It is a well known fact that I love to play the Bus Hottie game. You know, where you pick cutest person on the bus and stare at them while trying not to get caught. Toronto is an embarrassment of riches for transportational aesthetes and sometimes I even have to choose between two or more. The down side is that the bus, subway or streetcar is generally packed and so I generally settle on who is the most easily visible while maintaining an air of non-stalkerdom.
Today, on the way home from synagogue, the most beautiful guy was standing on the platform waiting for my streetcar. Now, by 'most beautiful' I do not mean your Patrick Demseys or Justin Timberlakes of the world, but rather my ideal, which, while varied, was perfectly encapsulated in this individual. About my height, perhaps a bit heavier due to lack of emaciation, still slender but with some slight padding in the good places. Hair was full, dark and unruly. Pale skin but with heavy eyebrows and stubble, with no sideburns but tufts of regular jutting down. Pouty lips. Soft eyes. We didn't look entirely dissimilar. He was beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to engage him in Eye Contact Wars. He was also wearing the exact same hoodie as I was, thereby confirming my longtime suspicions that my narcissism is so great that I pretty much just want to fuck myself. This, interestingly enough, has also been suggested by others on occasion.
Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out something resembling a tensor bandage with a loop on the end, through which he placed his index finger. He then proceeded to wrap his wrist in the material, which revealed itself to be an elaborate camo-patterned wrist ornament that even gets wrapped 'round the fingers. In other words, it looks pretty badass. So I'm catching glimpses of him in all his prettiness, with his casual yet specific attire and this very intentional accessory and I'm picturing him, as one does, in different social situations with me as my "person" and suddenly thought to myself, "Uh, who do you think you're kidding?"
It became very clear to me that here was this guy without any pretense or uniform and I was dressed in a suit, dress shoes, a kippa in my pocket on the way home from a house of prayer. My boho, rave-y, empoverished-but-happy fantasies are extremely at odds with my current career path. Cause even if he had, as the fantasy went, come over and struck up a conversation, leading to mutual love fallings and all the bliss that my little emo faggy heart has ever wanted, at what point in that haze do I say, "Oh, by the way, I can only really be with a Jew so how do you feel about converting?"
I suppose the big concern that I'm trying to iterate is that what if neither of these worlds is enough? I'm never going to be happy working in a thankless job, completely stifled of creativity, but the relationship that I still desire isn't all that conducive to a leader in a religious community.
There's no epiphany in this post. This just happened half an hour ago. But...fuck.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 09, 2009
10 Fashion Trends That Need To Stop
10. Hollister shirts - I've said it before and I'll say it again: you look like a douche. Aside from the store essentially just being A & F's slightly challenged little cousin, wearing what amounts to a Fruit of the Loom shirt with block lettering on it for $50 just confirms your douchery.
9. Skinny jeans - You know who looks good in these? No one. Even the people that do look good in them still look like disasters. When you American Apparel drones can interchange jeans with lycra leggings, it's really time to stop.
8. American-style sunglasses - of any sort. Venetian blinds, Buddy Holly ('cept for Dan Levi; lurve you), anything but black, white or earth tone...what it boils down to is that if your sunglasses don't make you look like you're a) navigating the streets of Rome of on a Moped, b) stepping onto a yacht in 1966, or c) landing a WWII era fighter jet...just kill yourself.
7. V-neck tees - I love v-necks. To a degree. But when we can see your navel and you're not Rex Harrington, you need to take it up a couple inches. And trust me, a couple inches can make aaaaall the difference in the world.
6. Purple v-neck tees - Yes, these are so bad that they deserve a separate ranking. I love purple as a formal accent, like a mauve shirt or a purple-inclusive tie. But when your entire torso is adrift in a sea of crayola crayon royal purple, one of two things is going on. If you're straight, this is the sartorial equivalent of knitting; it's nothing but a faux-sensitive display to try to win the affects of the af-whore-mentioned skinny jeaned AA skanks. Or Michael Park. And if you're gay, then you're trying to make a statement about how out you are. You know what works better? Public displays of putting a penis in your mouth. Sure, it's a misdemeanor, but if you're that desperate for displays of homosexuality, you'll love prison.
