We rode on this Ferris Wheel one night in Nancy, France, and I still haven’t recovered. I love Ferris Wheels but I’m afraid of heights!
We’re too high, lemme off. I’m asking you nicely.
This is me, making nice.
THIS IS ME FREAKING OUT.
LOOK AT MY STUPID FACE.
STOP LAUGHING YOU GUYS.
Phewf. Glad that’s over.
Why yes, this is indeed a veritable pussywagon.
Look ladies, it’s a Ford Fiesta!
EVERYBODY WET YOUR PANTIES.
This year I have spent way to much time in court houses! Earlier this year I was called in for jury duty for a First Degree Murder Trial (which I blogged about here, and subsequently broke the internet. Hello traffic!), and today I attended traffic court to fight a ticket I received in 2010. Speedy trial, eh? Two years later, I get my court date! That’s justice for you.
Anyway, I won my trial. I went to traffic court once before, about 10 years ago, and the officer didn’t show up so my case was dismissed. This time, the officer showed, so I had to go to trial. I was the only person who had to go to trial at this session, so I watched all the other cases go before the judge and what not, and was the last person to be called forward.
When I was called forward, the prosecutor (a spindly, sour-faced, fraction of a woman whose antic disposition was written in the huge crevices of her face) asked me if the parking officer and I had shared our information and evidence. I said no, so the three of us (the prosecutor, the officer, and myself) stepped aside while court was in session to go over each others evidence.
The parking officer was a bit hyper and kept interrupting me, so I said, “I’d like to finish my thought, you’re not letting me finish my thought.”
The prosecutor then said to me, I kid you not,
“Clearly you’re not going to shut up so let’s go back into the court room.”
WHILE COURT WAS IN SESSION, this green-pants-suit prosecutor hurled profanity and abusive language at me.
Shocked and appalled, I looked at her and literally said, “Did you just tell me to shut up? It’s inappropriate for you to speak to me that way and I find your language offensive.”
She then addressed the judge and said that I was interrupting court proceedings. ME!
Yeah, because I’m the one hurling obscenities while court was in session.
There are signs posted outside and inside that court room which say that abusive language will not be tolerated, yet the court prosecutor hurled abusive language at me (which at best was inappropriate and at worst was offensive) and NO ONE disciplined her.
I won my court case because the parking officer was a bit scattered and contradicted herself on the stand, so the case was dismissed and thrown out. Yay!
But after I left the court room, the parking officer came up to me and said that she found the prosecutor to be “rude and out of order” and that she felt sorry for me when the prosecutor spoke to me that way. Other people in the area, who witnessed her speaking to me that way, also came up to me to express their disgust about her language.
Clearly this prosecutor thinks all people are stupider than her and beneath her, and she has the right to speak to me that way. Everyone is an idiot, right lady? Who cares how you speak to them? You’re a PROSECUTOR!
Well, you may think being a prosecutor means you’re in the upper echelons of society, but really, all it confirms is that you’re a liar, a cheat, a swindler, a hustler, and untrustworthy. And tantamount to that, you’re also filthy-mouthed and lack proper manners.
And let’s not forget, I won my case!
So I’ve sent a complaint to the Attorney General.
Remember, citizens, no one has the right to speak to you that way, especially in a court of law.
Fight the power! Stand up for yourself!
Did I mention I won my court case?
(* above artwork by Deadboy, ‘natch)
EDIT: I’ve also sent a complaint to the Toronto Prosecution Services, and to the Law Society of Upper Canada
I pushed the wrong button while logged into my photo storage service and accidentally made most of the photographs posted on here in March unavailable. They haven’t been deleted, they just have new co-ordinants. I can’t be arsed to go post-by-post and re-insert the pics. So just remember, if you’re browsing my March 2012 archive and see a lot of this:
please note that it’s because i occasionally have brain farts.
If there’s really something in that archive that you wanna see, let me know, and i’ll do my best to refashion that post into something pleasing again.
some of those posts contained excellent street art finds and really glorious photographic work…. including my birfday post! aw, sadness.
stupid brain, imma stab you wif a Q-tip now.
my birfday clusterfuck was a success! first, it started off with this:
LeVar has always been my homeboy, love that man to bits. Such a nice man and so supportive.
After receiving a whopping 200+ facebook well-wishes and 100+ twitter well-wishes (you guys are the apple of my eye), it was time to make my milkshake bring all the boys to the yard.
aw yeeeeah. blue steel.
andrew is great because he knew next to nobody at this party other than me and quickly became the life of it. he’s pretty chill when it comes to working a room and making everyone lurve him.
i honestly don’t mind getting older, in fact, i rather enjoy it. Life feels more immediate. I’m taking nothing for granted, and i don’t sweat the small stuff.
Yaw is another one of those characters that everyone quickly and easily loves. And he is, as my friend teresa would say, a “4 B.” What’s a 4 B?
NEVER YOU MIND.
I think I am more nervous than I care to admit, because right before the party, I was having a little hissy-girly-wank-fest-fit. I became all cranky and moody because I received like 20 messages from people saying they were bailing on my party. I really need to grow thicker skin and a stiff upper lip. As soon as the room filled with my lovelies, all those ornery thoughts were shoved out of the way.
rob, dave, and trevor are the NEW charlie’s angels … rob can be farrah fawcett. HA!
shasheena brought me a gorgeous orchid! i was in awe of its beauty. i am notoriously horrid with plant-care, i never know how much light or water to give them, but i am going to put in my grade-A effort to keep this wild orchid reaching for the sky.
oh for the love of…
i adore my wife SO HARD. she’s so kind and so giving and so selfless.
and she’s got a butt that won’t quit.
sacha was clearly looking in the wrong direction when this photo was taken.
