He had spent 5-plus years as a delusional. This new life of heating up little bits and seasoning them every so delicately was a breath of recirculated fresh air.

Building a persona of such strictures took a fair bit of cunning and motivation and discipline.

Never show too much enjoyment of any one particular thing

Leave all required readings to the last possible moment (maybe don't do them at all, read the Wikipedia page)

Remain cooler-than-thou until the death
Listen to bands no one has heard of yet
Read articles about arctic farming, Noam Chomsky's illegitimate son, pens making a comeback
Never watch television
Drink a lot
Play in a band no one likes and don't promote your shows
Live cheque to cheque

Only he knows that the inevitable was being avoided, masked as a blasé outlook wearing trendy, moderately priced shoes, like some sort of hipster Peter Pan.

You stand there in your cowl-neck sweater
While I'm roasting pigs
Poking holes in the coals of their system
Fighting bulls, wrestling bears
Dodging bullets, stopping time

Time to time I take time and time again
While time has decayed all your friends
Time to time I take time and time again
Time's your friend 'til your knees won't bend

You stand there in your cowl-neck sweater
While I'm tearing 5's
Gripping hands on the strands of their system
Eating onions, spotting dimes
Dodging bullets, stopping time

Time to time I take time and time again
While time has decayed all your friends
Time to time I take time and time again
Time's your friend 'til your knees won't bend

Time for Mom and Dad to pretend
That time is no unsightly end
Now count the piggy's penny stash
And crack the porcelain with a laugh

I have never fully understood the arty romanticism behind locking yourself in a room with blackened walls. The supposition is that being separated from society, culture, and any other audio-visual stimuli will force one to deal with his/her demons, develop a better sense of self, and find creativity from a place that is not influenced or tainted. From what I can tell, it simply results in bad music.

Well, at least I wrote this blog

As the bitumen-soaked surface of my roof absorbed the heat of the late afternoon sun, I found myself sitting upon it, staring at the tops of what I assume are centuries-old trees surrounding High Park. In between my apartment and High Park stands an intimidating 100 year-old church. You know the kind I mean. One of those Anglican castle-like structures with impeccable masonry and gothic spires. It once was the Howard Park Pentecostal Church. It also had several other names denoting which denomination of Christianity it followed, but I don't really understand the minute differences between, say, Mehtodists and Adventists, nor do I understand the manner by which these denominations will often unite and share a Church. From my roof I can see the spires of this former Church poking out above the somewhat anachronistic red-bricked TD Canada Trust across the street. I say "former Church" because the Howard Park Pentecostal church is now known as "The Abbey Church Lofts," providing those who have no trepidation about shelling out $547/month in maintenance fees or about being visited by the Holy Spirit at all hours of the night with the opportunity to live in one of 24 suites that feature exposed limestone bricks, vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows, and a Christian essential: stainless steel appliances.

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the architectural feat of converting a gorgeous, storied old building into condos. However, every time I see one of these achievements, I find myself saying (aloud, regardless of whom I'm with [if anyone at all]), "Well, at least they didn't tear it down." At least they didn't tear it down. Yes, it's better than having a hastily-designed, hastily-constructed condominium tower on the site. The appreciation and preservation of Toronto's architectural heritage was avoided for much of the 20th Century to make way for brutalist structures, stucco-laden "modernism," and soul-sucking stretches of cookie cutter apartments. However, I've gotten a little tired of this trend towards "authentrification"––that is, in layman's terms, the opening of a business or what-have-you in the building of a former different business or what-have-you without altering the original façade or signage (for a more detailed discussion of this trend, read this article.) 

Now, I realize that authentrification is the First Aid Kit to gentrification's Mumford and Sons. No, don't get that analogy? Yeah, I was a little iffy about it too. Authentrification is the new buzzword, as gentrification was a few years ago, especially in regards to those evil hipster folk who once invaded west Queen West. Discussion of whether or not it is a viable and lasting manner in which to redevelop this city is necessary. The worry that I carry in my bicycle basket as I ride through Parkdale, Bloorcourt, and Bloordale is that one day in the not too distant future no one will know what the fuck is what. (Oh, I need some caulking for the draught that comes through the periphery of my apartment's shitty windows. What? I'm in some sort of future-past trading post with a wood stove, tree stump stools, dangling lightbulbs, and $18 drinks.) However, I continuously push this worry down to the bottom of my basket, to make room for the vintage clothing, sustainable produce, and locally-designed leathergoods that I've purchased at what initially appeared to be a Turkish bathhouse, a laundromat, and a smelting plant, respectively. I eagerly await the day when the massive Quality Meat Packers slaughterhouse at Wellington and Tecumseth closes down to make way for the authentrified Meat Packer Lofts, "With units starting in the low 400s, you can experience the sterilized steel walls and pungent aromas of a real live slaughterhouse."

Did you oblige?

Sometimes.
Other times I...pretended not to hear

I did it!

