When life hands you lemons...

…make an unlikely concoction and detox!

If you are like me (and I commiserate if you are), the holidays left you with that ‘not so fresh feeling.’ When all I could smell was eggnog seeping from my pores and all I could feel was gravy chugging like a slug through my veins, I knew it was time to do something.

I was doing so well when I came back from Asia. Climbing mountains, playing v-ball on the beach and screaming and running from deranged, cantankerous monkeys can really get a guy in shape. Truth be told, it also helped that China was the ‘land of no cheese’ and had the worst desserts on the planet. Could that have something to do with it?...hmph, go figure.

Following the holidays, however, I just felt gross. Not being able to jog regularly due to the weather, coupled with stuffing my gullet with mouthwatering, lard and sugar laden delicacies really got to me, leaving me sluggish and irregular.

Seeing as my Mandarin is not up to snuff, relocating East, way East, was out of the question. So, I decided to do a detox to get the toxins out and get my insides working again. I had never done one before, so I thought I would give it a go. Heck, that Gandhi fellow seemed to know what he was doing, and was always so much calmer than I could ever aspire to be. “Why not?” I said to myself. I am always up for trying something new, and if it didn’t work out, at least it would make for some good blogs.

After days of researching (it always amazes me as to what people will post on the Worldwide Web – I mean, do I need PHOTOS of your bowel movements? Weren’t your descriptions enough?), I decided to go with “The Master Cleanse”.

“ooooohhhhh! You are doing the Beyoncé diet! You will look fabulous and waste away to nothing! People drop like 20 pounds in 14 days on that thing”, said my sister-in-law, Lucy.
“It is NOT the Beyoncé diet! It is the Master Cleanse, and has been around since 1941 when Stanley Burroughs created it. And, it is strictly to detoxify my system. Many people have done it, including friends of mine, for your information….” I retorted, trying desperately to hide my defensiveness.
“OK, OK, we’ll call it ‘The Hollywood Cleanse.’ Don’t get testy.”
“It is the MASTER CLEANSE! I spat back. Then I disowned her.

She is dead to me (Not really, poetic license people).

My reasons for doing this cleanse are threefold:
1. To detox – get years of bad crap (literally) out of my system.
2. To try to kick my insane caffeine dependence (we are talking 5+ larges a day). But most of all,
3. To conduct a social experiment.

I am in NO WAY doing this to lose weight. If I happen to – great. Bonus. But I did my research and this does not promote weight loss in the long term. The weight you do lose is water weight and you gain it all back in a week or so. I was way more interested when starting out, to see what effects this would have on me during the cleanse, how I would feel post-cleanse, and more importantly, what random acts of violence I would perform on the unknowing masses of humanity around me once I was sans caffeine. In NO WAY am I condoning this as a practice, I am not a medical doctor people.

To be honest, it really was something to do to give me an excuse to stay in and not go out with friends as my credit card is literally frozen in a block of ice at the moment (I am also trying to curb spending after a wonderfully expensive holiday season). It has worked so far.

So you may be saying to yourself: “self, if this cleanse was supposed to make for some good blogs, why hasn’t John written any in a week?” To you I reply: I have held off posting because 1. I have been crazy busy the last couple of weeks; 2. I wanted to see if I would actually stick to it before making grandiose proclamations in a public forum; and 3. I did not want my family to know what I was doing until there was no turning back. They would undoubtedly call me crazy, and my mom would want me to seek counseling for ‘man’orexia for sure. I could hear it now… “you don’t need to lose weight!”, “mom, I am NOT DOING THIS TO LOSE WEIGHT…I am detoxifying!” They wouldn’t get behind my ‘social experiment’ the way that I knew I could.

After having not eaten in 9 days, I can officially claim to fully be entrenched in this thing. There is no turning back now!

So here is the rundown of the 14 day, Master Cleanse:

Day before cleanse: John empties out all food from his cupboards, leaving NOTHING edible in his house except for a rotting onion and a bottle of barbeque sauce.

Day 1: Eat nothing but steamed veggies and drink nothing but water.

Day one was by far the worst day of my ENTIRE LIFE! I mean, I had psyched myself up for the caffeine withdrawal, but good lord above, it was EXCRUTIATING.
I have seen Trainspotting, but I am SURE that what I went through was way worse. My head was pounding so much that I wanted to rip my eyes out to get to the source of the pain. I was so bad at work that my colleagues started an office pool as to when I would crack (I stand to gain $15!), and my colleague Jordana had to stop me as I tried to lunge at a man carrying two Starbucks coffees on our lunchtime walk. The day ended with me having a bit of a breakdown at my local grocery store when I discovered they were out of cayenne pepper (one of the main ingredients, which will be discussed later), and only thanks to my friend Amy who listened to me scream at her on the phone for 20 minutes straight in utter defeat and despair, was I able to cope.
I then went home to cook my last installment of veggies. I was feeling so headachy and nauseous, that when I steamed the last batch the smell made me instantly dry heave. No more veggies for me. I had to dump the whole thing in my composter, and when I could still smell them, the bag was put in my freezer and not removed until garbage day. I thought I was going to die.

