. So he goes to Arabia in search of Mr. X, accompanied by - unbeknownst to him - one Ms. Angelina Jolie-Pitt, because, y'see, it turns out that Wesley's name was picked by the "loom of fate" and he's her next job. D-RRR-AMA!!!!

Blah blah blah they go to Arabia, and Wesley stalks the dude who made the bullets - played by Terrence Stamp, who some of you may recognize from a slew of action-adventure movies, among them: Phantom Menace, Elektra and most recently Get Smart; but I recognize him as the tranny queen in The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - and, after sufficiently threatened at gunpoint, he clues them in on the whereabouts of Mr. X.

I can't really remember the specifics of how this unfolds, but there's this crazy chase scene on a train that goes through the mountains, Angelina [sexily] crashes a car into the train to grant herself entrance to it and someone pulls the emergency brake as it's going over a bridge high above a truly cavernous ravine. The train cars start to wobble off - this is the part where I shit myself. SHIT MYSELF. I live at Broadview & Danforth, and the subway always needs to go over the Don River on this suspension bridge, and it's basically my worst nightmare that the cars go off the track. Basically - ANYBALLS... Eventually Mr. X and Wesley come face to face, with Wesley dangling off the car, about to fall to his death, when - GASP - Mr. X reaches a hand out to save Wesley. Wesley, having none of it, shoots the poor fucker in the heart... ah well, too little too late, because the next thing that happens is the train car that they were dangling on plummets below. Wesley's alive, Mr. X barely is. Wesley gets up in his face, about to do him in. With his last breath, Mr. X tells him that he, in fact, is Wesley's father and he had been trying to protect him all along - which makes stunning sense really, as Mr. X never shot at Wesley, just the other assassins. Then he dies.

Then, out of nowhere because she's magical, appears Angelina Jolie. Yeah... somehow she stowed away on this particular car that just plummeted 18 miles down a ravine. He asks her if this is true, and she says "yeah... but whatever. His name came up bitch. And so did yours-" and as she goes to shoot him, he shoots the window that him and his apparent father were atop of, and rides his dead apparent father like a boogie board to the river below.

Cut to him waking up in yet ANOTHER wax bath, this time, at a different locale. He's greeted by Terrance "Bernadette" Stamp, giving him the low-down - "your father wanted you to have a different/better life than that of an assassin, he was always protecting you, [Morgan Freeman] is bad news, he takes out corporate hits for people and claims it comes from the loom of fate"-I KNOW! HOW DARE HE BESMIRCH THE LOOM OF FATE?!?!?-"blah blah blah..." Wesley hatches a plan for revanche.

He fills 10,000 rats up with a deadly concoction of peanut butter and gasoline - don't fucking ask me why - puts synchronized bombs on their backs and drives a garbage truck full of them into the textile factory. After the rate bombs explode, he bursts in, guns blazing, shooting everyone in sight - really, the next sequence plays out like a video game... one mounting obstacle after the other, until finally he finds himself in Morgan Freemans' library, surrounded by the core group of the Fraternity, all aiming guns at him.

He then spills the beans that Morgan Freeman has been lying to them and using them for his own financial game and that, in fact, Morgan Freeman's name came up on the "loom of fate" a long time ago and he has the shred of cloth to prove it or something. Then Morgan Freeman is all like "yeah. So? Fuck you! Get a load of this - ALL of your names have come up on the 'loom of fate'..." and he hands them all the proof. Then he's all "Come with me brothers and sisters, and let's all share the feast! Oh... and kill this Wesley bitch before you do... peace out".

Anyballs - everyone thinks his goose is cooked, when all of a sudden Angelina Jolie fires this crazy circular bullet shot that pierces through every single persons skull before throwing Wesley the gun and taking the final blow of the bullet herself. And yes, you can rest assured, she was pouting suggestively until the very, very end.

Anyballs... he can't find Morgan Freeman. He ambles home. Finds that his former father's vast fortune that was transferred to him is no more and he's just all 'fuck it'. The last scene implies that he goes back to his accounting job, same old, same old. Then Morgan Freeman appears behind him with a gun all "some things never change". He spins the dude around, realizes it's not Wesley but instead a decoy, Morgan Freeman swears and gets a bullet through his head.


And that's that.

Anyballs... it was fun... go see it... if ONLY for the unstoppable sensuality of Angelina Jolie...