i can’t remember exactly what was being said here that i found so hilarious …. but it was clearly hella-funny. maybe we were talking about how my child-bearing years are now over. FUNNY. oh hai brennan!
chris is such a good photographer because he butters you up right before he snaps your photo, and makes you feel beautiful even if you have chocolate cake in your teeth and eye-makeup-goop in the corner of your eye. right before he snapped my pic, he said “christine you don’t have a bad angle, i never have to retouch your photos.” aw shucks, what a manufactured lie, but i will believe anything you tell me as long as it’s a compliment!
teresa is one of the few people still in my life from high school, i shaved the rest of ‘em out years ago. she makes the cut because she’s kind and brave and sweet and is too nice for her own good. her laugh is infectious and she never has a mean thing to say about the people she loves. oh and because she’s known me for so long, not only has she seen me change, she has LET me change. that’s the greatest thing a friend can do.
palm to palm is holy palmers kiss.
andrew and sofi are now each other’s back-up. in ten years time, expect to see little PapDonalds running around.
woah dave! was this taken at my party, or is it your official headshot for Ocean’s 14?
Scarbage high school girls unite! And we bring the street cred. The only people who spend FIVE YEARS in a Scarborough high school and make it out ALIVE are the tough-as-nails ones.
Andrew and Allegra are the new A-team.
see what I did there?
Shannon‘s a talented lass, she is.
Yaw can’t stop attracting da laydeez.
maybe when the timing is right, ashley and yaw will get married and their children will run the country on a platform of red-lipped smiles and huge biceps for everyone.
*this* close to seeing up allegra’s skirt. dammit.
laugh now, but one day, we’ll be in charge.
this photo is all lips and locks.
yes, it’s true. i gave in to peer pressure and took a sip of champagne.
EVERYBODY SHIT THEMSELVES.
This is probably my favourite photo of the night.
i refuse to have a party without hot men peppering the crowd.
“so i says to mable, i says…”
two men and a lil’ lady.
i supplied my own birfday cake and that sounds kinda sad, but i was rather chuffed with the results. choco cake with almond-milk frosting! i do good work.
reg was so funny. she’s lighting the candles, and because the match burns her skin, she ends up dropping the candle aflame onto the cake. so to prevent the cake from catching fire, she blows out all the candles. WIFEY STOLE MY BIRFDAY CANDLE WISH!
Porno for pyros.
“happy birfday to meee!”
as many of you know, i am full of hot air.
my mouth is huge.
hey fellas! use your imagination!
one year older, one year wiser.
I had a divine birfday weekend, fanks to all my lovely friends for coming out and blessing me with your presence!
You are the people i admire, i appreciate, i adore, i love …. and that i would (separately, at one time or another) like to smack the shit out of.
see you at next year’s birfday piss-up!
(additional photography by Chris Lukhardt, fanks guy!)
it’s my birfday today!
I’M OLD! GIMME GIMME GIMME!
i shant reveal my age here (a lady never does), but i will say that i am still younger than Jesus.
I won’t be blogging until next week because this weekend i’m having a clusterfuck-shitstorm-extravaganza to kibosh all previous birfdays. if you’re a friend of mine, not an asshole, and live in the greater toronto area, you can come along.
let’s celebrate the day of my birth, aka the last time i saw female genitalia.
but hey, the night is young ….
also celebrating a birfday today: jon bon jovi, daniel craig, bryce dallas howard, dr seuss, jessica biel, and chris martin.
you wish you were born on this day now. ADMIT IT.
BIRFDAY BEATS, POSTE HASTE!
Exhibit A! This FUBAR email I just received (name has been redacted to protect their privacy):
I’m really nobody who means anything to you or for that matter of fact not much to anyone unless they want something from me and as luck would have it I have what everyone wants so I guess I’m somebody, right ? Anywho I read your blog listened to you, and took you in as I became very aware you are me, OK maybe not me exactly but in other ways we are the same. I was born a long time ago with normal parents I think and a normal upbringing, well sorta. What I found out about myself I saw in you, yes in you, you see I am an artist who unlike many who are like me and those who wish they were, another words I am an artist that gets paid to be me. So am I me or a product of my environment ? I tend to think of myself as a plant at times and what does a plant need ? Water for one, some light here and there but most importantly I need love. Now at the moment I am not loved save for those who have what I have what I want but it always seems to have a price tag on it. So I do like myself because I am kind and patient, with a lot of emotions to spill here and there, what I am saying is I would like very much to have a friend like you. I am not asking for anything from you but to be a pal and a pair we would make. But who am I your are asking yourself……hm-mm well I am German of Persian decent (Oh I am not really a ******** I changed my name because so many hate Germans however everyone thinks I am Persian anyways) so like you we are Middle Eastern and I of olive complexion. Look Christine I don’t believe in accidents or coincidences as I am a Shia so I believe I needed to write you. Now this is what could happen from here, 1.) You can except my invitation to become friends or acquaintances or 2.) You can spam my email and wonder as you will was that guy a man I should have known, yet you’ll only know if you write me back and see where this going. Remember I ask of you for nothing that is unless you want to give me some light. Well anywho I bet your busy so I’ll say I have to go to save you the trouble of saying goodbye for now. Peace & Hugs – ******
PS: I found your blog when I was looking for images of Polynesian flowers for a client and there you were, I also want to add that your the prettiest Polynesian flower I found.”
Does anyone else smell Velveeta Barfaroni?
This is embarrassing for us both …. mostly him.
(PS since when did “no worries” become an accepted greeting? Did i miss an internet meme?)