Day 2: Drink nothing but organic, fresh squeezed juices.

Seeing as I live in the granola cruncher mecca of Toronto, this was easy to do. I went up to my local organic juice bar and got a variety of juices to excite my palate. Juice day was MUCH easier. And, on a side note, my nausea was gone and my headache downgraded to a dull throb. Nice. Now if I only had a bit more energy. As a side note: John gives his unopened tub of Haagen- Dazs coffee ice cream to his landlady as a precaution...

Days 3-12: Drink nothing but ‘Lemonade’ (A concoction of freshly squeezed lemon juice,
maple syrup, cayenne pepper and hot or cold water)

I have to say that I don’t mind the lemon drink. The Lemon is supposed to get rid of all of the bad stuff attached to your colon and draw out toxins from your body and the cayenne helps move it through your system. You supposedly get all the nutrients you need from the maple syrup…go figure. See, your parents were wrong when they told you sugar wasn’t good for you. I am now on day 10 (8 days of nothing but ‘lemonade’) – here are some of the highlights from the last 8 days:

Day 3: John’s tongue rebels.


Think when you have ‘sick tongue’ and multiply that gross pasty whiteness by 100! Note: Brushing your tongue repeatedly won’t get rid of it. These are toxins coming out of your system. On a side note: John has taken to walking to Café Crepe on his lunch, standing in the street and inhaling the wonderful smell of sugar and crepey goodness that they pump into the air.

Day 4: A day of interesting observations.
• John no longer craves caffeine and the smell of fresh brewing coffee in the office has no effect.
• John’s friend Erin decides to start the cleanse herself.
• John has way more energy, but has developed a strange sleeping pattern: In bed by 8, read till 9, sleep till 3am, read till 5am, sleep till 7am – repeat. But I feel great throughout the day.

Day 6: John experiences his first ‘Saline Rinse’

It is not pretty people. Seeing as you are not ingesting any fiber, the saline rinse gets things moving through your body. You drink a litre of salt water (it took me an hour!), and because salt water is the same density as blood, nothing gets absorbed into the body – it just goes right through you! Here is the best hint that I am glad I read BEFORE doing it: DO NOT leave your house for 2 hours after…and if you think you need to pass gas, you are WRONG! Sit down on the toilet before ‘Passing gas’ – you will REGRET IT! On a side note: Sally is the first to lose in the office pool!

Day 7: John becomes a superhero.


It is so weird, but my sense of smell is hyper-sensitive. I can step onto a streetcar and tell you exactly what the man sitting 7 rows back on the left is eating…it’s a quarter pounder with cheese and fries. A week ago I would have gone for his jugular, today, he lives to see another day…not tempted in the least. On a side note: I weigh myself at the halfway point – I have lost between 9 and 10 pounds.

Day 8: A death in the family.

Erin calls John and admits defeat. It was too much for her, she was too grumpy and did not feel good. She breaks down and eats. John is a bit shocked as she is a triathlete and he is feeling better than ever – and is a little bit proud of himself. On a side note: John’s face has cleared up.

Day 9: John confronts his worst enemy…Boredom!

I have to say that I am quite shocked as to how easy this cleanse has been for me (besides the first two, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, days). My worst enemy has been the sheer monotony of the thing. I have even started formulating a cookbook in my head for this cleanse. I figure that if you freeze the lemon concoction, you could then scrape it with a fork and make it into an almost sorbet… then you could put it in a bowl and eat it with an actual utensil! I have also taken to having my drinks hot in the mornings and evenings, but prefer cold at lunch and in the middle of the day – the drink is heavier and somehow, more substantial. It’s the little things people – in that respect, I get no greater joy in life than when I lick the maple syrup spoon…truly, one of life’s little pleasures. On a side note: Jordana is the second to meet her demise in the office pool. I am gonna win this sucker! Papa needs a new pair of ($15) shoes!

Day 10: (Today) – Same ol’ same ol’

I am now just in a routine with two more days of ‘lemonade’ and then a day of juice and a day of veggies. This process so far has helped me realize that I, in fact, do not need caffeine to function (but still can’t wait until that first, glorious, gift from Juan Valdez); has given me more long term energy than I ever thought possible – no more mid-day lulls for me; has made me much more aware of what is going on with my body; and (this one is coming from those around me), has made me calmer and more even keeled in some respects... I am still not sure if I would recommend it to anyone, jury is still out. I am not sure the results warrant the arduous journey, but I am going to reserve my judgment…I mean, I haven’t even had that one huge, life changing bowel movement that I have heard so much about… maybe I am just not as full of shit as I thought I was, who knows? What I do know is that there are some interesting facts and figures I have come up with regarding this process. Here they are:

• By the end of the 14 days, I will have squeezed the juice out of over 70 lemons, 140 lemon halves
• Consumed almost 2 litres of maple syrup
• Visited Loblaws 4 times in search of cayenne pepper (only had one breakdown)
• I will have drank 30 litres of lemon drink
• 20 litres of good ol’ H2O
• 8 litres of organic juices
• 5 litres of salt water
• I will have ingested 63 litres of liquid total
• Will have created the most amazing grocery list known to man

(I will have not committed any murders or random acts of violence! Good on me!)