That's it for me for today. It looks like it's going to rain. Hmmm.

--- Aj

Monday, July 07, 2008

THIS is why I don't tan/Pasty Pride

A jubilant Monday to you and yours,

More on that title in a second...

But firrrrst...

A question: when was the last time you came incredibly close to actually punching someone in the back of the head? Like, ACTUALLY. Like you could feel your fist clenching and teeth gritting together in preparation of a deadly blow? I came within inches of punching someone in the back of the head today, a mere two hours ago. The scene: Approximately 1:30, Post-Meridian. The PharmaPlus in the Metro Concourse, located approximately beneath Roy Thompson hall at streets King & University.

This particular PharmaPlus transforms into a hub for professional, office-type gals betwixt the hours of 12 and 2 PM - lunch hour for many. Lines as far as the eye can see of these gals buying concealer, tampons, hand sanitizer, manufactured Hostess confectioneries, personal lubricant, y'know - that racket. It takes fucking FOREVER to get the cash register as a result. It's just bitch in Reitman's-purchased tasteful-yet-modern sweater set after bitch in Reitman's-purchased tasteful-yet-modern sweater set buying one item at a time and putting it on their credit card.

Today - after getting my boss and I's lunch - I headed over there to get some Diet Coke and some SPF-packed moisturizer (you'll know why in a scant few seconds... trust me) and took my place in line. Today, I was situated behind the most searing assache I've ever come into contact with - it was a bitch who was RETURNING A TOOTHBRUSH OVER CREDIT CARD. Do you KNOW how long this transaction took?!?! AND, the motherfucking toothbrush cost $1.27. ONE DOLLAR AND TWENTY-SEVEN CENTS. And she NEEDED to return it. On credit card. Which she needed to sign for, the fucking cashier needed to sign for, the fucking manager needed to sign for - I'm surprised I didn't need to sign for it. It was EXTRAORDINARY bullshit. She then proceeded to haggle over some Polysporin which she claimed was 20% off in her current coupon flyer - and the cashier was like "yeah... it's 20 off. It says so right there". But this bitch was insistent that it was 20% off ON TOP of that 20% because, y'know, that makes all the sense in the world. CUT TO 5 MINUTES LATER - I'm swearing under my breath and just looking at her murderously. She seems unfazed. Finally, the manager convinces her that the discount has been given, and this bitch waddles away narrowly escaping me actually punching her in the head.

My God I hate these people. Like, I get it - you're desperate for human interaction and the only way you can claim some sort of importance is by needlessly robbing people of minutes from their day. But all I ask is that next time you please go and take this out on a homeless person or something... they'll gladly assume a captive audience with you for a lot less money than it costs to return a toothbrush. AN ASSFUCKING TOOTHBRUSH!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!?!

Gah - sorry. It just confounds me...

Another thing that confounds me...

Do y'all remember Baywatch? How could you forget. Do y'all remember Jeremy Jackson? He played Hasselhoff's character's son - here he is during his stint on Baywatch, looking his age...

Yeah. We all spanked to that at one time or another... ladies, am I right?

Well, here he is PRESENT DAY-

I asked my boss to guess how old he is/was. And my boss (not knowing who he is/was) guessed, without remote hesitation, "early 40's".

Then I gleefully revealed to him that the fellow pictured and myself are the same age. Yeah. JerJack and I are the exact same age (well... not really... he's actually a year older than I am, but at present we're both the big two seven.)

Upon laying eyes on Mr. Jackson, I can honestly say I cherish my vampire-esque aversion to sunlight more than every. HOLY. BALLS. That is Busted with a capital 'Usted. He looks like the lead singer of Warrant/Quiet Riot/Whitesnake/The Scorpions/some hair metal band of yesteryear...

So, to all of you in your mid-late 20's still soakin' up the rays like it's good for what ails ya - it's not. 20-something wrinkles ain't pimples, darlings - they're not going to clear up. They're there forever. Add to that the occasional gray pube, and you might as well go cash in on the 20% discount on Thursdays at Denny's (that's the seniors discount day... I know this because as a kid, I couldn't wait until I turned 55 and older so I could get it... now I feel decidedly different).

Anyballs... that's all the wisdom I have to impart today...

Slather on the sunscreen,

--- Aj

Friday, July 04, 2008

Big Whoop! Who Gives A Bibble! Gabba Gabba Hey

Um... yes...

