Saturday, 15 September 2012


So I start tweeting utter, cork-brained piffle,
just to see what people will say about it. 
If I were my own mother, I think what I 
would say is,"Miley, you need Jesus." Hm. 
Maybe I will tweet Jesus! LOL! LOL! LOL!

Photo/ Crestock 

I'm not sure when it happened, but suddenly a whole new field of medical expertise has calved from the insidious Twitter phenomenon. It's a bit like reading tea leaves, only less accurate and not as good for you, because you don't have the healthful tea to drink afterwards.

So in this new field, experts sift through the vast miasma of thoughts being tweeted by celebrities and then make a sombre medical pronouncement as to their state of mind. "Ahem, yes, well, having thoroughly examined Kim Kardashian's entire body of tweets for the past two hours, I have concluded that she LOVES TO TWEET PHOTOS OF HER OWN ARSE!"

However, it is not Kim who has the tweet doctors worried these days. No, the one the tweetsperts are furrowing their brows over lately is one young Miley Cyrus.
Personally, I started to wonder about Miley when she shaved half her head and went punk. But the tweet docs prefer scientific evidence, and Miley is giving it to them in spades. Last night, for example, she tapped out a spate of cryptic teaser tweets, including:
  • Ever feel like you want just.... something more. not sure what exactly... passion perhaps?
  • Sometimes i feel like i love everyone more than they love me. hatttte that feeling.
  • Thought of the day: maybe it's not that they love you less, they just love you the most they are capable of loving.
  • Sometimes I dream that I am being chased by a giant MULLET!!! (OK, fine. I made that last one up.)
The Hollywood Gossip  pounced on the bait, noting "the tweets raised suspicions as to Miley's state of mind" and "her relationship with fiance Liam Hemsworth." Maybe, they mused gleefully, "the mounting criticism over her new hair has finally broken her!" 

Eh? You got all of that out of a coupla silly tweets? You Hollywood Gossip people, you don't have kids, do you? Cuz if you did, you'd diagnose it this way: Yeah, she's like 12. She's bored. The phone is in her hand and what the hell, might as well tap out whatever random thought crosses her mind. In my day, they called it "navel-gazing." We didn't have Twitter or cellphones or gol-darned Internet, so what we did was we got on the phone and talked to our friends for TWO HOURS about stuff we'd already talked about all day at school. 
Parents typically ignored it and it went away.  
Which, come to think of it, is exactly how I'm starting to feel about Twitter . . .  

Friday, 14 September 2012



"But they can be UNsealed ... for a price! 
Make me an offer. Any offer. 
I'll sing like a canary!" 

Ever wonder whatever happened to Monica Lewinsky? Personally I'd forgotten all about her, but the little scamp has  reared her president-servicing head once again. Yes, the woman whose lips led to the impeachment of President Bill Clinton in 1995 is reportedly shopping a "top secret" tell-all book. And "top secret" is a bit of a misnomer, as its existence is being crowed about by just about every gossip website you can think of. (Including mine. One does like to be on trend.) 

Apparently Lewinsky has been making the rounds with major publishers, all of whom were asked to sign nondisclosure agreements. And I may be missing something here, but the question that comes sharply to mind is, "Why now?" After all, we're talking about a blowout that occurred some 17 years ago. About an incident that has been thoroughly chronicled in dozens of books published back when it actually happened. 

So what can Lewi bring to the table that hasn't already been brought?
First-hand knowledge, I suppose. "Direct-from-the-whorse's-mouth" storytelling, I guess. "Let me tell you about Slick Willy's willy before Mitt defeats Barack and the Clintons suddenly become about as relevant as Rosalynn Carter" raconteuring, perhaps. I do not know and cannot pretend to imagine what this poor daft cow is thinking, but my catty best guess would be that she is out of money and about to turn 40, two things that can make even the most upstanding of women a bit desperate. 
So if you're starting to make your Christmas list and are looking for a juicy book to put on it, good old Spewie Lewi might just be able to oblige. 
I'm sure a book deal will be nailed down soon, at almost any price. ("You don't want to pay me $1M in advance royalties? How 'bout you drop your trousers, sir, and we'll discuss this again in about 5 minutes?")  

Thursday, 13 September 2012


Jessica Simpson, Katie Couric,
"I sure hope it's a girl because 
I've already bought her the 
pink stilettos and thongs!"
Photo: CreStock
The deep thinker that is Jessica Simpson debuted her freshly deblubbered post-pregnancy physique this week on Katie, because that's the kind of thing America needs to worry about right now. And all things considered, she looked great, no doubt thanks to the doubled-up Spanx she reportedly wore for the occasion. 

But then she trotted out "the baby pic." 