EDIT: hey CBC Ottawa!
i wasn’t selected to serve as a juror, so i can now talk about it.
a few weeks ago, i received a summons from the attorney general to attend jury duty selection. citizens of canada are chosen at random, so anyone can be required to fulfill their civic duty as long as they have never been convicted of a serious criminal offence, are legally sane, are medically able to, aren’t in law enforcement or lawyers, and are 18 years of age.
usually, when people get jury summons, it’s not for a particular case, but for a wide range of cases that they may or may not be selected for. however, this summons was for a particular case, and in it, they provided me the name of the defence and crown lawyers, the two accused, all of the witnesses, and all of the police officers involved in this case.
the reason i was given the names of everyone involved ahead of time was so that i could confirm that i, in no way, knew any of the people involved. if i did know any of the people involved, that would be a conflict, and i would immediately be dismissed.
i was summoned for the First Degree Murder trial of Jermaine Gager and Corey Smelie who are accused of shooting Darnell Grant in 2008 in the Jane & Finch area. Grant, 31, died at the scene. at the time, gager was 18 years old and smelie was 20 years old. they have spent the past 3 years in jail awaiting their trial. back in 2008, they were charged with second degree murder, but since this was now a First Degree Murder trial, i guess the crown must believe they have evidence to suggest this murder was premeditated.
i showed up at the superior court of justice on the morning of january 26th. gager and smelie were sitting in the dock in the courtroom as justice steven clark brought the court to session to commence jury selection, which gager and smelie are allowed to attend and partake in the selection process.
there were about 300 other people summoned to serve for the 14 juror places, so i knew going into this that the odds of me being selected were slim to none. justice clark began reading out a long procedural lecture on how things worked. there was a lot to take in.
when it was read out that gager and smelie were charged with “first degree murder, which is a violation of the canadian criminal code,” my stomach dropped and i felt sick to my stomach. shit just got real. surrounded by the government and law enforcement, i suddenly felt the full power of the authorities around me, their ability to revoke all your freedoms and rights as a citizen, and incarcerate you for life. extremely petrifying stuff that i am having a hard time articulating.
if gager and smelie are found not-guilty, they still have spent the past 3 years of their life in jail, and this trial will no doubt be the defining event of their lives. who could ever get over such an event?
we walk around the city all day, enjoying the sunshine and our freedoms, and we never think (or perhaps, we refuse to confront) that at any moment, we could either be dead, or behind bars. i have never been around violence of that extreme nature. never in my life. i’ve never been around guns, really. i’ve never even seen a gun, unless it was on the holster of a police officer. i have never been arrested, and have never been in jail. being confronted with criminality, especially in this degree, scared the living daylights out of me.
gager and smelie each stood up to plead not guilty to the charges, and then the 300+ potential jurors in the court room were called out by their appointed numbers and vocations, and divided into groups of 25. i was called at random to be in the 4th group of 25. group D. we were told to return the following day, the 27th, at 10am to be interviewed by justice clark, the defence and the crown. we were told that if the crown or the defence said CHALLENGE during our interview for any reason, that it was not a personal attack on us, they were just applying their knowledge and experience, and that they could challenge any juror for whatever reason they wanted.
i returned the next morning, and after being shuffled from room to room to room (even at one point being sequestered in a room all by myself, which really fucked with my nervous nature), i was summoned into the court room.
the only people in the court room were the crown attorneys, the defence lawyers, the two accused, justice clark, the stenographer, a court reporter, a few bailiffs, and some unidentified people in plain clothes sitting in the juror box.
i was told to stand in the witness box.
i handed justice clark my completed juror questionnaire. he said, “good morning, how are you?“
“good morning, i’m doing well thanks.”
he looked over my questionnaire, and in his booming but friendly voice, he quipped that i was only the second person in all the jurors they had interviewed to notice that the form accidentally had a duplicate question on it. in my brain, i wanted to say something cute, but i refrained because my nerves were going off and my knees were knocking.
he said that the trial might start on monday, and if i had a conflict with that should i be chosen, they could work around my schedule.
the bailiff then approached and asked if i wanted to be sworn in on any of the holy texts sitting in front of me. i saw a bible and a koran. there was a few other books there (which i’m assuming were the torah and perhaps an eastern religious text) but i didn’t look. i immediately rejected, “absolutely not!”
so the bailiff said i could give an affirmation.
the court reporter asked me to give my juror number which i recited aloud. then she read out a statement which basically stated that i was affirming to tell the truth to the best of my abilities.
i said, “i do, yes.”
justice clark then looked at the unidentified plain clothed people sitting in the juror box, and a woman there said she had no objections. i am assuming she was perhaps a juror foreperson? or someone who helps in deciding along with the attorneys who can serve on the jury. i never found out who those people were.
the stenographer was sitting right in front of the witness stand (where i stood), and she was sporting a huge afro. it was at this point that i noticed the crown attorneys, who were sitting in front of the stenographer, kept leaning to the side to see me. they couldn’t see me behind the stenographer’s afro. i found this internally funny, but was too petrified to laugh, or even acknowledge the smiles emanating from that side of the courtroom. from where i stood, i couldn’t see the accused gager and smelie.
the defence attorney who had a shock of white hair and a small low ponytail approached the podium and wished me a good morning. i smiled back and said the same. he then read his question out to me, which was: given the nature of the trial, did i feel that my judgement or my impartiality would be affected by the issue of race.
through all the sugar-coating, he was just asking me if i was a racist.
i guess i wasn’t expecting that question, because i inhaled sharply. i then stuttered, “oh gosh” and then managed to say through my disbelief and shaking voice, “n-n-no.”
i recall some nervous giggles in the court room. my nervousness was perhaps charming and endearing to everyone else, but this here pipsqueak was about to die of nerves. i was shitting myself.
absolutely shitting myself.
the defence lawyer smiled and walked back to his bench.
the bailiff then instructed me to step down from the stand and to walk in front of the stand, and face the two accused.
i couldn’t see them before because i was so short. so as i stepped down on the floor, gager and smelie stood up.