Haven't done one of these in a while.

The title, of course, pertains to Marge Simpson's catchphrase dismissing trivial inconveniences a-la "Ah well, what are ya gonna do?"... and I use it to sort of title a post that deals with random minutia that doesn't really matter. But before that...

How are you today? I'm splendidly, thanks for asking. It's a super nice day weather-wise here in Toronto, the CEO of my company - David Mirvish - finally got my name right, and I just got a brand spanking new pair of shoes on my extraordinarily prolonged lunch break. Loveliness all around. And tonight I'm joining a group of chums down at the harbour front to take in the sights, sounds and smells of Ladytron to celebrate the birthday of Matt Thomas - the editor-in-chief of Fab Magazine.

Speaking of Fab magazine, make sure you pick up the latest issue, as there's a roundup of pics that were snapped over Pride weekend with hilarious captions provided by myself, comedians Richard Ryder and Dawn Whitwell, and drag divas Donnarama and Daytona Beach. There were like 30+ photos that we needed to caption in a turnaround period of like 8 hours from the time we got them to the magazine going to print... it was insanity... I hammered them out in like 3 hours (that's what she said)... my creative juices had all but evaporated by the end of it... I actually think there's this one picture of a bunch of naked guys getting ready to strike at each other on a wrestling mat that I captioned "Don't Cha Hate Mondays?"... and it has nothing, if very little, to do with Garfield. Ohhhhh brother.

Anyballs... here's some randomness...



Nigh on 20 years ago - June 28, 1987 as a matter of fact - one Anna Wintour began her reign of terror/fabulousness over the fashion industry when she stepped into top position at the world's leading fashion rag.

Pictured, is Anna giving a hearty 'thumbs up' celebrating the occasion (not really). I can't imagine cake was served to commemorate the occasion... maybe ice cubes on Popsicle sticks, but definitely no sort of customary celebratory confectionery (all of those words started with a 'c' and ended with a 'ry'... see that?)

Anyway - it's really not worth mentioning for any other reason that me wanting to bring up how fucking obsessed I still am with Anna Wintour - an obsession that I dealt with in great detail in this post. Anyballs... if you read it, you'll remember one little reported habit of hers that struck me as very funny - that she stands in her office, frustratedly throwing pennies from her purse into the garbage as if to say "I simply do not have time for all these 1 cent pieces!!! *Angry shriek*"... well I was speaking about this over the weekend, and as it turns out, a lot of people do this. The more I continue to bring it up, the more people come out as being a penny trasher - I HAD NO IDEA. I think I'll make my first foray into investigative journalism on the topic of Penny Trashers... so, if you're a penny trasher who really wants your story told, please e-mail me at - I smell a Pulitzer.


Oh shit. This is terrifying.


The leading culprits in this unholy trend? Empty Nesters (not Richard Mulligan, or Kristy McNichol, or Park Overall or any other cast members from the hit sitcom Empty Nest, but rather sexagenarians who's children have flown the coop). The logic behind this? They want a child again, but they don't want to have to deal with the teenage years again. Sound incredibly wholesome to me. And by that I mean, IT REALLY, REALLY DOESN'T.

All of this makes me feel incredibly at ease about my mom talking to our cat as a result. Because she totally does. She'll totally be in the kitchen, and our cat - Simba - will prance over the cupboard where the wet cat food is and meow, and my mother will repeatedly say "No! No! You just had some! Well what am I supposed to do? Later! No! No!" and really, this thing has just meowed like 5 times but by the 5th time, my mom has lost the argument. Like it actually was an argument - like Simba actually provided points and counterpoints as to why he should have the wet cat food right now and my mother had no other alternative but to crack open the Fancy Feast because Simba's case was so air-tight. It's actually insane.




I thought I'd leave you with that.

Have a great weekend,

--- Aj

Wednesday, July 02, 2008

Pride Diary

Hey stranger,

I know, I know. It's been OVER a week. I mean, c'mon, what is this, late 2006? (I say that, because in late 2006, my blogging frequency was spotty at best. AT BEST.)

Well if ever an excuse was appropriate, t'would have been the fact that this past week was Pride.