With only two days left of Lemon Drink and 4 days total, I think I have this thing beat. Susan is the last woman standing in the office pool and she goes down tomorrow…From the vantage point of social experiment, I have enjoyed it – I actually reacted completely opposite than I would have thought, becoming calm and fine with things – not jittery or overly spastic (yet still sufficiently spastic – I have not lost the essence of ‘john’). Jordana is now calling me a freak of nature because of how I have comported myself through this whole thing – pulling it off with ease and grace…. I do know two things, however, 1. I want me a freakin’ bacon cheeseburger and 2. I won’t be buying lemons anytime soon!





I will keep you posted on my final musings and outcomes.

In the name of Equality....

It is a new year. New years = new beginnings. I feel compelled to come clean. I have been hiding a dirty secret for some time now - one that I am not proud of.

I live with a racist.

How can this be you ask?

You may be saying to yourself: But John, you are so well traveled, so insightful, so goddamned understanding, liberal and open-minded. I am beside myself John. Say it aint so.

Others may be thinking... but John… you live alone.

I say yes, you are correct, to all of the above; however, the aforementioned racist is, in fact, an inanimate object – namely, my television set.

Surely in this day and age, especially here in the cultural mosaic that is Canada, this simply cannot be. Alas it is.

You see, my television is old – from a bygone era. It had a VCR as companion, begrudgingly acquainting itself with a new-fangled DVD player (I have not had the heart to even mention high def to it, let alone the dreaded Blu Ray). It has been with me since my first day of University, circa 1996 – making it 13 years old – unheard of for a TV. The doctors said she wouldn’t live past five… seeing as she was a MAGNASONIC and all; a TV so rare (and ghetto), that she is not even listed in the instruction manuals of the 4 universal remotes that she outlasted.

To me, my TV is akin to old drunken Aunt Esther. We all have one, or at least heard tales of one. You know, the one that was a personal friend of Moses (and not Charlton Heston's Moses either). We sit her in the corner at family functions and holidays ignoring and laughing off the insults and slurs that she hurtles through the room like verbal shrapnel; chalking it up to her being 'from a different time.'

“Frankie, you’re a drunk”, she may say. “Your wife wouldn’t have left you if you weren’t a drunk, or if you were better looking.” Or, when at Christmas you remark “Wow Angela, that present you gave Aunt Rachel looks beautiful, I wonder what’s in it.” Aunt Esther pipes up, yelling, “Is it something that will jump out and strangle the crazy bitch??!!” Or perhaps, she will give social commentary: “I don’t trust that new politician…How can one of them there Orientals tell me how to live my life…if I need a lesson on rice making I will call him.” When you reply, “Aunt Esther, he is Asian, he is not Oriental, that’s a rug”. She would chide back with something like: “What’d you know? That sweater makes you look like one of those homo-sexuals.” Ah, Aunt Esther, your only hope is to make sure her wine glass is perpetually full so she will eventually spit out her dentures and pass out, only to keep herself warm in the inevitable pool of her own urine.

My inanimate "Aunt Esther"

My TV is the inanimate equivalent of Aunt Esther. She is a full-fledged racist. Unlike Aunt Esther, however, it is the Asians that my TV seems to prefer. If you are Asian or, so Caucasian that you either glow or are transparent, you are ok in my tv’s books and will appear on the screen. If you are Indian (either East or Native), Black, Hispanic, or even slightly tanned, you are non-existent to her. My olive skinned, Italian forefathers would be dead to her.

One of my favourite TV shows is one called Heroes. Seeing as it is a series that takes place all over the globe it has a very multinational cast. I would find myself literally cursing my tv and screaming at the screen:
“For the LOVE OF GOD Mohinder! Life isn’t that bad! Just smile! Come on, smile for me! I NEED TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE!” You see, if any character other than the Asian ones (due to their skin tone), has his mouth shut, or does not have his eyes WIDE OPEN I am lost. They become invisible. I need to see the teeth and that only really happens when they are smiling. Because of this dramas are out.  It's comedy or nothin'.

  
On a side note: my TV’s favourite colour?…orange.

I knew I had a problem when my friends started refusing to come over to my place to watch movies or TV. Sure, they would be cool about it when I would first warn them that it may be a little difficult to see the picture.  They would patiently sit through the screening saying things like, “no, this is really neat. Now I know how the visually impaired feel when they watch TV.” Or, “don’t worry, I have always needed to develop my sense of hearing.” They rarely came back a second time.