5. Large purses - It looks like you're carting around a patent leather turkey with tassels. It's called a day bag, ladies. You can fit more stuff in them, they're chicer and you can still have a standard-sized purse for your lady junk. *shudder* Lady junk...
4. Tattoos - A little daisy on your ankle is cute. A collection that requires the implementation of a dewy decimal system is not. Seriously, do you know how lame those are going to look in 50 years? Better yet, do you know how lame those look right now? I'm all for self-expression, but if you want badly drawn variations of Microsoft clip art enrobing your corpus, just go out and by an Ed Hardy shirt, fool.
Oh Jesus, I just wanted to bitch about purple V-necks and now I'm stuck with a mother f*cking top ten list. Fail: Vamos.
3. Casual office wear - Dress casual is fine. If you wanna knock yourself at Reitman's and Mark's Work Warehouse, you go right ahead. But if your work outfits include Mickey Mouse sweat shirts, hot pink tanks with the spaghetti straps buried inches deep in your shoulder fat or anything contain a wolf, a bear or a loon, may God drop a cubicle wall on your Frito-eating ass.
2. Retro-Grunge Plaid- Hey, entire staff of Tequila Bookworm coffeehouse, it's not 1992 and Kurt Cobaine has moved on; shouldn't you?
1. Crocs - I'm sorry to leave you on a hack bit, but these really are the rubbery work of Beelzebub. I get that occasionally ugliness maskes a trend. Some are even named accordingly (Uggs). I get it. I think it's moronic. But I get it. This, however... so much ne pas. The colours are barf-worthy, they get filthier quicker than a Flava of Love reunion special and they kind of make you look like a Kiebler elf. So unless you are Rosie O'Donnell, Whoopie Goldberg or Sarah Halmarson...back the f*ck off.
I need to bathe.
9. Skinny jeans - You know who looks good in these? No one. Even the people that do look good in them still look like disasters. When you American Apparel drones can interchange jeans with lycra leggings, it's really time to stop.
8. American-style sunglasses - of any sort. Venetian blinds, Buddy Holly ('cept for Dan Levi; lurve you), anything but black, white or earth tone...what it boils down to is that if your sunglasses don't make you look like you're a) navigating the streets of Rome of on a Moped, b) stepping onto a yacht in 1966, or c) landing a WWII era fighter jet...just kill yourself.
7. V-neck tees - I love v-necks. To a degree. But when we can see your navel and you're not Rex Harrington, you need to take it up a couple inches. And trust me, a couple inches can make aaaaall the difference in the world.
6. Purple v-neck tees - Yes, these are so bad that they deserve a separate ranking. I love purple as a formal accent, like a mauve shirt or a purple-inclusive tie. But when your entire torso is adrift in a sea of crayola crayon royal purple, one of two things is going on. If you're straight, this is the sartorial equivalent of knitting; it's nothing but a faux-sensitive display to try to win the affects of the af-whore-mentioned skinny jeaned AA skanks. Or Michael Park. And if you're gay, then you're trying to make a statement about how out you are. You know what works better? Public displays of putting a penis in your mouth. Sure, it's a misdemeanor, but if you're that desperate for displays of homosexuality, you'll love prison.
5. Large purses - It looks like you're carting around a patent leather turkey with tassels. It's called a day bag, ladies. You can fit more stuff in them, they're chicer and you can still have a standard-sized purse for your lady junk. *shudder* Lady junk...
4. Tattoos - A little daisy on your ankle is cute. A collection that requires the implementation of a dewy decimal system is not. Seriously, do you know how lame those are going to look in 50 years? Better yet, do you know how lame those look right now? I'm all for self-expression, but if you want badly drawn variations of Microsoft clip art enrobing your corpus, just go out and by an Ed Hardy shirt, fool.
Oh Jesus, I just wanted to bitch about purple V-necks and now I'm stuck with a mother f*cking top ten list. Fail: Vamos.