we faced each other across the court room. i looked them both in the eyes, not knowing which one was gager and which one was smelie. they were so tall (or i’m just redonkulously short). they didn’t smile. they had massive dark circles under their eyes (3 years in prison, 3 years in prison….), and i had no idea why this was part of the juror procedure. their two defence lawyers stood on either side of them and had warm smiles which contrasted sharply with gager and smelie. the first defence lawyer said he had no objection. the second defence lawyer said she had no objection.
then the crown attorney, who was still sitting behind his desk, simply said, “challenge.”
justice clark then said, “okay thank you, you are dismissed.”
and the bailiff showed me out. in fact, i think i sprinted out of there, because i don’t remember leaving exactly.
once out the doors, another bailiff confirmed i was dismissed, and that i won’t be called for jury duty again for another 3 years at least.
i literally threw my hands up in the air and squealed THANK FUCK!
i have no idea why the crown attorney said challenge. everyone who was directly in line ahead of me was also challenged, and everyone that came directly after me as well was challenged.
as i walked away from the bailiff, i stumbled over to the opposite wall, dropped my bag, and had a nervous breakdown.
my heart was racing, my legs were failing, and my lungs were heaving. i tried dialing my mother’s phone number but my fingers were shaking too much, i literally had to hold onto the wall and steady myself.
i have no idea really why i was so nervous. the whole legal proceeding scared the shit out of me. weeks ago when i initially received the summons, i thought it would be super cool to serve on a jury. i’m a writer, i thought, i can mine this trial for storylines. and it’s an experience! and it’s civic duty to boot.
but considering how petrified i was in that court room, i know now that i would have made a horrible juror.
i probably would have cried the entire time, especially during family member’s tearful testimony, or viewing dead body photos, and so on.
and because jurors aren’t allowed to talk about the trials, i would have probably had to cut off all my friends and family for the duration of the trial, retreat into my mind, get all depressed, and have zero support.
i would have been a nervous emo-wreck of a juror.
thank fuck for dismissals.
i finally managed to pull myself together, and walk down the escalators to the main floor of the court house. there, i finally called mum’s number and told her the news. but even after i got off the phone, got all my gear, and was ready to leave, i couldn’t walk.
scrambling, i found a bench in the main lobby, and shrank into the seat.
i was immobilized for 20 minutes. i just sat there … staring at nothing in particular … thinking nothing in particular. lawyers, bailiffs, jurors, and crown witnesses sauntered past me in slow hazes. footfalls echoed. cell phones rang. elevator doors opened. voices echoed.
finally, slowly, i managed to stand up, and i inched my way to the exit. it had been snowing all morning, a big fat christmas-like snow, but now the sun was coming out. removing myself from the whole thing, i pushed through the revolving doors. standing on the other side, i tilted my head back, and for a very brief moment before running to catch the streetcar, i enjoyed the sunshine on my face.
corner of mentana and mont royal, montreal.
i need to rant about something so please indulge me.
yesterday i’m having a long-overdue catch-up and cuppa with a girlfriend of mine that i haven’t seen since before new years, and i’m describing to her in the most animated language (because, of course, i’m naturally animated. ya’ll know me) about a recent clusterfuck that i endured with some losers. we were in a crowded coffee shop with a screaming espresso machine (or is that the cappuccino maker? i have no clue what it is in the cafes that makes that squelching noise) that was drowned out only by the blaring music pumping over the speakers and the noise of other patrons. so i didn’t think anyone was actually listening to me.
truth be told, i wasn’t even aware of other people around me, because i was invested in talking to a friend.
suddenly this hag who looked like she was way past her expiry date turns around and sneers, “can you watch your language, there are children here!”
shocked, i looked at my friend, and we exchanged a nervous giggle because we didn’t expect that.
suddenly the mother with 3 screaming children sitting behind me starts to grunt and roar like a sea monster, “it’s actually not funny….”
i didn’t hear the rest because i continued to talk to my friend, ignoring the unnecessary scene that they were trying to cause in the cafe. i don’t have time to indulge in other peoples leotarded crusades. but through my conversation, i can hear the ornery old battleaxe behind me grabbing her kids and saying something like “let’s switch seats so they can’t hear her” or something like that. i dunno, i really didn’t pay attention.
i always find it FUCKING HILARIOUS when people get offended by things that happen in public places.
first of all, you tired goat, if you don’t want your kids to hear profanity, then next time either reserve the whole cafe for yourself, or DON’T BRING THEM TO PLACES WHERE ADULTS CONGLOMERATE. you’re in a public place, fuckface (hey, that rhymes!).
secondly, all you had to do was politely come up to me and ask me courteously to keep it to a minimum. snapping at people while sporting a face that looks like a collapsed scrotum isn’t constructive and will get you no where. clearly, you don’t give a shit if you’re kids learn manners. i actually didn’t realize other people could hear me above the noise! i was honestly oblivious! and i wasn’t swearing directly at anybody or trying to be malicious. instead of addressing me like i’m a fucking convict, maybe try to treat other people the way you want your kids to be treated, hmm?
furthermore, it is not my responsibility to raise your kids! i’m in a public place, i’m talking to my friend, i’ll swear all i damn well please. when i was a little girl, you know where i learned swear words? not from adults. ON THE FUCKING PLAYGROUND AT SCHOOL. your kids probably already know all the profanities in the world, don’t take your disdain for that fact o’life out on me.
if you don’t want your kids to hear swear words, i would suggest pulling them from school, banishing the internet, television, radio, movies, all books, the street, the playground, buses, subways, all stores and shops, magazines, libraries, public pools, beaches, parks, theatres, rec centres, and of course, cafes and restos.
i swear (pun intended), parents can be the most obnoxious members of society. puritanical, elitist, and hyped up on some kind of moral authority. just because you have a stroller doesn’t mean you can monopolize the sidewalk or the elevator or the bus! keep to the side, and fold that shit up! don’t bring your kids to public places where adults hang! tell them to shut the fuck up in cinemas and to put their goddamn feet down.