Two days ago I hit my breaking point. I was not going to be labeled a social pariah because of my racist television. I was going to take control; namely, I was going to Best Buy to get me a shiny new flat screen.

Bringing the newer model home was harder than I thought. Yes my TV was a racist. Yes my TV was costing me friends and making me a social outcast. But she had been with me through thick and thin – through several Olympics, bad Spanish soap operas, drunken screenings of ET after the bar at university, the World Trade Centre bombing and my bad reality TV addiction. She never judged, she never told on me. Who was I to end a 13 year relationship? I felt like a cheating husband, trading her in for a trophy wife. Disgusted with myself, I took the new model out of the box.




The love was instant. She is so shiny and new! With such a classy, recognizable name that just rolls off the tongue...Samsung.  

My old TV is now in my closet, obliviously awaiting garbage day. Some may think me cruel to perform euthanasia.  I call it a public service. Let’s face it, I can’t live with a racist. That’s just not right.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

The View From My Terrace

Well. It happened. My heart grew three sizes today. Grinch no more says I. I don’t know when it happened, or how it happened. It crept up on me and I didn’t even see it coming. I am so full of Christmas Cheer at the moment, that I could barf a big red and green holiday sweater.

As I look out my window from my third floor apartment, all is covered in a blanket of white. It’s a flippin’ Christmas Card out there. Usually I would curse and moan – mainly because I look ridiculous in a touque and don’t enjoy getting ridiculed in public – but today, I find myself giddy and smiling like Keith Richards in front of an unlocked medicine cabinet in a hospital ER. It’s beginning to look, and feel, a lot like Christmas. Even someone as sarcastic and flippant as me, can’t help but feel a little tingle in my heart (I blame the residual rum and eggnog coursing through my veins).

Perhaps it started as I basked in the euphoria that ensued following finishing my Christmas shopping in one night (or perhaps it was the excitement of the bloodlust and carnage I left in my wake that did it for me)? Or maybe old Father Christmas got his lard-laden paws on me as I was being pelted in the face with ice daggers, hurtling at me in 60KM an hour winds during our first snowstorm of the year yesterday? (In white out conditions that shit could creep up on a man)

My best guess, however, is that it happened because yesterday I was party to a Christmas Miracle. Yesterday was perfection. It started off like any other day (except that Mother Nature was PMSing big time and taking it out on us). 20cm of snow and 60km/hr winds would pummel our fair city throughout the day.

My commute was uneventful – no random groping, no drunken vigilantes, and everyone even decided to wear deodorant. When I got to work, the snow had already started and never let up. We got the call at precisely 11:10am: “Hello God, is that you? It’s us, the Toronto Office.” As it turned out, our head office in NY had shut down for the day due to the storm. We were told to monitor the storm and we would hear back at noon. We shut er’ down! Our office closed at noon yesterday. It was a Christmas Miracle!

I felt like a kid again! I had not had a “snow day” in about 17 years. It was like waking up and not having to go to school. Sheer joy. I wanted to run into the street and make a snow fort or pelt someone with snowballs…I went and drank instead.

I called my pseudo-girlfriend Jocelyn and we met up for a leisurely lunch. We shared soup, creamy pasta, wine, dessert – all while watching the snow fall outside – it was very “Lady and the Tramp” – well, more like “Lady and the Tramp Clog Their Arteries”. Bellies full, we then parted ways (but not before taking pics in the snow) and I finished up my errands, walking the city for three hours in the relentless storm. Even though my hair and face literally turned to ice (I looked like that Neanderthal guy they pulled out of the arctic – or more pointedly, a scrawny, geeky version of Brendan Frazier’s ‘Encino Man’), I loved every minute of it.  Yes, I have made an appointment with a psychiatrist.

Joce and I trying to keep our eyes open for the photo

King Street in the Storm

Upon returning home, I did what I do best. I napped. No alarms, no need to get up for any reason, it was heaven. Then my friend came over and we watched xmas movies, chatted and had dinner. Our dinner consisted of Bailey’s, rum and eggnog, wine, and my newest holiday invention – Kahlua, coffee and eggnog. Christmas Miracle number 2! Delicious; a must try. Once Erin left, (due to the 2 coffees I had), I couldn’t sleep.  I stayed up and wrapped a few presents while watching Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life” getting drunk on rum and eggnog.

You see, for me, it isn’t Christmas until I watch Dr. Seuss’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas (cartoon of course!) and until I see a drunken and delirious George Bailey run through the streets of Bedford Falls slurring and screaming a-la Courtney Love: “Merry Christmas Bedford Falls! Merry Christmas Oak Tree! Merry Christmas Movie Theatre! Merry Christmas token minority!” I don’t care that it’s melodramatic. I don’t care that it is highly predictable. I don’t care that he has a kid named flippin’ Zou Zou (what the heck is up with that?). I say bring on the shmaltz. It gets me every time. 