Which was either shrewdly calculated controversy bait or just another Simpsoneurysm, but either way, what happened was Jess paraded her adorable four-month-old daughter, Maxwell Drew, down the worldwide runway in a string bikini. That's right. A bikini.

Within minutes, the debate as to her mothering abilities had erupted: "WTF? Toddlers and Tiaras much?" versus "Oh relax, it's just a baby pic." And now all America has splintered into two camps so fiercely divided even Michele Bachmann and her incessant praying may not be able to save them.  

So I beg of you, help put an end to the suffering. Take a moment from your harried lives, stop worrying about the mounting tensions in Cairo or whether or not Mayor Rob Ford really is made of butter, and cast your peepers on this photo of Jess's infant. Then ask yourself: Appropriate or Indecent? After that, you may return to your regularly scheduled thinking. (Unless you're Jessica Simpson, who has reportedly eschewed thinking because someone told her it has a lot of calories.)

Wednesday, 12 September 2012


Aaron Settipane/
Including a really ugly new one that I maybe shouldn't have got. But I'll tell you this, it ain't Rihanna. And it ain't my current girlfriend, either. Whatever her name is...

 Zepherwind |

Here's a typical Mexican
"Day of the Dead" face. 
Which is obviously totally cool
 and zexy and anyone can see 
why Chris Brown would want
onto his neck, right?
Poor silly, ink-addled Chris Brown. He just can’t seem to stop making bad decisions. His latest gaffe: an amateurish neck tattoo that immediately set news and gossip websites ablaze because A) it looks a bit like Rihanna and B) it looks a LOT like Rihanna after he beat her. Brown’s rep hotly denied Brown would do such a stupid thing. In fact, he'll have you know, what it is is a tattoo of a skull associated with Mexico's Day of the Dead celebrations. Oh. Right. I don’t know why I didn’t immediately guess that. 
If you ask me, the heavily tatted crooner needs to start running his decisions past a trained thinker before he acts on them. He also needs maybe just one more tattoo. A big one, right across his forehead so he can see it every time he looks in the mirror. “TODAY: TRY TO STOP BEING A JACKASS!”

Fun facts: Here, for kicks and because there's not much else to do on a boring mid-week day, are some more banal tidbits about the many tatts of Chris Brown.
  • There's an entire grovelling website,, devoted to his inkings and "the meaning behind each one." (Apparently some people have even less to do on a boring mid-week day than I do.)
  • He got his first ink when he was 13, a tasteful Jesus tattoo with music notes intended as an homage to Our Maker for blessing him with music.
  • He has a tattoo of his current girlfriend, Karrueche Tran, on his elbow. I thought we'd all learned from Johnny Depp's Winona Forever tatt that getting your girlfriend's name/face permanently injected into your skin is a bad idea. But what do I know? The only tatt I have is a chunk of pencil lead embedded in my shoulder by my baby brother. He was 5 at the time and very angry with me about something or other. And I'm sure I totally deserved it. 
  • Here's the link to Brown's messy new tattoo: My Ugly New Ink! And I have to say, I don't care WHO it's supposed to be, that young man needs to shave.

Monday, 10 September 2012



This was taken during a tour of the laid-back villages in the countryside near Puerto Plata. We were invited into people's humble homes, we were fed chocolate and fresh coffee, we toured cigar factories, we rode donkeys. As you can see, I was having a wretched time. Some women might appreciate being plied with Dominican rum served up in fresh coconuts by handsome, bronzed young locals, but I am not that sort of woman. I moped the ENTIRE TIME. (P.S. His name was Alessandro. Some drunk woman on the tour actually proposed to him. I cringed and thought, "There but for the grace of God . . .")


WHEN A STRANGER smiles at you
Do you A) Smile back 
B) Yell "HARLOT!"
 C) Put your fingers in your ears 
and hum until she goes away. 
Yeah, you'd think the answer 
would be obvious.
One would think it's a simple concept. Perhaps even a primal reaction. However, I can't help noticing that there are a lot of people out there who don't seem to know how to respond when a stranger smiles at them.

As a compulsive smiler, I can't help but greet you and say "Hello" when I pass you on a sidewalk, in an office building or at the gym. Yet I notice that when I do so, a surprising number of you just stare back at me coldly. 

This peculiar reaction is a bit like a slap in the face. It stings. It throws me off stride. It makes me wish I could retract my scorned pleasantries: "Excuse me, I'll just take that back, thank you. Here, have this frozen scowl instead. Enjoy your day."