T'kicked off Tuesday with the Pride Edition of Bitch Salad, which went famously, thanks for asking. Slight snaffoo: we had to compete with something in the next room at Buddies, entitled Pride Prom. "A costumed prom for gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgendered/whatever youth who all probably give terrible blow jobs, as has been my experience with high school kids", as I put it. They was loud and all ova' the place. But whatever, o bla di, o bla da, sha-la-la-la "Life Goes On" is what I always say. Particularly because no one remembers the short-lived ABC dramedy "Life Goes On" starring a young, pre-Gypsy but post-Evita Patti LuPone.

Following that, a gaggle/whack of us headed to Crews for some much needed karaoke - I, personally, had set my sights squarely on Glenn Medeiros' "Nothing's Gonna Change My Love For You" - ONLY TO FIND THAT, *GASP*: Crews was closed. Due to some sort of liquor violation. Can anyone say catastrophe? Probably not if you're dislexic, but that problem is a horse of entirely different colour. Anyballs - yeah. Can you imagine? Crews - Toronto's premiere cover-free, gay-&-lesbian-mixed hotspot which boasts an exceptionally rude and belligerent bar staff - closed?! FOR PRIDE?! Wow.

Anyballs, Wednesday night I took part in a seemingly never-ending Pride edition of Spirits Open Mic, hosted by the incomparable Jo-Anna Downey - WHO, by the by, was on the Pride Edition of Bitch Salad the night previous, and, by the by, received what I might consider my best introduction yet: "What do our first guest of the evening and Maple Leaf Gardens, Sam The Record Man and the GM Plant in Oshawa all have in common? They're all venerable, life-giving landmarks of the Greater Toronto Area. However, what do those things NOT have in common with our first guest of the evening: she's still open and serving the public". Eat your fucking heart out, Bruce Vilanch.

B'anyway - besides being a very late night, fun times continued to ensue there. Thursday I forced myself to have a very low-key day, despite the fact that I had the photo shoot for the next Bitch Salad... expect to have details about that crammed in your face very shortly. After that ended at like, 7:45, I decided to treat myself to a cab home. It was frivolous, but y'know when sometimes, you're just so fucking tired that you'd rather make love to a cactus froggystyle than take the TTC? Well, that's how I felt.

Friday was supposed to be a day off for me, but I had to come into work for a half-day. Boo. This was particularly 'boo' as a gaggle of my friends were heading to Canada's motherfucking Wonderland including, but not limited to Heidi, Yerxa and Bort (YES! BORT. I MISSED A DAY AT WONDERLAND WITH BORT). I haven't been to Wonderland since I was like 11. I miss it. Especially Smurfland. I seem to recall somebody telling me that Smurfland closed. Or maybe it was a nightmare I had - a terrible, terrible nightmare that can't be true - because Smurfland was the shit. Anyballs...

I spent the afternoon doing some last minute Pride weekend shopping. I was super dead-set on buying shoes, but was wearing flip-flops, and didn't want any of that fucking 'you have to put on the store sock' action, so that's still on m'to-do list. Following a perfunctory nap, I headed over to an already-swinging pre party after which we were apparently to 'head to Church, and see what happens'. Church St. was pandemonium. PANDEMONIUM. Holy balls. Do you know the only place we could get into? This random Vietnamese restaurant that no one ever knew existed and even this place was PACKED. We all did shots of tequila, drunkenly heckled the Vietnamese waitress like we were the most entertaining beings on the face of the planet (which, no doubt, we were), and played a game that reared its head three more times this very weekend... 'go around the table and name 80's sitcoms'. Here's how this game breaks down every time:

Someone: Full House!
Someone: Family Matters!
Someone: 227!
Someone: Mr. Belvedere!
Someone: Silver Spoons!
Someone: Alf!
Someone: Facts a'Life!
Someone: Mr. Belvedere!
Someone: 8 Is Enough!
Someone: Webster!
Someone: Roseanne!
Someone: Mr. Belvedere!
Someone: Perfect Strangers!

And so on and so forth... then...

[sometime later]

Someone: ... ... ... Did anyone say Mr. Belvedere?

For real. Happens every time. For some reason "Mr. Belvedere" is that thing that everyone says, but no one remembers anyone saying, but then springs to someone's mind waaaay after the fact. Anyballs - as per expected, I got waaay more hammered than I resolved to (or rather resolved not to), and ambled myself home.