We all have our holiday traditions that signify Christmas to us – this is mine. Perhaps I have such an affinity to The Grinch and It’s a Wonderful Life because every year I watched them with my mom, sister and brother and then my Step dad when he was crazy enough to join our clan and it brings all that back – or perhaps it is because the Grinch IS my brother – and drunken, yellin’ George Bailey prepares me for what is to come at Christmas dinner. Whatever it is, ‘tis the season. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

But all this shit best be gone come December 26. … I’m just sayin’.

But wait... you didn't even buy me dinner...

I have recently rejoined the work force after three blissful months of travelling, reconnecting with friends, and basically doing whatever the heck I felt like whenever the heck I felt like it... ahhh unemployment. Well, I suppose 'unemployment' is the wrong term as I technically had a job, it just didn't start for a while. So, for all of you TV people out there, I was on hiatus - and now back to our regularly scheduled program - namely, the 9 to 5.

I have to say, I am lucky and am enjoying my new job (the first three days at least). However, this morning, johnny d was smacked in the face (or the ass really) with reality. GOOD MORNING TORONTO! How could I forget the morning commute during rush hour on the TTC?! I guess jobs are like childbirth (or what my understanding of childbirth is anyway) - we always forget about the bad parts when it is time for the next one.

My new job dictates that I am in the office from 9 to 5 daily due to the various time zones we deal with - being a company with global offices. In all of my previous jobs, I was able to work 8-4 or 7:30 - 3:30. You may call me a glutton for punishment, or think that I have an affinity for the morning call of the rooster, but I have to say, my greatest impetus for choosing to go to work earlier was to avoid (at all costs) the mayhem of the morning commute at rush hour...

I fully expected my two months in Beijing to make the morning commute a breeze, even laughable. You see, whereas Toronto's mobile subterranean sardine cans pack in hundreds of riders each morning, those of Beijing attempt to squeeze Costco size portions into specialty-food-store-sized tins.... When you find yourself cross checking a 194 year old great-great-great-great-great-grandmother the size of smurfette out of your way to board a train because you realize that said ancient smurfette is, in fact, a lethal ninja master whose defensively raised elbows could leave a man sterile and you don't want to let train number five pass you by so you are not late for work, you will understand the sheer mayhem and volume that is the Beijing subway system. No matter the training I got in Beijing, nothing prepared me for what happened today.

Nobody expects to get groped at 8:23 in the morning (yes I was so confused, the only place I had to look was my watch). Sure, I have had a small little Guatemalan lady wrap her arms around me to stop herself as she dashed into a packed train on a certain day in February, only to look up at me and say "...ummmm... happy...Valentine's Day?" (her timing was so perfect that all I could do was respond "hey lady, everyone needs lovin' on Valentine's" - true story) And yes, of course I have had someone accidentally hold my hand thinking they were grabbing the pole beside me - but I have never been groped.....until today.

Today's train seemed to be extra packed. Perhaps i was just extra agitated because I had only had one cup of coffee so far at that point. Who knows? Anycrap, it was a tight squeeze. I was being polite and had taken off my backpack and put it between my legs and turned sideways facing the divider between the door and the adjacent seat to make as much room as possible. All was well. I am a very considerate commuter and things were humming along - or perhaps that was just me while listening to my iPod? We had passed a few stops and, as I heard the TTC chimes, I remember thinking to myself that the TTC's subliminal message must be working. (A little known fact is that the three notes that signal the opening and closing of the TTC doors are the first three notes of the Sesame Street Theme - "sun-ny day" - please now refer to my blog about my obsession with googling...)

With each homage to Sesame Street, the expected jostling and repositioning of bodies ensued - everyone respectful of other people's space...until I felt a hand on my ass followed by a body sandwiched against my back. Out of shock, I quickly turned my head to see who the offender was. I had to look down. My first thought, due to the time of year, was that I had fallen victim to a disgruntled elf on leave from the North Pole. As it turns out, it was just a very short man.

Me, being the understanding commuter that I am, gave the disgruntled elf the benefit of the doubt thinking he just didn't possess the body mass to keep himself stationary as the train lurched into motion and, with no accessible pole to hang onto, he reached out for the fist thing in his path - my posterior. When the pressing continued, happening even when the train was smoothly in motion, however, I had to reconsider my initial belief. Then, when I felt his hand moving repeatedly up and down my back (under the guise of him adjusting his coat's zipper I am sure) I knew I had a mini-perv on my hands. I was about to go all beijing subway on his ass (and in my world that means politely step to the side, pretending the sordid incident in question never happened) but luckily I didn't have to. At the next stop with the jostling of people getting on and off the train a giant of a man, very reminiscent of Lurch from the Addams Family actually - the complete antithesis of miniperv aka disgruntled elf - wedged himself between myself and my offender, thus shielding me from any further groping. Exiting the train, I thought to myself that many people would have at least had to buy drinks and dinner before trying a move like that on someone... I was enraged.