3. Casual office wear - Dress casual is fine. If you wanna knock yourself at Reitman's and Mark's Work Warehouse, you go right ahead. But if your work outfits include Mickey Mouse sweat shirts, hot pink tanks with the spaghetti straps buried inches deep in your shoulder fat or anything contain a wolf, a bear or a loon, may God drop a cubicle wall on your Frito-eating ass.
2. Retro-Grunge Plaid- Hey, entire staff of Tequila Bookworm coffeehouse, it's not 1992 and Kurt Cobaine has moved on; shouldn't you?
1. Crocs - I'm sorry to leave you on a hack bit, but these really are the rubbery work of Beelzebub. I get that occasionally ugliness maskes a trend. Some are even named accordingly (Uggs). I get it. I think it's moronic. But I get it. This, however... so much ne pas. The colours are barf-worthy, they get filthier quicker than a Flava of Love reunion special and they kind of make you look like a Kiebler elf. So unless you are Rosie O'Donnell, Whoopie Goldberg or Sarah Halmarson...back the f*ck off.
I need to bathe.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Chag same'ach and Shana tova a tutti.
That's right, loyal reader(s?), your local fleekinfloygn posts are now available in Hebrew and Italian. I guess that makes me an Itali-Jew. That's catchy. Patent pending.
So mama just left. She was here for about 5 days with my grandmother, attending meetings and then chillin' 5770-stylez with me for Yom Kippur. It was actually awesome. In addition to getting on really well, she'd rented a car, which was AMAZING, though I'd never own a car in Toronto as my blood pressure would go through the roof (Incidentally, my blood pressure is 107/68 so take that, suckers).
It was a very synaoguey time with 5 hours on Sunday and over 7 on Monday. The music was incredibly beautiful, the sermons occasionally interesting and the liturgy presenting me with my same issues with the theology that I always have, though I think I'm coming along way with approaching it philosophically rather than literally. Also, one of the things about Reform I love is the way that they discuss transgression. In more traditional denominations, they pretty much just read a laundry list (what does that mean, anyway?) of things that made you suck; essentially a lengthy elaboration on the basic 7 sins, though I think they are themselves a Christian concept (Sandra?). Conversely, in Reform the approach in much more humanistic, adapted for modern times and insistent that we are all guilty of being douches at times (my term, not theirs) and that this atonement is both individual and communal, which I like very much. Some of the English readings are a bit fruity for me, but I think that's only because I feel that in synagogue, I want to mean everything I say, which ultimately is a good thing. There wasn't a lot of humour in this part of the weekend, what with it being the gravest day of the year and all, but, nevertheless, here's a rough representation of a tableau one might have seen:
Otherwise, adventures with mom were awesome, many of which included large gatherings of little-known family, all of whom were extremely kind but would inevitably would ask that same questions over and over again about my existence in their fair land. I suppose this is natural, but it is exhausting all the same.
My favourite MOMent came, however, not amongst family but strolling down Queen St. W on Saturday afternoon. We'd gone out to make some purchases for a gathering the night, she some wine, me some samosas from the local falafel eatery. As we walked home, it began to rain, so we shared her umbrella, trekking side by side. After a couple minutes, it became apparent that we were both getting wet thanks to size of the umbrella and the natural distance two people put between them whence a-strolling. Mom squeezed in, putting her hand on my waist as I held the umbrella over us both. I didn't think anything of it until my mother, loin of my fruit, says, "Oh, I wonder if everyone thinks I'm a cougar!"
Um, ew. Just...ew.
That's right, loyal reader(s?), your local fleekinfloygn posts are now available in Hebrew and Italian. I guess that makes me an Itali-Jew. That's catchy. Patent pending.
So mama just left. She was here for about 5 days with my grandmother, attending meetings and then chillin' 5770-stylez with me for Yom Kippur. It was actually awesome. In addition to getting on really well, she'd rented a car, which was AMAZING, though I'd never own a car in Toronto as my blood pressure would go through the roof (Incidentally, my blood pressure is 107/68 so take that, suckers).
