Saturday, 8 September 2012



Some people rely on the Weather Network. Some people rely on the Farmer's Almanac. Me, I just go by my work schedule. If I'm working, it will be sunny and warm. If I'm off it will be teeming with rain. If I'm off for more than two days, you can expect hail and possibly even a lunar eclipse. Sorry folks. Send me your holiday plans and I'll arrange my work life accordingly.


 Snoop Dogg Lion Crouching Tiger
 is in town to promote his documentary. 
Which means Bob Marley is in town too.


Snoop Ring-Tailed Lemur  (oh right, right, sorry, it's Lion. Either way, it makes no damn sense) . . . So Snoop Dogg Weevil Lovebiscuit Lion was in town last night for the TIFF debut of his reggae documentary Reincarnated. And all everybody kept asking him was "What's up with the name change?"  

Which is boring and beside the point, because Snoop thoroughly explained that particular wrinkle weeks ago. It's also well covered off in his documentary, in which he explains how he went to Jamaica and suddenly realized he is Bob Marley reborn. This Road to Damascus moment further led him to realize that his incessant smack-talk about hizzoes and bizitches was completely inappropriate, and that in fact what he SHOULD have been doing all these years was smoking even larger doobies and speaking with a Jamaican accent.
So I find all this incessant yammering about name changes tedious and derivative. What I want to know, and what no one seems to be asking, is what's with that cane he was sporting? I have no knowledge of Snoop injuring himself or of canes being a "thing" with Bob Marley, so all I can do is assume that . . .
Yes? Oh. Hold on a moment, I've just been handed a news bulletin. Apparently this is what's known in urban circles as a "pimp cane." It is meant to look cool and is not a real cane such as the one Christopher Walken or Bruce Willis (both of whom looked like they could have used one) might soon need.

Right. So it's a pimp cane. And not a life-sized decoy stuffed to the gizzards with ganja.
Because why would anyone do a silly thing like that (to sneak across the border and through the airport with), I ask you.

It's not that I'm jealous of 
Eva Mendes, but really, what 
is her problem? She can't just 
stand there and look plain?

In other Friday night TIFF celebrity-spotting news:

Joaquin Phoenix appeared to be relatively sober.

Ben Affleck kissed a woman in the crowd (who went home and had her cheek bronzed and told her husband, "Suddenly, you repulse me.")

Ryan Gosling arrived on the red carpet with that boyfriend-stealing harpie Eva Mendes. She wore what the Huffington Post called "a stunning lace and sequin gown with a very on-trend updo" and blah-blah-blah-barf. Showing off, as usual. Then she posed for a photo with Ryan and Bradley Cooper, effectively making an Eva sandwich of herself, because ONE GORGEOUS MAN ISN'T ENOUGH FOR SOME GREEDY WOMEN.

The Toronto International Film Festival continues until September 16. Here's a link to the festival events, with Ryan Gosling's personal cellphone number embedded in secret code. Heheheheh ... take THAT, Mendes! Click here for TIFF tickets.

Friday, 7 September 2012


*Third in a never-ending series

Creepy, crepey Mel is a textbook example 
of the B.O.Y.V. man-whore. (Editor's note: 
Does anyone remember The Year of 
Living Dangerously? What the hell 
happened to THAT Mel?) 
Hello, ladies. (Men, I'm afraid you're not the target audience here today. In fact we're going to pillory you. Have a nice day!) So now that the boys have gone, we can talk about dating. As we do every Friday in this fun little segment I call The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing. In Part 1 and Part 2, we talked about the Cheapskate and the Man-Whore. Nettlesome creatures, both of them, but really just junior league compared to today's species: The Blood of Young Virgins Man-Whore. 

Distinctive markings: Similar to the man-whore, but older and creepily fixated on young women. They won't date you unless you're under 26. There's a disturbing inverse relationship going on here, meaning that the older they get, the younger their preferred date age gets. This helps them cling to the belief that they are not 59, not covered in liver spots and not about to have a heart attack.This species is extremely age conscious and often resorts to such desperate measures as a toupee, do-it-yourself hair dye and ill-fitting jeans. Which, alas, only makes things worse. Because nothing says "Fuck I'm old" like a saggy old-man butt in ill-fitting jeans.
Habitat: Used to be bars. That's fading since online dating came along, and man are these gents thankful because bars stay open so dang late these days. A friend and I laughed ourselves into fits one night at a restaurant while scanning the shameless blood-of-young-virgins detritus on offer at on her iPhone. We laughed so hard the waiter AND a couple from another table came over to see what all the fuss was about. Then they started laughing too. That's the reaction you're really getting, old-man-whores.
Recommendation: AVOID. Or just stall. These guys know they haven't got all the time in the world so they won't hang around waiting too long.
*NEXT WEEK: The Player

Wednesday, 5 September 2012


Have you ever been reading about a disease and then realized, "I have all of those symptoms! Oh lord, I have dysplasiastic hemophobia!"?
It happens to me all the time. 
It happens so often, in fact, that I have to be very careful about what I read in the paper. Because if I hear that West Nile virus has been found in my neighbourhood, it's only a matter of hours until I have contracted it and am flat on my back in the emergency ward. (They know me quite well now. I have my own cot in the far corner of a wing they're thinking of naming after me. Or so one of the nurses told me one night, but she may have just been trying to calm me down.) 