Funnily enough as it turns out, I did get my drink in the end... Coming home from work today on the subway a man who had clearly drank the entire "whiskey section" in the LCBO and then bathed in 120 proof rum for good measure got on my car two stops before I exited.  He was standing two feet away from me. I instantly thought I was back in first year University.  I also believe I was 'second hand drunk' almost instantly merely from the fumes seeping from his body. It turned out to be exactly like first year! A bar room - excuse me, subway car - brawl almost broke out! Said man - we will call him Drunky McDrunkerson for the sake of this blog - staggered and body checked the man standing next to him... the man (who could definitely handle himself) was polite about it, yet must have muttered something under his breath because McDrunkerson then proceeded to shout out (droplets of spittle spraying my glasses) "don't expletive with me man, let me tell you, I will expletive you expletively up! Absa-expletively-lutely!" (with a few expletives thrown in for good measure)... He staggered off at the next stop, leaving us all to recover from our hangovers.

So, today my Sesame Street inspired "Sunny day" on the subway consisted of me getting felt up, given alcohol against my will and being involved in a fight. It was almost like a date.... only the dinner was missing. So, Toronto Transit Commission, yes, you plied me with alcohol, but if you are going to take advantage of me in future, the least you could do is buy me dinner first. It would be the classy thing to do.

Do I smell a food fight coming on during my commute tomorrow????

God I love the TTC!  Truly.  If anything, it is always entertaining. And, in their defense, their slogan does clearly state "ride the rocket"....if that's not innuendo.... I am starting to think it may not be 'the better way,' however. Gross.

It is time to google 'addiction'....

Today was my Aunt Tanya’s Birthday. Yes, I called. Yes, I sang. Yes, I went with her to Ikea for her $1 birthday breakfast. Let me tell you, I am one generous nephew. Gotta love those thrifty Swedes.

 

   

As we were sitting at breakfast on wonderful Swedish furniture, the names of which I could not pronounce (what the heck is an ektorp or farfelnoodle?), the birthday conversation between Aunt Tanya, my friend Erin and myself naturally lead to a discussion of Tina Turner and whale anatomy.




Now for all of you Tina fans out there that want to go all Ike on my ass, I say simmer down. We in no way compared the incomparable Miss Turner to a whale, they just happened to be in the same stream of consciousness at breakfast… hey, what can I say? We hadn’t had our coffee yet.

Anywho, Aunt Tanya said that Miss Turner was about her age… I said NO WAY, while Erin was pondering whether or not Whales had bones or simply cartilage like sharks. I had an answer for both of them… Google it!

I heart google. I have to say that I am addicted to google. I have no idea what I would do without google. I am the type of guy that has to know things, just for the sake of knowing them. If someone poses a mildly interesting question that nobody can answer I can’t wait to go home and google it. I even go as far as to carry a notebook around with me at all times which is called “blog this, google that”. I am a man replete with useless trivia, and, as such, have become a hit at parties (thanks google!..but it could also be because I can bend my big toes all the way back… a man needs party tricks too).



With google, everything you could possibly need is at your fingertips. Need to know the Leader of Uzbekistan? Google it. Need to know how to spell Uzbekistan? Google it. Need a picture of said leader in Uzbekistan? Google it. They even have a wicked tab - google images - when you are only looking for photos or pictures... I use it all the time for this blog.

I googled both questions that arose at breakfast upon returning home.
As it turns out, Aunt Tanya, of course, was right. Not only is Ms. Turner the same age as my aunt, but they have the exact same birthday! Today! (For fear of my life, I will not say what that age is… but suffice it to say, both ladies look SPECTACULAR for their age). So happy birthday Aunt Tanya and Ms. Turner. I hope your big wheels keep on turnin’ for a long, long time.

Now, according to Dr. Galapagos, thanks to google, I now know that whales DO in fact have bones. I mean, I thought they did, but now I am 100% sure. Hmph. Interesting.

People wonder what they did before cell phones; I wonder what I did before google. I mean, how else would I have instantly found out that Ketchup originated in China, that flammable and inflammable mean EXACTLY the same thing (serious! Google it people!), that the F bomb comes from the police dept and ‘File Under Carnal Knowledge’, that Erinaceous means ‘like a hedgehog’ (sorry Erin…), that Nudiustertian is the day before yesterday, that IKEA was founded in 1943 - The name is made up from the initials of the founder, Ingvar Kamprad and the first letters of the farm Elmtaryd and the village Agunnaryd in rural southern Sweden where he grew up. Ingvar Kamprad was just 17 when he registered the IKEA name. And yes, google even proved to me that Janet and Michael Jackson are, in fact, two entirely different people.


So when you are unsure, don’t just sluff it off and forget… find the answer you are looking for…. GOOGLE IT!

My own semi-permanent laminated list...