It was a very synaoguey time with 5 hours on Sunday and over 7 on Monday. The music was incredibly beautiful, the sermons occasionally interesting and the liturgy presenting me with my same issues with the theology that I always have, though I think I'm coming along way with approaching it philosophically rather than literally. Also, one of the things about Reform I love is the way that they discuss transgression. In more traditional denominations, they pretty much just read a laundry list (what does that mean, anyway?) of things that made you suck; essentially a lengthy elaboration on the basic 7 sins, though I think they are themselves a Christian concept (Sandra?). Conversely, in Reform the approach in much more humanistic, adapted for modern times and insistent that we are all guilty of being douches at times (my term, not theirs) and that this atonement is both individual and communal, which I like very much. Some of the English readings are a bit fruity for me, but I think that's only because I feel that in synagogue, I want to mean everything I say, which ultimately is a good thing. There wasn't a lot of humour in this part of the weekend, what with it being the gravest day of the year and all, but, nevertheless, here's a rough representation of a tableau one might have seen:
Otherwise, adventures with mom were awesome, many of which included large gatherings of little-known family, all of whom were extremely kind but would inevitably would ask that same questions over and over again about my existence in their fair land. I suppose this is natural, but it is exhausting all the same.
My favourite MOMent came, however, not amongst family but strolling down Queen St. W on Saturday afternoon. We'd gone out to make some purchases for a gathering the night, she some wine, me some samosas from the local falafel eatery. As we walked home, it began to rain, so we shared her umbrella, trekking side by side. After a couple minutes, it became apparent that we were both getting wet thanks to size of the umbrella and the natural distance two people put between them whence a-strolling. Mom squeezed in, putting her hand on my waist as I held the umbrella over us both. I didn't think anything of it until my mother, loin of my fruit, says, "Oh, I wonder if everyone thinks I'm a cougar!"
Um, ew. Just...ew.
Monday, September 21, 2009
You know, I don't set out to fail at blogging. It, like the tides and unplanned pregnancy among visual minorities, just happens.
Last week I wrote one of my painfully annoying semi-autobiographical fiction 'tableaux', as me and my twos of readers like to call them. Problem is, I can't finish it, posing a problem quite the opposite of my attempts in the boudoir. So now whenever I think of going back and trying to complete it, I distract myself in a variety of fashions.
The latest obsession is Bejeweled Blitz, a Facebook application that one particular eyebrowly impaired Mennonite who has asked to remain nameless has been talking about for a year. Now to be clear, I have never been a gamer or even really a games person. I will indulge, but really only as a visual supplement to an activity that does not require that sense, such as talking on the phone or performing CPR on my fish (RIP, guys. You'll live forever in God's kingdom). This habit started at the tender age of 14 with solitaire and has seen an evolution such that I can actually target major life events by what game I was playing at the time. The list reads not unlike Genesis 2 (suck on that Intro to Religion):
Solitaire begat
Hearts which begat
Freecell which begat
Minesweeper which begat
Spider Solitaire which begat
Bubbles which begat
Bejeweled Blitz
My favourite part of playing BB is that you can send 'Smack Talk', these really passive aggressive messages that you can send to your other friends that play who have lower scores than you. It's really quite mean and I like it. I like it a lot.
My other favourite distraction (other than, like, job hunting) is watching as many youtube videos of Chelsea Lately as possible, looping them to the point where I know them so well they become my Facebook statuses. I'm also oddly attracted to Guy Branum, a frequent panelist on the round table as a Comedian - slash - Staff Homosexual. He is by far the smartest and funniest person on that show (Chuy, the Mexican nugget (read: Little Person) aside). He is also 6'2", bald and roughly 300 lbs and yet...something inside me kinda wants to get wit dat. I've never been a chubby chaser (their word, not mine), but he's delightful with pouty lips, pretty eyes and a bashful look even cuter than Michael J. Park's.