Over the years, I have managed to afflict myself with dozens of disorders and diseases, including but not limited to dengue fever, SARS, dyshidrotic eczema, late-onset Tay-Sachs and Tourette Syndrome. (Those who work with me suspect I was never really cured of that last one.)
As a result, I make fairly frequent visits to my long-suffering doctor. A typical conversation will go like this:

Doctor: You again! Long time no see.
Me: I was here last week.
Doctor: I know. I was joking. So what brings you here this time? Dandy-Walker Syndrome? Asceptic Meningitis? Coxsackie Virus Infection? It's going around.
Doctor: No, I . . . oh what the hell. Let's just do this. (Peers at clipboard.) Let's see. ... blurred vision?
Me: Yes! I have that.
Doctor: Dry mouth?
Me: Always!
Doctor: Heartburn?
Me: Unbearable!

Doctor: Fingernail sensitivity?
Me: Now that you mention it . . .
Doctor: Have you ever heard of hypochondria?
Me: I . . . is it contagious?

I'm sure this all sounds very funny to you, but in fact it's debilitating. And it has only gotten worse since Google came along. Because you can type any wacky combination of symptoms in there and it'll match you to a fatal disease within seconds. Anyway, I'm going to have to cut this short. My fingernails are starting to throb and my bladder is feeling funny.

Editor's note: I'm no doctor, but I think we can diagnose her as "Bonkers."


 "You know, Ryan, I'm hearing that you're going to be cast as Christian Grey."
"That may or may not be true, George." 
"Which is funny, because I was told I might have a shot." 
"That may or may not have been true 15 years ago, George." 
"That's pretty harsh. You're going to be old someday too you know." 
"I know. But in the meantime, I'm not."
"Cocky little shit."
"What did you say, old man?"

 "Nothing, nothing." 


If you don't see any new posts here for a few days, don't be alarmed. All that will mean is that I have a had a complete full-body heart attack on account of the juicy rumour that is now all but confirmed: To wit, that Ryan Gosling will play Christian Grey in the movie version of Fifty Shades of Grey. 
(Uh-oh. Getting light-headed. Weird palpitations. Can't feel my left arm . . . )
Anyway, this rumour is getting lots of buzz. Author E.L. James' husband apparently told Now Magazine that, "last I heard," Ryry was the guy. And one would think he would know. 

Some speculate that this is all just a publicity ploy to drum up interest in the movie . . . CUZ THERE WASN'T ENOUGH of that already. But if that's the case, it's the stupidest publicity ploy ever. "Hey, we're casting the perfect guy, the guy you ALL want to see in the role of Christian Grey! Haha! Just kidding. We're going with Macaulay Culkin."

Editor's note:
I could be churlish and mention here that the book is in fact a piece of crap. But would anybody care? Nooooooooo. So I won't.


 If one is going to attempt the futile and swear off carbs, one should make sure to have a delicious relapse carb on hand. And some brie and red pepper jelly as well. 

Some time ago, for no particular reason other than that I tried on a bikini at the mall and was traumatized for a week afterwards, I resolved to give up carbs. I figured it'd be a piece of cake. (Mmm! Cake!) 
Except that I was wrong. Horribly wrong. Because since I imposed this fatwa on carbs, I have developed an insatiable craving for carbs. Pasta. Rice. Bread. Pancakes. Sweet potatoes. French fries. Those amazing little Ace Bakery crisps that cost twice as much as they should and yet are so addictive I sneak out of the house in the middle of the night, junkie-style, to buy them and ram them into my mouth by the fistful. 

Well I may be weak but I'm not stupid. I know exactly what is going on here. This is a classic case of the allure of the forbidden. So, oh yeah, psyche? Two can play that game. As of THIS VERY SECOND . . . wait, no need to be hasty, there's still half a bag of Rosemary Raisin Almond Crisps in the cupboard. As of the second those crisps are gone, I am imposing a new reverse-psychology fatwa. 
No more rice cakes! No more tofu! No more cottage cheese! No more non-fat soy milk! That's right, none. Verboten. Off-limits. Ix-nay on the ice cakes-ray. 
There. That should do it. . . . Any minute now, I'm going to develop an uncontrollable desire for bean curd. 

Editor's note: Non-fat soy milk? Good lord. I think I'd rather be fat.

Tuesday, 4 September 2012


Heidi and Seal during their 
married, well-rested phase

Update: Remember two days ago when Seal basically told TMZ his ex-wife, Heidi Klum, is a rhymes-with-shut who "fornicates with the help" and cheated on him while they were married? 