In her post dated Wednesday, November 5th, my wickedly funny, ruthlessly honest friend, Miss Leigh Naturkach discussed her semi-permanent laminated list of fake boyfriends (a link to her blog is posted on the right of this page).  Now, my post today actually has nothing to do with said topic, but on a recent outing on the subway, her post kept popping into my head.  

As I was riding on the subway last week, I looked around, people watching (my favourite activity) and then my eyes saw it.  I couldn't believe it and spent the next 6 stops transfixed on this hideous monstrosity.  It was what I like to call 'the train wreck effect' - you know you should be repulsed and avert your eyes, yet somehow you just can't bring yourself to look away... a compulsion to stare overwhelms your entire being.  A man, let's call him Rico, Rico Suave, for the sake of this blog, was wearing one of the most atrociously obvious toupees I have ever seen!  As I got to thinking, I realized that I had seen several bad toupees over the course of the last week. A plague had surreptitiously taken over our fair city under my very nose.  You know the toupees I am talking about, the ones that don't match the person's natural hair colour, or those that are obviously on backwards...

I sat there, slack-jawed and dumbfounded. How did this man not know that toupees weren't cool.  Especially bad ones. Did he not get the memo?  Bald is in.  Think of it as hardwood - nobody is doing carpet anymore!  If you want to hold onto your youth, try investing in some funky running shoes, or drinking diet pepsi - the ads say it works.  This is where Leigh's blog kept popping into my head.  I am officially sending out my own semi-permanent laminated list of things that are not acceptable practices in the year 2008.   Semi-permanent because I reserve the right to add to/change the list as I see fit.  Bad toupees are number one on my list.  Here are the rest of the offenders....

2. Mustaches - Now, I have nothing against facial hair in the least - quite frankly, I am jealous of anyone that can grow a beard as all I can muster is a bad 14 year-old's goatee - but on the whole, I have to say, mustaches alone on the face are just creepy.  Face it.  If you are sporting a mustache and no other facial hair you are 1 of 2 things.  1.  You are a 70's porn actor or 2. you are lurking in someone's bushes somewhere (if you get my drift).  Creepy. Don't do it.

3. Socks with Sandals... WTF people?  How, and for the love of god, why, are people still committing this offense?  I am going to let the pictures speak for themselves.... 

Ok - so one word comes to mind.... boobs - all of them.

4. The Mullet.  I know it tried to resurface a couple of years back under the name 'the brazilian' or something equally as ridiculous. Still not cool.  Business in the front, party in the back is never a good look.....NEVER. 

This picture brings me to my next NEVER GOOD.... 5. The Speedo.  As far as I am concerned speedos should only be handed out on the deck of an Olympic swimming event, and are to be collected IMMEDIATELY following said event.

6. The comb-over and 7. his cousin, the bald-long....  As for the comb over... come on guys... you ain't foolin' nobody....as a side note: Have you seen yourselves in a wind storm? 

The bald-long is just as bad.  Just because you are thinning on top, does not mean that you have to prove to people that you can, in fact, grow hair.  You are no less of a man without hair.  I do give you props mr. bald-long however, for not going the way of your backwoods cousin and attempting the comb-over.  Points for that.  But, with the bald-long, quite frankly, one would fully expect you to be crouching beside mustache wearing man in the bushes....hate to break it to you... 

Now, perhaps it is just me that has a morbid fascination with all of these things, but I feel I speak for a majority of people when I send out this semi-permanent laminated list to my fellow men out there.  Please read the memo.  We are just trying to help a brother out. 

Looking back at my list I realize that it is very 'hair-centric'.  Perhaps this is because, yes, I too am thinning on top and will one day no doubt be sporting 'the monk look' as I call it (hair all round, bald in the middle).  I vow to go bald with pride and class.  The key to balding gracefully is keeping the hair short and clean cut.  It is much sexier really.... and if I do have a hard time coming to terms with my hair loss, I will just tell people that I am not losing my hair, I am simply, over the course of years, slowly converting to Judaism.

Yup... I said it... shame on me....

I couldn’t believe the words as they spewed forth from my mouth. I was shocked, and yes, appalled…yet there was nothing I could do to stop them. Looking back, I don’t even know how or when I learned such perverse, nonsensical drivel. My indoctrination was slow and complete in its nature. Each newly acquired word leading to the next.. gateway words really. I was so taken aback with what I said to the poor young man behind the counter that I bowed my head in shame, apologized and repeated it just so he could make sense of such an abomination and hopefully remove the distressed look on his face: “I would like a Double-Tall-half-sweet-non-fat-vanilla-latte-extra-hot.” Good Lord, it is painful just to write it all out and relive the madness. When did I become so crazy and demanding? Whatever happened to ordering a regular cup-a-joe? I don’t know what I was more ashamed of; the fact that I ordered a drink that sounded like something from my OAC chem exam, or the fact that I could justify every single word in that drink and why I was ordering the way I was.




