Amsterdam is a magical city. Modern and inviting, yet also capable of transporting you into time lost to the ages.
First of all: TYPEWRITER PORNOGRAPHY!
They wouldn’t let me touch it. I WAS DYING TO TOUCH IT.
It even had that old-book smell. They really should bottle that smell and market it to people who are secretly old ladies . . . like me.
I want to put this one on a chain and hang it around my neck.
FONT-SPLOSION! Look at that gorgeous typeface.
This Smith-Premiere was so badly damaged, I think some of the keys had capsized. Also, someone dust that thing, for the love of Gawd!
Speaking of old-book smell…
I found these at the Boekenmarkt that is held once a week near Het Spui in Amsterdam.
Haha, oh the funny things people used to write about.
Best-seller, no doubt.
*Slowly backs away*
GASP! Weird postal crayons made in Czechoslovakia that I have no idea what to use them for! MUST HAVE!
I’m being serious.
I’m sorry, did I just walk into a screensaver?
Back to typewriters! I found this hanging on the wall at Bar Bukowski, which I also visited last year.
I think Bukowski’s books in general are misogynistic, male-bravado, wank-fests, but his quotes taken out of context are damned good.
This reminds me of Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks.”
I actually photographed this little red building back in 2006 but I didn’t record its location back then, so I had no idea how to find it again. I just used my directionally-adept nose and some intuition, wandered around for 2 weeks until I finally found it again. If you don’t know why this building is important, take ANY WALKING TOUR in Amsterdam and they’ll tell you. It’s the smallest building in the entire city.
It has the same depth as other buildings, but it’s only a metre and a half wide. Just long enough for me to lie down in. Someone was working at their laptop there…so yes, people live there.
This wasn’t Amsterdam, it was the Delft… but holy gorgeous amazeballs postcard idyllic nostalgia-ultra-acolyte!
That’s it, I’m moving to Holland. Us old-lady-grannies-in-young-lady-bodies gotta stick together.
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!)
Yes, I am a woman who occasionally likes to dress up all fancy and hit up some posh joints, like the new Trump Tower in the financial district.
Mostly, we were there to hand out business cards, sample the free spirits and hors d’oeuvres, and pretend like we were adults. (Shh! Don’t tell anyone, we look just like adults, so we can slip right in unnoticed).
And yes, as you can see here, I had some laughs. But after about an hour, we had to unbutton the fancy threads and head over to a Hoops in a ghetto area of the suburbs where wasted Hispanic lovertines bought us tequila shots. We got food all over our laps, a drunken space-cadet barged into the men’s toilets, and we played some tonsil-hockey.
My kinda party.
Fellas, now is your chance to date me! ………………..
I’m being auctioned off for charity!…………………
Jeez, tough crowd.
Well anyway, click on the above image to get details on the Love A Heart event, where the hottest bachelors and bachelorettes in Toronto (and, uh, me) will be auctioned off to raise funds for the Heart & Stroke Foundation.
It takes place on February 9th and The Hideout (484 Queen Street West), doors at 8pm, cover is $5.
If you’re not interested in being dis gal’s Valentine, there are lots of other beauties on the auction block (I know almost all the gals, they’re pretty saucey). As for you ladies out there looking to buy a man-whore, I know almost all the guys being auctioned as well, and they are SEXY MO-FO’S! There’s even two professional athletes on the auction block, one from Toronto Rock (that’s our pro lacrosse team) and another from the Toronto Argonauts (pro football team, CFL)!
To top it off, there’ll be a live performance by Indie Music Week champions Tiny Danza.
It’s going to be a really fun night, even if you don’t want to bid, you can at least come say hi and introduce yourself! We’ll clink glasses and talk about graff!
And you’ll get to watch me sell-out for a fiver.
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!)
not only does Cock McBrocklyn live in a mansion, he also is our Lord and Saviour.
but what’s with the American spelling there, Brock?
ps wuv you, let’s make out, not for realsies.
i went galavanting down graffiti alley last night, just to see if there was any new stuff. OMG BLOG CONTENT FOR THE NEXT MONTH=DONE.
for love or money?
guess who’s going back to New York?
i’m so fist-pumpin’-excited. this is going be like something out of an Edith Wharton book (minus the fist-pumps, ‘natch).
my gal amber invited me down to house-sit in her swank Astoria pad while she’s in ontario with her family over the christmas holi-daze. i stayed with amber back in the spring during my two-week-long NYClusterfuck (i blogged about that adventure, read part 1, part 2, and part 3! sasha grey! jon stewart! brooklyn graffiti & street art! 5pointz! theatre! williamsburg hipster douchebags!….good god, it was glorious).
my family doesn’t celebrate christmas (atheism FTW) so i’m perfectly fine spending christmas in new york by myself. but really, i’ll be too busy devouring all the amazeballs graffiti in bushwick, cobble hill, DUMBO, and williamsburg to even notice i’m alone. besides, it’s NEW YORK. you’re never alone.
oh and i scored a ticket to The Nutcracker at the New York City ballet on Christmas Eve. #TheatreFagEpicWin
if you live in NYC, let a sistah know. TWEET-UP!