In other news, I am still unemployed, live in a tiny apartment, can't hang shelves and am being Jew-ier than I ever imagined I could ever be. I'm gonna apply for recircumcision next week just for kicks.
Last week I wrote one of my painfully annoying semi-autobiographical fiction 'tableaux', as me and my twos of readers like to call them. Problem is, I can't finish it, posing a problem quite the opposite of my attempts in the boudoir. So now whenever I think of going back and trying to complete it, I distract myself in a variety of fashions.
The latest obsession is Bejeweled Blitz, a Facebook application that one particular eyebrowly impaired Mennonite who has asked to remain nameless has been talking about for a year. Now to be clear, I have never been a gamer or even really a games person. I will indulge, but really only as a visual supplement to an activity that does not require that sense, such as talking on the phone or performing CPR on my fish (RIP, guys. You'll live forever in God's kingdom). This habit started at the tender age of 14 with solitaire and has seen an evolution such that I can actually target major life events by what game I was playing at the time. The list reads not unlike Genesis 2 (suck on that Intro to Religion):
Solitaire begat
Hearts which begat
Freecell which begat
Minesweeper which begat
Spider Solitaire which begat
Bubbles which begat
Bejeweled Blitz
My favourite part of playing BB is that you can send 'Smack Talk', these really passive aggressive messages that you can send to your other friends that play who have lower scores than you. It's really quite mean and I like it. I like it a lot.
My other favourite distraction (other than, like, job hunting) is watching as many youtube videos of Chelsea Lately as possible, looping them to the point where I know them so well they become my Facebook statuses. I'm also oddly attracted to Guy Branum, a frequent panelist on the round table as a Comedian - slash - Staff Homosexual. He is by far the smartest and funniest person on that show (Chuy, the Mexican nugget (read: Little Person) aside). He is also 6'2", bald and roughly 300 lbs and yet...something inside me kinda wants to get wit dat. I've never been a chubby chaser (their word, not mine), but he's delightful with pouty lips, pretty eyes and a bashful look even cuter than Michael J. Park's.
In other news, I am still unemployed, live in a tiny apartment, can't hang shelves and am being Jew-ier than I ever imagined I could ever be. I'm gonna apply for recircumcision next week just for kicks.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I'm sitting here in TO, actually doing work for once in the job hunting field, but naturally I still have my msn on. I'm talking to my friend Sean, whose status is set to Available. Consequently, he appears at the top of the dialogue window as Sean (Available).
This got me thinking: what if instead of indicating physical presence, msn statuses were involuntary emotional indicators, like a digital mood ring. Think of the emotional energy we would conserve if we got this imperative straight out of the gate!
Available would mostly like remain as Available, but here are some others I've thought of:
Away = Distant: despite Johnny Erstwhile's proclamations that he really is looking for commitment, you know the truth.
Busy = Withholding: if you're so busy, then why are you online, douchenozzle? This will tell you exactly what kind of role you really play in this guy's life.
Be Right Back = In Recovery: He's not a bad guy, but there's been some choppy waters recently and he just isn't available right now. There is hope, however, and a potential 'WB' may be in your future.
Out to Lunch = Bat Shit Crazy: 'nuff said.
Appear Offline = Absent: it's over, dude. You're being ignored and phased out from his msn...and his life.
PATENT PENDING!
This got me thinking: what if instead of indicating physical presence, msn statuses were involuntary emotional indicators, like a digital mood ring. Think of the emotional energy we would conserve if we got this imperative straight out of the gate!
Available would mostly like remain as Available, but here are some others I've thought of:
Away = Distant: despite Johnny Erstwhile's proclamations that he really is looking for commitment, you know the truth.
Busy = Withholding: if you're so busy, then why are you online, douchenozzle? This will tell you exactly what kind of role you really play in this guy's life.
Be Right Back = In Recovery: He's not a bad guy, but there's been some choppy waters recently and he just isn't available right now. There is hope, however, and a potential 'WB' may be in your future.
Out to Lunch = Bat Shit Crazy: 'nuff said.