For those of you lucky enough not to have a clue as to what language I am speaking, let me fill you in. This is what I have deemed ‘Starbucks-speak’ or ‘Starbuckese’. It, for me, has truly become one of the oddest cultural milieus in North America, soon to be the world. Starbucks is not only its own brand and empire, it is its own world and there are definite unique modes of comportment, etiquette, and even language associated with it.

Let me break it down now – a coffee re-mix if you will. What I actually ordered is the following: A vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso made with non-fat milk and half of the vanilla flavouring made extra hot. Yes, I have a specific reasoning and methodology for why I do what I do, but I will get to that later. First, I feel it necessary to tell you how all this happened, seeing as my first Starbucks experience in the big city 5 years ago ended with a lecture and me ranting to a store manager that I vowed never to order from their establishment again (luckily due to semantics, I was able to never order from that particular store again, but could still order from the chain with a clear conscience).

You see here is how it all first went down… Picture it: June five years ago. It is hot and me and my girly arms are moving into my first apartment in the big city of Toronto. I am excited, half manic and half delirious from the heat and the move. I decide that I want something cold, but definitely need caffeine to keep me going. On the corner where I was living there was my tried and true Tim Horton’s facing a Starbucks. I would normally go to Tim’s, no doubt in my mind, but I was not wanting an ice cap. I wanted something different…so I decided to head into the Starbucks.

I looked at the large menu of cold-drink options and was perplexed. I thought I would wing this one. How hard could it be? I walked confidently up to the counter and asked for “a cold coffee drink….ummmm....medium…not ice cubes… something in the blender…not chocolate… I like coffee flavour… I want it cold…and something that tastes good”… remember, delirious from moving…
The man taking my order said, would you like whipped cream on that?
I said “no thank you….ummm actually, ok…. Ummm no. No. I don’t want whipped cream after all thanks”. The guy at the register rang in my order and took my money… He was fine. It was the coffee-maker-guy (or “BARISTA” as I would later be told) that I could see getting a little edgy with my order. I waited patiently enjoying the much appreciated air conditioning, when my drink was finished.
“This one is YOURS” said “THE BARISTA”
“Ok, thanks!” I said. To which he replied folding his hand prayer-like, putting them up to his mouth in complete exasperation and leaning “the weight of the world” aka his elbows on the counter…
“Sir… (big sigh, long, pregnant pause), in future, It would be beneficial to everyone involved (another pause, as if this ‘everyone’ intimated that I had offended the entire world), if you learned how to order a tall-no-whip-frappuchino.
“Are you kidding me????” I lost it and ended up with coupons for many free coffees, vowing never to use them…

But alas, I was to weak to withstand the mega-corp soul sucking establishment. Heck if they could have a store in the “Forbidden City” in Beijing China (I barfed a little in my mouth when I saw that), how was little ol’ me going to resist?

In my defense, I started drinking Starbucks out of pure necessity. It was when I was working at the bookshop – satan’s layer – and I was in teacher’s college, teaching and working 5 days a week…. I needed caffeine to stay awake and Starbucks was right in our store. I learned how to order a tall latte. Then, after being called boring, I learned how to order a tall-vanilla-latte. Then, when that was way too sweet, I learned how to order a tall-half-sweet-vanilla-latte. Then, when my optometrist told me I had obese eyes, (cholesterol deposits), I learned how to order a tall-half-sweet-vanilla-non-fat-latte. Then, when it dropped to sub-zero temperatures outside, I learned how to order a tall-half-sweet-vanilla-non-fat-latte-extra-hot… It embarrasses and pains me to say it, but the extra hot keeps it warm longer when I walk outside in the cold…. The indoctrination was complete and irreversible.  Gateway words...
I am sure that Starbuckese will appear in the OED’s next addition… heck if ‘muggle’ and ‘bootylicious’ are considered words by Oxford, what’s stopping ‘no-whip’, or ‘skinny-latte”?

It has permeated our culture and is a symbol of our times. In my defense, I do go to Tim Horton’s 9 times out of 10 and only go to Starbucks if I want a fancy, frothy, treat and I am nowhere near my fave coffee place in Toronto – Mercury Coffee on Queen East at Logan…mmmmmm – and a local business to boot!

I guess there is no real point to this blog entry. Perhaps I just needed to admit my guilt. Yes, I, at times, enjoy indulging with a Starbucks Latte and have learned to speak their language. Where once I would want to punch someone in the face and call them snob if I head them order a complicated drink at Starbucks, now I just want to punch myself in the face.

All I am saying is that coffee judgment is rampant and classist… whether you are carrying a cup from Tim’s, Starbucks, Mercury, Timothy’s or Second Cup, like it or not, you are being judged on a cultural and socio-economic level. Quick fact: do you know if you cut out your once a day Grande Latte from starbucks at work, (so five a week for 52 weeks) you would save over $1,300 in a year. It is the Starbucks Factor. Coffee is big business, and I would argue, one of driving forces that shape our cultural makeup… is that even possible? I can hardly believe what I am saying… but I think I may be right…