and for the love of all things sacred, DON’T BRING THEM ON AIRPLANES AND SEAT THEM RIGHT BEHIND ME.
next time i see a child, i’m going to punch them right in the schnozz to save time.
as you can tell, i may be 30 years old, but i’m not jonesing for motherhood or rugrats any time soon. i’m pretty sure my biological clock is being drowned out by the sound of YOUR SCREAMING KIDS.
last year, my friend casie stewart blogged about a similar disdain she had for other people’s kids, and the internet (and some former muchmusic VJs, of all people) gave her shit for it. i, on the other hand, applauded her for saying something us childless members of society have been feeling for a long time but feel pressured to keep to ourselves because *gasp* how could we?!
omg there’s a woman who has an opinion on children? and it’s NOT “they are the future?“
EVERYBODY SHIT THEMSELVES.
this may anger a few of my readers, but quite frankly, my dear….
What the fuck is wrong with some guys? Seriously, all I did was say hello and happy new years and suddenly I have to fend off some stalkerazzi asshole’s inappropriate advances? Do I have a sign on my back that says “harrass me!”
At the New Years Eve party I attended (which was otherwise lovely, fanks to Guy Gal and Adil Dhalla for throwing a monster righteous evening!), I was introduced to a random fellow (his name and personal details have been redacted in order to protect his privacy) who is the roommate of a buddy of mine. I said hello and happy new years, as you do, and he said that we had met before.
I have never met this guy before in my life, of that I’m sure, but for the sake of being polite, I apologized for not remembering. He said that he is a fan of mine and follows me on Twitter.
Again, for the sake of being polite, I said that I would follow him back on Twitter, so I whip out my Blackberry and search for his profile. When it comes up, lo and behold, it turns out he, in fact, does NOT follow me on Twitter.
“Oh yeah, I unfollowed you because you tweet a lot,” he slurs.
Wow. Class-act, buddy. First lie about following me, and then insult me in the process.
So whatever, I barely blinked. This conversation was four minutes out of my night, and I didn’t even recall this conversation as an important one mere moments after it ended.
In fact, this guy in question had met MY DATE, saw us exercising our legs on the dancefloor, and relieving our basorexia at midnight. Ipso facto, he KNEW I was with someone, so why he thought sending me this DM on Twitter the following morning would IN ANY WAY peak my interest is beyond me.
It took me a few minutes to realize who this was, I barely even remembered this guy. Where am I? Come by for some champagne? Oh yes, please, allow me to drop everything and ditch my date WHOM I WAS STILL WITH and seek you out, oh high and mighty lord of the charming princes.
Before I could even respond, he sends:
LET’S PLAY????? Ewwwwwwwwwwww.
First of all, who the fuck do you think you are talking to a woman you just met like that?
Second of all, never did I, at any point, give you the impression that I was remotely interested in you, so you are suffering from some serious delusion to believe I’d be up for that.
Again, before I can even respond, he sends another:
Oh yay! Now that I have your address, I can roll over, thank my lucky stars, and run to you with my arms outstretched!!!
I don’t know what “I habe cava” means (it’s clearly not English), nor do I know what ” pros, and champs” is , so I’m not sure I can share in his excitement for that fact. But I assure you it’s probably not something I would have enjoyed anyway.
By this point, I was disgusted (and showing my date all of these messages, which garnered a few chuckles), so I politely but firmly wrote back:
There. Brutally honest but polite. Nipped it in the bud. I didn’t go out of my way to insult him, but neither did I girlishly laugh off his fuckery. Let him know in less than 140 characters that I wasn’t interested.
For any normal person, they would have gotten the hint and left well enough alone.
Unfortunately, this fucktard ain’t normal.
First he replies:
OH OF COURSE! Naturally, “let’s play” means “a drink and a chat!” OBVIOUSLY! I don’t know HOW I could have read into that and gotten it all wrong! MY BAD.
Seriously, how stupid do you think I am?
I was satisfied, however, that he said “its understood” so I was hoping that would be the end of it.
Without me replying to his message, he sends again:
First of all, don’t call me “love.” I am not your “love.” I am no man’s “love.” MY NAME IS CHRISTINE.
Secondly, it’s not that we “didn’t have enough time to chat,” it’s that I had absolutely no inclination whatsoever to speak to you beyond our initial introduction. You make it sound like the cosmos were conspiring against us, preventing us from being together. Fuck off with that ludicrous delusion that’s not based in any kind of reality.
Furthermore, “another life, we’ll be cool?” OH YES, YOU AND I WILL MEET UP AGAIN IN ANOTHER LIFE because we are ill-fated lovers in this world and destiny has played a card against us.
WHAT PLANET ARE YOU ON?
Finally, “i’m not religious. swear.” Maybe not, but you’re definitely a coked-out whackjob. I don’t know what your religious affiliations has to do with anything, I’m assuming that’s in reference to your ‘another life” crap, but now your messages sound like the ramblings of an insane hobo.
Again, I didn’t respond, so he harasses me with ANOTHER STUPID DM:
At this point, buddy, that is neither here nor there.
Enough is enough. I told him no, and he keeps bothering me, so I unfollowed him from Twitter so he couldn’t DM me any further.
Did that stop him?
You already know the answer to that question. He then decides to publicly tweet me:
OH YES, THAT’S WHAT I’M GOING TO DO. I’m going to put myself in a situation where you can “make it up to me.” In your brain, that probably involves snorting lines of coke off my toenails or watching pitbulls rape each other, or some other fucked up shit. Yes, please, I want to be in your presence again! WHAT PART OF I’M NOT INTERESTED DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND??????