Please watch this advertisement:

Thank you. Now, when I first saw this ad, I found myself asking aloud, "What the fuck is Champix?" Granted, I asked this question 4 hours after seeing the ad, while I was in line at the grocery store, just as my dragon fruit was being scanned. How embarassing! I was simply trying to impress all my fellow shoppers with my exotic fruit purchase. You see, I live in the yuppie enclave of Roncesvalles Village, where well-groomed dogs sit tied outside of stark, modern furniture stores and Polish solicitors wave sausage links as you pass.

As is often the case with advertisements for non-essential prescription pharmaceuticals, there is not even a subtle clue given as to what exactly Champix is. I certainly could have gone ahead and done a simple search of the internets, using some type of "search engine" or "protocol droid," but instead, based on my vast knowledge of advertising and prescriptions, I have come to 3 distinct, inconclusive possibilities as to what Champix could be.

1. Performance-enhancing drug (sports-related)

Based on the constant high-fiving, hugging, and back slapping (some of it even, gasp, interracial) as well as the usage of the song from Rocky, Champix may be some type of drug that allows 40-something men to live out their sports-related pipe dreams. With Champix you can win MVP of your recreational hockey league and finally win the respect of your daughter, culminated with a dramatic, slow-motion hug.

2. Performance-enhancing drug (sex-related)

Based on the constant high-fiving, hugging, and back slapping (some of it even, gasp, interracial) as well as the usage of the triumphant theme from Rocky, Champix may be some type of drug that allows 40-something men to hold an erection for long enough to have intercourse. Just think of all the congratulations you'll get for finally being able to have nearly two minutes of intercourse: your hockey buds will know you're a real "dog," your black friend will finally explain to you what "Jungle Fever" is, your mother will creepily rub your hand due to excitement at the possibility that her son is not a gay after all, and you will finally win the respect of your daughter, who will be so proud that you can actually nail her mom for nearly two minutes that she will dramatically hug you in slow motion.

3. Anti-depressant

Based on the subdued hues, the soothing background music (I can only assume the song is by Enya,) and the insistence on having everything happen in slow motion, Champix may be some type of drug that allows 40-something men who are overall failures to delude themselves into believing that they do not work a pitiful, unrewarding job, are not the worst player on the State Farm Insurers, are not in a loveless marriage, did not hire a black male escort to pose as a friend at the bar, are not into elderlove, and have a daughter that is a very fast runner. By living a constant lie in order to feign happiness, you will win the respect of your daughter, culminated with a dramatic, slow-motion hug set to some type of new age music.

Or maybe it's for some drug to help you quit smoking. Whatever.

Do the Bartman

Skewed Rationale: A cohesive study on the limits of the human psyche

I wonder if in an effort to save time when answering typical questions in social settings, actress Minnie Driver purchased a Mini Cooper.

An open letter to Zooey Deschanel

Dear Zooey,

Remember that time I confused you for your sister, wondering why you decided to join the cast of a second-rate television program with that heavy-browed former teen heartthrob? Remember how puzzling I found it that you, an indie queen who had already won the hearts and minds of Urban Outfitters shoppers and their sale section-scavenging mothers, would subject herself to the monotony of a weekly serial that follows, I don't know, medically-trained detectives who solve post-mortem mysteries with sexy results? Remember how I feigned relief upon learning it was actually your slightly less cute, slightly less buxom, slightly less popular sister who co-starred?

Well, lately I've had to feign shock and awe as it is unmistakably you who stars in a weekly comedic program that, based on your wacky antics during the advertisements, I assume involves you giggling, farting, chasing British man-boys who are stuck in that unfortunate eternal left-legger pre-pubescence, and contorting your face to extents that could wake Jenny McCarthy from her halcyon daze.

Your crooning alongside that unremarkable fellow in She&Him reminded us all why America used to be so sexy: Gingham dress-clad women who sang as if they had never even seen a penis before were more likely to get the black housekeeper to do the dishes, so one could go to the wood-panelled rumpus room and in fact show her a penis. The innocence of your alt-country duo brought that nostalgic Americana to the hip fringes of contemporary culture, teaching skinny boys in skinnier pants that it's okay if no one wants to have sex with them.

Remember that scene in "500 Days of Summer" where you say that really cute thing involving fuzzy kittens that is meant to be an analogy about the tragedy of the human condition, but it is misinterpreted by your co-star, you know, that guy that a lot of people recently found non-threateningly attractive, and he makes it kind of dirty? Or how about that other scene where you trip/bite your tongue/drop a priceless family heirloom/chew with your mouth open/sneeze and it makes a honking sound at a funeral/crap your pants? I miss those moments. I felt like I was sharing a new understanding of sexuality with all my fellow young persons, one in which people are perpetually awkward but still have perfectly trimmed bangs and the rarest vintage clothes.

I guess I'm just a little upset that you're on a network television show, to be digested by the masses, rather than my own personal twee prom queen, picking and choosing scripts based on a rating scale that involves "ugly" sweaters, coffee mugs with unicorns on them, harmonicas, flower-themed hair accessories, and a general suspicion of foreigners.

I miss you.

Sincerely Yours,

This Guy.