Cut to: Saturday morning. Yikes. Hungover. I blame the Vietnamese. Somehow I got myself functioning and watched the previous days' installment of "The View" - the ladies were live from Vegas all week - with guest Bette Midler, who's currently on stage at Caeser's palace taking over the gig once famously held by Celine Dion (I'm sure Bette's great and all, but I doubt bitch can conduct lightning from her hands a-la Celine...) - Anyballs, apparently excerpts from Better Midler's "The Showgirl Must Go On" did the trick because I was off and running in no time... after some obligatory cardio, booze shopping and a crazily painful Nair mishap, all of a sudden it was time to go.

The scene: Buddies for the annual Homo Night In Canada, which, after what I interpreted to be a disastrous appearance at last year, I was invited back to again this year. So hooray for that. I was on last, so I was completely hammered by the time it was time to go on. I don't remember it going badly, though. So there's that. Anyway - fun fun fun fun fun FUN fun afterwards. Basically everyone I know in the world was there, basically. It was like a high-school dance, only with tranny's taking the place that inappropriately dressed 14-year-old skanks once occupied. Then, for one reason or another, at around quarter to 1, I vamoosed. Yep. For no reason at all. Certainly not [necessarily] because I met someone, and, even if I did - which I absolutely did not (necessarily) - I certainly wouldn't discuss it here as I'm famously guarded about discussing my a.) religion, b.) finances and c.) boy-beav. Not that there's anything to discuss, of course. [Necessarily].

B'aaaanyways, after a surprisingly active evening for going home early and [not necessarily] alone, I was plumb-wiped out Sunday morning. Best efforts were made, but despite them, I missed the parade for the first time in like 6 years or some shit... I know, I know, I know... but from what I heard - it was more of the same. Elderly junk on full frontal display, Beefy be-speedo'd dudes dancing on ridiculous corporate floats and more trannys than you conceivably shake a stick at. But, for old times sake (I used to blog a roundup of pictures I'd taken during pride and caption them humorously... now, because I'm clearly moving up in the world, I'm doing that for Fab magazine...) I'll include a photo that jumped out of me - of a chola tranny, bits un-gloriously exposed to the world, who spun down the street in a gigantic hamster wheel. It's really somethin' to see.

I've gotta tell ya, though - skipping the parade was perhaps the best idea I had... I'm usually so effin' tired because of waking up earlier than I humanly would after the night I usually have before it, then going to it, getting sun, then going home, napping, then being totally lethargic for the night - but no... languidly lounging around luxuriously all afternoon was exactly what the doctor ordered, let me tell ya... I then took in the first 10 minutes of a show that I'm presently obsessed with - "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?" - and met people for drinks on the only patio that we could possibly get seated at, the Micky Finns at Church & Carlton a-k-a Hooker Central. After casually swigging back some cocktails (that's what she said), we strolled our way up Church St. It's at this point that I'm reminded how very much I hate crowds. Sheesh. Then we settled at the Artful Dodger where I didn't [necessarily] meet up with someone I didn't [necessarily] meet the night before and have some more drinks.

Why Heidi Brander is the most amazingly entertaining human being in the world, Reason # 1,229,836: After menus were distributed, she ran across the street to a Rabba, bought a $7 jar of Cheese Whiz, ran back, took her seat, and asked if she could "have an order of steamed broccoli... but, could [she] add her own personality to it?" and whipped out the Cheese Whiz accordingly. The waitresses reply: "Well, sure. But we don't have steamed broccoli." So she ordered toast points instead and added her own personality to them.

After a while, we all parted ways. I heard Heidi and Bort went and sang SingStar karaoke at someone's house. Anth had to work in the morning. Yerxa had been passed out for hours after spending all afternoon line dancing in a beer garden. And once again, I [didn't necessarily] go home alone and [didn't necessarily] do nothing. And that was that with that.

That was pretty much it. I took Monday off and it was the second best decision of my life. Last night was pretty low key as well - just some convergence on a back porch in the west end, thinking we could see the fireworks, which we totally couldn't, but oh well. Luckily the night was spiced up by A.) Bort telling us a story from her childhood - or, rather Borthood - about making her severely hungover grandmother barf by farting in the car and B.) The fact that one Dean McArthur can only communicate via showing people youtube clips recently... anyway... he showed us this - an apparently not-retarded contestant on the latest British version of Big Brother -

Just might be the most uproarious thing I've seen in some time. Certainly since the wheeling chola tranny with mangled business above.

So yeah. That's about it. Not the kind of stuff that makes up for an over-week-long absence, but still. It's at least an alibi.

--- Aj