I’d rather jump off the CN Tower and catch my eyelid on a nail than let you make anything up to me. In fact, we are nothing to each other, so you have nothing to make up to me. You made a pass at me, I rejected you, end of story. Take it like a man, have some self-respect, and move on.
Stop bothering me!
You make my skin crawl.
Some of you may think I’m over-reacting and being a bitch. It’s true, I do get called a Bitch quite often. What I do NOT get called is pushover, stupid, sweetheart, dear or doormat.
Works for me.
(next posts will go back to our regularly-scheduled NYC graffiti & street art finds, swearsies!)
my first night back in New York Shitty, and before i even have time to unpack, change clothes, or scream at the taxi cabs “heyyyy! i’m walkin’ here!” i get invited to a house party in williamsburg, brooklyn. my reputation precedes me!
many of you know that williamsburg is basically where hipsters go to die, and you would be correct. it’s like a breeding ground for nihilistic but stylish pretentious hosers who love their pabst blue ribbon, ironic ugly sweaters, and dub-step remixes of Foster The People.
I FELT RIGHT AT HOME.
my british husband (even though he doesn’t know it yet) Pete tweeted me last night, “Williamsburg: easily my favourite place ever. Like never-never land, but with fewer grown ups and more sailor tats.” Again, harsh but oh-so accurate.
But I think my favourite hipster attribute has to be the rapist glasses.
of course, i would never dream of saying that to a hipsters face. but i would, instead, rip those suckers right offa them and try them on myself.
ME! A SEXUAL PREDATOR! ME!!!!!
Exhibit A was taken off of a guy who looked like he had eczema and a problem with prema-ejac. i made a judgement call.
Exhibit B was taken off of the MOST DAPPER HIPSTER EVER whom i’ll introduce you to in a sec. Black, squarish rims with a dash of disdain for popular masculinity.
Exhibit C is probably the best example of Rapist glasses, but I couldn’t get a good angle on them, ’cause this pleasant but all-together smashed dude from Belarus kept clinging to me. Aw. Bless.
Exhibit D for Damn that shit’s nasty as fuck
Exhibit E are just basic reading glasses but I took them off a white guy with JewFro and freckles whom I bet just lovvvves Led Zepplin and reading Aldous Huxley.
That’s my friend Jared on the left. He’s the one who invited me to the party. Interesting story on how we met. Basically, when I was in Brooklyn this past Spring, I made a Couchsurfing request at this girl Miranda’s house. She said yes, but later had to decline because her plans changed and she couldn’t host me anymore. Months later, I get a Facebook message from Jared. He tells me that he lives in Miranda’s house, that he was there when she got my Couchsurfing request and saw my message, and thought that I seemed wicked cool (the man has taste). Anyway, he was bummed when I couldn’t stay there, so he messaged me, ‘Let’s be friends!” and I was all, “Done.” Then when I decided to return to Brooklyn for December, I messaged him and said, “Let’s hang!” and he was all, “Done.”
Thank you webernet.
That’s Ryan, he’s a concert photographer for Spin Magazine…. As you do. Blame Williamsburg!
Here is the Most Dapper Hipster Ever I mentioned above. Dude is killing me with awesome! The glasses, the horizontal striped tie, the sweet body forming suit. You shoulda seen his shoes. Ironic wing tips with FIRE ENGINE RED SHOE LACES.
and let’s not forget the huge ass bottle of whiskey he’s chugging all to his self.
Okay, I promised you New York graffiti and street art, and that is what I shall photograph next. SWEARSIES.
Off to go find some!! Enjoy the day, guys, they’re now getting longer, so there’s more sunlight to illuminate the hipsters upon your path.
Since when has being cheap counted as “empowerment?”
Hey, I’m all for getting in touch with your “inner goddess” by pole dancing your way to the “new you,” but you can’t get lobster thermidor out of a can of tuna.
I’d rather be despised for my character, than liked for my lack of it.
You really need to learn how to open your mouth for more than just giving head.
hahahhaha, i can’t believe you actually ran to your DADDIES and told on me. don’t worry, i won’t show up to the party and hurt your witty bitty feewings, but thanks for the laugh, cupcake.
you spineless, hypocritical, sanctimonious, fraction of a man. i hope you enjoy the smell of your own neurotic bullshit, because the number of people who do is dwindling fast.
my first impressions of you last year were right: you are one giant tit. grow the fuck up and act like an adult.
PS the next time you befriend a woman, don’t treat every encounter with her at a coffee shop like some form of speed-dating, and then get annoyed when you realize that she was, in fact, only there for the coffee and not cruisin’ for an emotionally co-dependent shitstorm.
Take me to bed or lose me forever!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, just make with the penis already.
I was invited to this invite-only party called Canadian Club Speakeasy. Supposed to riff of of Boardwalk Empire, everyone got all dressed up like they were in a 1920s bordello and drank free Canadian Club all night long.
But I’m teetotal.
I get invited to these things all the time. Brandy tastings. Wine tasting. Vodka parties. Open bar parties. I don’t usually go to them, unless I know that everybody I know is going to be there. And, as expected, this time they were. So fuck it, I’ll go have a laugh with my crew and tear up the dancefloor. But then the awkward conversation happens when someone wants to clink glasses and they realize I have nothing in my hand.
There’s many reasons why I don’t drink a drop, and since that always SHOCKS the shit outta people, let me explain why.
#1 I don’t like the taste of alcohol. That’s the number one reason and the over-riding factor for everything. I’ve tried lots of different flavours and kinds of alcohol, and it all tastes like battery acid to me.
#2 It’s expensive. No wonder you guys are broke all the time. You spend it all on booze. I’m a starving writer, son. I don’t have the extra cash flow to blow on something I don’t even like the taste of.