Appear Offline = Absent: it's over, dude. You're being ignored and phased out from his msn...and his life.
PATENT PENDING!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Despite opinions to the contrary, I do not feel even remotely brave laying on this bed in my relatives' house where I've been holed up for the past two days. While I have met some of my goals for this move out east, I generally feel fed up and demoralized with the whole process. I haven't worked in two and half months and while there's no monetary urgency to find employment, I have far too much time on my hands. In the past when I had but a fraction of my day unscheduled, leisure time was like gold and I would spend it accordingly. This summer's lack of regimen has produced nothing but fool's gold, mostly in the form of far too much you tube - six seasons of Golden Girls in a month; three seasons of Britain's Next Top Model in 5 days. My sense of adventure has completely waned along with my social life, to the point where I've even stopped going to the Y, justifying this in my head with thoughts that I'll soon be two doors down from my new building's fitness room. This apathy really began with the funk that occurred after June's serendipitous meeting, but unlike my desire for physical prowess, it has stuck around for going on two months now. There have been some truly great times in there, such as my final week with Chai (a 3 hankie affair), my parents' brief but timely visit this week and my newfound addiction to IKEA. Still, my funk (yes, I'm claiming ownership) has produced some truly weird moments.
With all this free time I even stopped blogging, partially because there's not a whole lot to say, but mostly because I spend so much time with my own thoughts that their publication seems unnecessary. 5 possible unrealized subjects:
-My mother's discovery of text messaging and unfortunate accompanied discovery of my generations cellular spelling: "Wood u take fin out 2nite."
Seriously.
I had to explain to the woman that the director of education at the MB Law Society could afford the 4 or 5 extra characters necessary to make adult sentences. Granted, I also had to explain that there was more punctuation available then just periods.
-The random conversations I've been having with strangers while I've been here. I went on an interview to do subscription sales for the TSO and while waiting I had this really cool conversation with this chick about sexuality in art, municipal pride and race post Obama. I didn't get the job so I'll never see her again, but it was oddly motivating.
-My intense dream about and consequent desire to see the jerk from last June. And October. And January. As cathartic as my reunion dreams can be, they usually force me in love with the person for a 48 hour period that leads to rather awful thoughts, if not actions. I later feel disgust for these feelings, almost like a bad emotional one night stand, but when faced with a reality, subconscious as it was, that brought true happiness at the end of a rather brutal conscious past, it's understandable that these thoughts would occur.
-How saying goodbye to you for the second was inconceivably worse than the first time. Who knew? Honestly, it was the only one that actually made me sad.
-How despite a two month absence, I seriously have nothing to blog about. Sorry. I'll try harder.
With all this free time I even stopped blogging, partially because there's not a whole lot to say, but mostly because I spend so much time with my own thoughts that their publication seems unnecessary. 5 possible unrealized subjects:
-My mother's discovery of text messaging and unfortunate accompanied discovery of my generations cellular spelling: "Wood u take fin out 2nite."
Seriously.
I had to explain to the woman that the director of education at the MB Law Society could afford the 4 or 5 extra characters necessary to make adult sentences. Granted, I also had to explain that there was more punctuation available then just periods.
-The random conversations I've been having with strangers while I've been here. I went on an interview to do subscription sales for the TSO and while waiting I had this really cool conversation with this chick about sexuality in art, municipal pride and race post Obama. I didn't get the job so I'll never see her again, but it was oddly motivating.
-My intense dream about and consequent desire to see the jerk from last June. And October. And January. As cathartic as my reunion dreams can be, they usually force me in love with the person for a 48 hour period that leads to rather awful thoughts, if not actions. I later feel disgust for these feelings, almost like a bad emotional one night stand, but when faced with a reality, subconscious as it was, that brought true happiness at the end of a rather brutal conscious past, it's understandable that these thoughts would occur.
-How saying goodbye to you for the second was inconceivably worse than the first time. Who knew? Honestly, it was the only one that actually made me sad.
-How despite a two month absence, I seriously have nothing to blog about. Sorry. I'll try harder.
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