Since then, Seal has had to get a little "help" of his own. 
His reps have been working overtime to contain the damage and make him seem like just a little bit less of an ass. But in the end, this was the best they could come up with: He was tired.
An "insider" tells US Weekly that Seal "was exhausted" at the time of his verbal assault.

Well, sure, that could happen. And on that note, I'm going to go and have a nap before I start uncontrollably hurling insults at my own mother.


Shy bride hiding coyly behind tree
About the only upside to the new trend 
of Morning After the Wedding photos 
is that they're a change from traditional 
wedding photos. (With apologies to the 
lovely bride above. It's not her fault 
tramp-shots hadn't been invented yet.) 

© Alexey Lisovoy |

I may not be the best judge of wedding trends, as divorce is more my field of expertise, but has anyone else noticed that weddings have gone berserk? Inspired perhaps by the stunning egotism of Kim Kardashian and Celine Dion, there is no longer any limit to what newlyweds will spend on the blessed day. 
Or, as it turns out, the day after.

Yes, the latest trend in self-aggrandizement is Morning After the Wedding photos, which capture the newlyweds in various states of lust and undress, in the shower, amongst the rumpled sheets and what have you. Because having their picture taken 500 times the day before for wedding albums NO ONE WILL EVER LOOK AT AGAIN just wasn't enough for these people.

And who, exactly, do they plan to inflict these naked photos of themselves clenching each other on, anyway? Me? Don't hang that thing in the kitchen please, people! Cuz when you invite me over for your first dinner as man and wife I won't be able to eat a THING if I see that.
(I thought it was bad enough in the old days, when we had to ooh and aaah over those dreadful posed shots  . . . "and that's the best man, and his sister Mary, and my seventeen bridesmaids and our flower girl Emma and her dog and . . . hey! You aren't even listening to me, are you?"
"Whaaah...? Sorry. No. I turned to stone for a moment there. Carry on.")

All right, enough kvetching, I think you get my message. 
But in case you don't, my message is this:
Hello newlyweds. How are you? Congratulations. Now for the love of cake, get over yourself.
Oh, and one more thing, if it's new trends you're after, how about this one: BITTER DIVORCE & CUSTODY BATTLE PHOTOS! Gritty shots of the debt-crippled duo looking deranged as they spew bile and shovel buckets of money at their divorce lawyer. One hates to be a wedding-party pooper, but odds are that's on your horizon.

Editor's note: I'll just add this to my list of reasons not to get married. 

Sunday, 2 September 2012


I call this photo "Our man in Havana." And by "Our Man" I mean a complete stranger who seemed harmless enough, but one never knows. You must always be relaxed on the outside and wired-for-bear on the inside when vacationing in foreign lands. We strolled this legendary but crumbling city for hours, marvelling at the historic tiled  buildings, the Spanish influences, the bars, the cars and the heady aromas wafting from busy kitchens. In a downtown backstreet, a man asked us for a cigarette; in turn we asked him to take a picture of us. He misunderstood and posed so that we could take a picture of him. Note to self: Attempt to learn at least some basic Spanish. This could have got ugly.


In a shocking turn of events, one of the tramps that got naked with Harry in his VIP Vegas suite is now singing like a booze-fuelled canary. 
Because the story just wasn't good enough yet!

Auditioning to be invited up to Harry's suite.
 I thought I had a pretty good shot, but then
 his security detail noted my clothes were 
still on. DAMMIT! I was THIS close!

The well-bred lass had plenty say about her brush with naked royalty . . . and I must say, prince or no prince, it sounds like one of the goofiest parties ever. 

British-born beautician Carrie Reichert, 32, is quoted in People as telling the U.K. Mirror she was hand-picked by Harry's security detail to join the romp heard around the world. When she got to his suite, Harry was already donkey-butt naked and three (maybe even four or five) sheets to the wind.
"It was just crazy," Reichert says. "There was a pool table and he was playing air guitar with pool sticks. He was screaming out, 'Somebody get me a glove! I'm going to do a Michael Jackson impression!' "
And in case you're beginning to think this was obviously some sort of wedding proposal in disguise, Reichert would like to be very clear. 
"It wasn't romantic, just fun," she says, because Harry was "so wasted" that he "actually looked delirious."

Reichert tattles that she personally got to kiss Harry for 15 or 20 minutes. (I'm assuming it was three minutes of actual kissing, with 12 to 17 minutes of Harry repeatedly asking her "Who the fuck are YOU?") He then told her she was "beautiful and gorgeous," and then they "nonchalantly returned to the party and kept drinking."

Well, Carrie, so far this is certainly sounding very "fun." "Fun" is exactly the word that comes to mind here. In fact I'm starting to be sorry that I missed it. The third in line to the throne, naked and screeching for a glove? Random delirious naked hugs? Security detail watching the entire love-down unfold? 
Seriously! Might he be coming to Brampton in the near future? Would I have to be naked? Where do I sign up? 

Editor's note: Uhm, I think you're a little beyond his preferred age range.

Me: Oh bugger off. He'll be drunk as a lemur! I could tell I'm 12 and he'd believe it! 
(More "you dirty rat" details here at )