#3 It’s unhealthy. It destroys livers, brain cells, and turns you into a fat slob. In addition, it is directly related to an increased risk of many types of cancers, specifically breast cancer in women. When you’re trying to lose weight and live a healthier lifestyle, every single nutritionist or doctor or dietician will tell you that the first thing you need to cut out is the brewskies. Not even wine. That urban myth that a glass of wine is good for you is utter bullshit. As you all know now, I have been enduring a bit of a health crisis lately, and I don’t need to aggravate an already bad situation.
#4 It makes you act like a fucktard. People get away with the most horrific of behaviours because they hide behind the banner of “I was so waaaaasted, maaaaaaan. Don’t blame me, I don’t remember a thing. Blah blah fucking blah.” That’s not admissible in a court of law, nor in a Court of Chris. I understand that some people drink to relax and to release their inhibitions. Fair enough, but anyone who knows me will tell you that I don’t have any inhibitions. I’m already on eight most days, if I’m drunk I’ll go up to ten. You don’t wanna see me on ten. It ain’t pretty.
#5 I’ve only realized this last point recently, but I think I don’t like the feeling of being out of control. I don’t like stumbling around, having a foggy brain, not being able to concentrate, and vomiting my guts out. I’ll leave that kind of leotarded behaviour for the adolescents.
Given my outgoing nature, people are always shocked that I don’t drink. Maybe they think I’m a party girl, maybe they just assume writers need to have dependencies, who knows. And I usually get mixed reactions – some people are outright insulted that I don’t drink. One guy called me a Mormon and insisted I didn’t know how to have fun. Then again, some people really respect my principles.
And if I don’t have my principles, I don’t have anything.
i received the best hate-mail yesterday. i’ve been running this blog for over six years (and i starred in a reality tv show for fucks sake), so i’ve received more than my share of hate over the years, and i know how to deal with it. which is to say – basically don’t bother dealing with it, just laugh at the stupidity of it all. people spew their shit from their dark corners because it makes them feel like tough guys, contrasted against the harsh reality that they have been forgotten in the world, and screaming into the void is easier to do than reflecting that mirror inwards.
i was out with my girls last night, laughing our faces off at the Ugly Sweater party (so many hideous shoulder-pads and bedazzled embroidery!), when this guy whose only sexual partner is attached to his wrist decided to write me a fucking novel. i’m scrolling quickly through it on my blackberry, blah blah blah, you’re a bitch, blah blah blah, you’re a cunt, yawn. What else is on? i mean really, cupcake, brevity is the key to insulting.
basically this guy had just ejaculated his paranoid neuroses into an essay and expected me to applaud his efforts.
from the bits i did read (in between chatting up bill-cosby-sweater’d men and clinking glasses at the long bar), i gathered that this guy is SUCH A WINNER. ladies, you better remove your panties, because they are about to get wet. read his best bits:
“…You will never, ever, ever overcome the world’s patriarchal heritage, and at the end of the day you’ll still be a piece of ass with a smart mouth…
…I don’t care if you reply, and I’ll probably appreciate it more if you don’t, but if you do, all I’ll do is drown out the noise and imagine my dick in your mouth….
…So long, you perfectly proportioned, olive-skinned, beautiful and deranged parrot. Just remember to keep your legs closed and watch your figure: because even after you’re drained of all your “intellectual” capability, you would make some guy a hell of a wife. Trade those books in for a make-up case, and maybe even a trophy wife.”
sounds like another Marc Lépine to me. seriously dude, if you don’t wanna end up blowing your brains out in a community college cafeteria, buy yourself some time with a sex worker and RELAX.
i forwarded his neurotic emails to my boy Nate, who said,
wants to bone you
I don’t understand why people attack others for doing their thing whatever it may be esp when it bothers no one.
he’s a ho bag though
I did not like the whole put down the book and get a make up case thing
he sounds like a pig
maybe it’s someone that you’ve fucked in the past
and you were SO good that nothing compares now
so he’s TRIPPING the fuck out
and this is the end result
it takes a lot of effort to hate someone
so you do win
that’s right. i win. Every time you read my blog, or talk about me, i win. Just the fact that i own real-estate in your brain means that i win. So go ahead and fashion me some more long-winded, ego-maniacal, prima-donna manifestos on why i suck. it makes for great blog content!
the truth of the matter is, the number of times a man uses the words ‘bitch’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘ho’ is INVERSELY proportional to the size and dimensions of his penis. real men feel no need to insult women. real men know that women are not just here for entertainment.
especially if they’ve seen Rita Rudner’s stand-up.
that was the name of the first short story i ever had professionally published. I blogged about it when it happened way back in 2005… that paycheque paid rent that month. i took the above photo in october of last year during my war child challenge campaign, and this was an outtake that was never published, so i thought i’d have fun with it. the blending of two creative projects.
even though i miss house-sitting, i won’t miss that building being the only one in sight for miles in every direction.
found in the alleys behind the drake hotel. i thought Spud already was the mayor.
the background of Ford’s stupid monkey face says “Spud 4 Mayor” over and over.
