I work for the Junos

I mashed my finger in a folding director's chair.

Look who's aging

Tonight was the occasion of my 29th birthday, a lovely evening involving Korean food and awesome birthday presents that included CDs, a rice cooker and a Rue Morgue hoodie. Thanks so much to all my friends for making this such a rad evening. Now — are you ready for THE FUTURE? Who wants to high-five me?



Mike is pensive sometimes about lamps that are near retro-kitsch purses.



Dave is considering wallet-eating as a way of becoming famous.



Leah is so scared of the world that her purse has become the barrier that keeps her sane. Unlike Alana, left, who has clearly lost her shit.



Ken demonstrates the face that all doctors make when they're thinking about shirts.



On the way home, at Markham and Herrick. This is clearly the best way to dispose of unwanted shoes, always.

Go forth, good Toronto...

It's an inspiring piece of art, to be sure, even if it does kind of look like the man in the business suit has found a way to pee the back of his pants. But I guess anything's possible when you're STRADDLING THE GLOBE.

So yeah. This is a mosiac I happened to pass by today, on one of the side entrances of an elementary school between my place and the Little Portugal area of Dundas West. It was named after Canada's most awesome, and decidely non-Portugese, prime minister, the dearly departed Pierre Elliot Trudeau.

A good story, I know. I'm full of them.

Actually, I'm kind of not, which is why it's been roughly 300 years since I last posted on this friendly little blog, which I see has been refocused somewhat towards discussions on Kenny Rogers' beard and amateur fiction. This is, obviously, a good thing, and I hope Dave and Neal keep it up, because really: who's going to pick up the slack? Me? Fuck that, fuckos. Fuck that in the fucking... fuck-nose?

Cough.

Anyhow, things have been pretty busy in the two months since I eschewed traditional Manifest Destiny wisdom and packed up my things to head east, but it's been a good kind of busy. Getting settled into my job has taken up no small amount of time, but I'm really enjoying it so far. I know all my journalist friends (me included, as I always count myself among my friends to keep the number inflated) like to poop on my publication, but you know, it's not that bad. If anyone's to blame for its crappiness, it's the marketing department; for the most part, everyone in editorial just wants to make a good newspaper. Which, really, is all any of us can try to do.

But enough apologies for my employer. On the home front, I've been slowly unpacking all my crap to try and fill my apartment, and I seem to have forgotten how to clean up after myself after but one scant month in my employer-supplied Yorkville condo with full maid service. I hated it at the time — as living on Bay and Bloor is great if all you ever want to do is shop at Ralph Lauren and hang out at Banana Republic — but man, do I miss having people pick up after me. I wonder how much maid service would cost for this apartment. Seriously.

Unpacking and working aside, I've been slowly getting out and about to check out some of the city. Turns out my area's pretty damn nice, offering easy walking access to pretty much any bar I would want to go to and flanked on all sides by the colourful ethnicity of Little Italy, Koreatown and Little Portugal. While the College Street is a pleasant little strip full of nice coffee shops and low-key pubs, I've taken a real shine lately to Dundas West and the aforementioned Portuguese part of town. Dundas has a reputation for being one of the shittier streets in downtown Toronto, and to some extent this is true, as pretty much every major intersection it crosses seems to get instantly poorer and cause garbage and soot to rain from the sky like confetti, but the section between Bathurst and Bellwoods is a pretty hip little neighbourhood full of Portuguese butcher shops, independent fashion boutiques and dingy but cozy coffee shops. (There's also a few hipster bars in the area, like the Press Club and Cocktail Molotov, but I can't say they're among my favourites. The Crooked Star down on Ossington is a nice little place, though.)

But I digress. One of the main reasons I've come to like Little Portugal is the fact that it's actually Portuguese, which lends a certain vacation-y appeal to everything. Just headed down to the Cafe Brasiliano today for some lunch, and I admit to be totally enamoured with the sensation of being surrounded by a totally different culture only blocks away from my place. Old Portuguese dudes arguing, chowderheads in soccer shirts hollering about bullshit, the constant flow of people at the espresso bar... it all jumbles together to create this sense of exhilarating urbanity that's almost flattering to be in the thick of. Why anyone would want to live out in the country, away from all this, totally confounds me.

Alright. That's enough out of me. Talk to you all again soon.