I love Spud’s work, he’s one of the greatest Toronto street artists who eludes everyone. Gregory Allan Elliot told me that some of the dudes in Kensington market know who he is and can put me in contact. His work is everywhere and has been around for years. His Ford-sperms and Ford-faces made it into my The Grid article that was published a few weeks ago. And he always seems to score the greatest walls and locations. The rooftops of Queen and Spadina have all been Spud bombed. One says “SpudR” not sure what the R is for, but hey, we know it’s him because of his style and imagery.
here are some old Spud photos that i’ve taken but have never published. this one above was found in the Ossington-Humbert alleyway (I spend most of my days in alleys, seriously). He took over an entire garage front, and even copyrighted it in the bottom right corner.
this is just a spudbomb sticker, but i love it.
when i grow up, i’m going to bovine university.
this is a moo point.
you know, it’s like a cow’s opinion. it doesn’t matter. it’s moo.
i published a photo of this exact same piece a few months ago, but it was someone else’s photo. thought i’d go back and take my own, for copyright/ownership purposes.
i have another photograph of a piece that was put up in graffiti alley, it’s the exact same rob ford face, but instead of “piss here” it just says “ass.”
hhaha! this is in the alley behind dovercourt and queen. the “work in progress” has always been there, but like the new writing to the left indicates, it has been a work in progress for EONS. C’mon son. GET IT TOGETHER.
do you see what i see?
so fucking cool. this was on abell street behind the wreckage of construction.
i love the unused/abandoned storefronts along queen west.
speaking of Gregory Allan Elliot….see what he did here? He took a black marker to the movie poster for Colombiana… so fucking clever, sir. Yes, I know it’s him because the gun is now shooting his “heart/love” symbol.
the night, with garin, outside the drake hotel, where the woman with the typewriter sat on the sidewalk and tapped poems for passers-by. it sounded like morse-code.
headlines the day after Canada went into a state of mourning…
i was walking along Bloor and this guy was just sitting there holding this while fondling his smartphone.
fanks for letting me take your picture, guy.
it’s the fat-lip twins!
my wifey is so nom-nom-nom.
as i spoke about before, Ford Canada is lending me a car for this Labour Day long weekend (Ford Canada recognizes exceptional awesomeness, clearly) , so I’m going on a roadtrip! I’m going back to the place of my birth, Montreal, to hang with my gay boyfriend, my old school mates, to practice mon français (maudit enfant chienne), and wander about to see what’s cool around the plateau since i left at the age of 12.
frankly, after all that i’ve been going through lately, this opportunity couldn’t have come at a better time.
hopefully i’ll find some amazing Montreal graffiti, and see some great Montreal theatre!
if you have any graffiti/theatre leads, please send them my way. or if you’re throwing a hipster douchebag party event clusterfuck that kyboshes other attempts, let a sistah know.
bloggin will resume next week.
à la prochaine, mes ti-choufleurs!
woody allen once said, “love is the answer, but while you’re waiting for the answer, sex raises some interesting questions.”
i seem to have a lot of answers that just result in more questions.
it’s july and the only way to make it better is to wear a polynesian flower that cups my hair … to whisper decomposing secrets into my hands.
at the Vice Magazine Photo Show this past week, all the crunked up hipsters in kicks and half-shorn heads showed up sweaty, accosting the free beer and pizza, spilling puddles on the floor, and ignoring the homosexual nazi photography on the wall. i never leave home without my chinese fan, and ended up cooling off some coolies while lauren and i tried to have a proper conversation.
there was a bitchin’ DJ pumping music but no one danced.
outside, cooling off with iPhone photos and seeing the ossington strip regulars that i peripherally know, a man in thick rimmed glasses accosted my journo-convo with a chip on his shoulder, with a disdain for the veiled honesty music critics espouse in order to obtain a regular paycheque.
i wasn’t interested in arguing, but lauren still had the capacity to evoke erudite shutthefuckup-isms.
the next day, a few doors down, a blonde debonnaire named JT tried to pick me up as i was walking by The Port. i wished it had been at The Red Light. he was hosting an event that night, and told me to swing by at 11pm. although he was lovely to look at (blonde curls and dangerous lips), he presented himself on a silver party platter covered in garbage that would surely result in more questions.
i’m doing the safety dance with my body these days.
* * *
what’s that i see?
rob ford and stephen harper eating the citizens of a high rise, before some schmuck with no respect for other people’s street art scrawled “bitch move” over it. if you want to see the finished piece before it was defaced, watch this video!!
i have been informed from the project coordinators behind Fordzilla that there will be no more wheatpastes of this theme, so go out and find all the fordzillas in the city and enjoy them while you can!
on spadina road, at kendal avenue (my old street).
near lansdowne and college.
last year, during the G20, i skipped town, flew to NYC, had a manhattan fling and was tossed.
looking back, i can’t decide if it was worth it. i think i would rather have been kettled at queen and spadina, then locked up for 36 hours, than sitting on the steps of union square at 14th street, crying.
happy birfday val!
lauren and i went to a rooftop luau in the clubbing district, full of suits, bikini clad entrepreneuses, scientists, vegans, DJ’s, pieces of pineapple and leis with condoms attached (if you’re gonna get lei’d, protect yourself).
i had a long conversation by a roasted pig on a spit with a scientist who will one day be an astronaut. he swooshed his hair around and told me about the tapestry of his life. he had all these stories about wake-n-bake driving to calgary and The Filth pulling him over in manitoba only to battle it out while trippin’ and getting a mere fine. he also told me about his ambitious goals, going from a 7-time undergrad reject to running his own company at the age of 29. he’s off to chile next, and i’m off to peru. south america and macchu picchu. i listened intently, drinking words like i was swallowing my past, tasting future.
present tense, a guy at the bar shoots green grapes up in the air, and i catch them in my freakin’ gob.
the cn tower glowed green like a rave (disco) stick.
lauren says all wealth is relative.
she’s right. i’m not rich in money, but i’m rich in character.
i’m going to the press screening of Beats, Rhymes & Life, the A Tribe Called Quest documentary, because i’m reviewing it for one of my freelance gigs. i’ve already seen the flick when it premiered at Hot Docs, but a refresher is much appreciated for critique purposes.
all you guys acting out your own hip-hopera need not fret, you can see it before it opens on july 29th. there will be an advanced screening here in toronto on the 21st, tickets are $20 and will go fast (if they’re not already gone). peep the deets below, playa.
and watch the trailer for the documentary here:
if they were to name a rock musical after me right now, it’d be Headcase and the Angry Bitch….
….all evidence to the contrary.