But deep down, I don't think you do this on purpose. I think maybe you're just missing the friendly gene. Therefore I should not think mean thoughts about you, I should pity you. And try to help you, my poor gene-addled fellow man.
So let's just turn this into a learning opportunity, shall we?
When someone smiles at you, it is considered rude, even a little odd, frankly, to simply stare back at them as if you are made of stone. Would it kill you to smile back? No, I don't think so.  

Since we've already established that you have a problem reading facial expressions, I have compiled this helpful collection of photos for you to review, below. Practise the correct response in the mirror for 5 to 7 minutes each day and remember this rule: unless the person smiling at you has done something egregious, such as sleep with your husband or slash your tires, you should smile back. It's one of those little niceties that makes the day, and the world, a little kinder.

Correct response 
when a friend or 
 stranger smiles 
at you.
Incorrect response. 
The only excuse for
ever being seen in 
public with this look 
on your face is if 
you are dyspeptic 
and en route to 
the walk-in clinic.
Incorrect response. 
And also unattractive.
You don't want your eyes 
to stay like that, do you?


(It's so cute that the poor bugger actually thinks he's going to get more than 
one forkful of his own cake . . . )

A friend of mine has a son who turned 30 yesterday. Which is fantastic, not just because 30 is a real milestone but also because birthdays are almost as good as weddings when it comes to excuses for a pigout. His mom, his aunt and I decided to mark his special day by taking him out to dinner at The Keg. Because it's festive and because we were really, really hungry. And in case you weren't aware, it is not possible to go to The Keg when you are really, really hungry and not make a complete sow of yourself. This was us, five minutes in:

Waitress: Would you like something to . . .
Us (in unison): YES! Nine-ounce glass!
Waitress: Uhmm . . . 
Us: Wine. WINE!
Waitress: Okay. And would you like . . .
Us: Menus! STARVING!
Waitress: (Muttering into sleeve) Security? I'm going to need backup.

After we'd received our medicinal beverages, we were able to calm down and put some thought into the menu. But everything looks good when you're hungry so in the end I just said "I'll have whatever the Birthday Boy is having," which luckily for me was the Sirloin Oscar, smothered in Bearnaise sauce, topped with shrimp, scallops and asparagus and served with mushrooms, grilled vegetables and about two pounds of garlic mashed potatoes. 

Me: OMIGOD! This is too much food!
Birthday Boy: Just do your best.
Me: I'm a very dainty eater.
Birthday Boy: Of course you are.
Me: Yeah, and could you stop hogging the butter, there, Birthday Boy? These mashed potatoes aren't going to grease themselves.

And that's pretty much how the entire night went.
The waitress was very perceptive, she noticed right away that we were the drinkin' kind of guests and kept the nine-ounces coming. We had a great time, we reminisced about the Birthday Boy's childhood and then wondered if perhaps we should order him a birthday dessert. He, being a guy, doesn't really like cake too much, which is good because he barely got a bite of it what with all the lady forks going at it. 

Afterwards, we went back to the Birthday Boy's house and continued celebrating his birthday by ignoring him while we drank coconut rum and talked about men. When I finally rolled myself home, I didn't feel quite guilty enough about the amount of food I had consumed so I Googled The Keg's nutritional information. I don't recommend this as a digestive aid, because I learned that I had just put away more calories than a woman my size should eat in an entire day. (About 1,600, not counting the wine, the bread, the butter or the cake.) So, yeah. It was pretty much the best birthday ever.

Editor's Note: I certainly hope the Birthday Boy enjoyed his special day as much as YOU did.
My note: The who? Oh! Of course he did. There was cake and everything . . .

Sunday, 9 September 2012


A friend and I went out for drinks recently at The Keg on the Esplanade. As we sipped our wine (the 9 oz glass, why even OFFER us the 6 oz glass;  do we look like we don't want a good stiff drink?) and waited for our appetizers, we did what all women do when they are out for the evening: we gossiped about the other women in the room. 
After we'd both done a thorough visual take-down, one thing became very apparent. 
"Have you noticed that every guy in here is with an Asian woman?" I said.
My friend looked at me, wide-eyed. "I was just thinking the same thing," she said. "What's with that?" I didn't have an answer. But I certainly had a question. "Why?"

Asian friend and I enjoying a night 
on the town, completely unaware
 of the preconceptions as to
 our desirability. Thank God.

I have my theories, but I resorted first to that foremost authority: Dr. Google, PhD. And let me just say, if you Google "Asian Women," be sure you don't do it at work. Because what pops up are dozens of sex websites with pictures of Asian women in stereotypical "slut" poses. 
So that might answer some people's "Why."

But what also came up, way down the list, past the Singaporean woman with her arse beckoning fetchingly and degradingly at the same time, was a very interesting article by a writer named Fred Reed. (Why White Men Prefer Asian Women.) 

Fred describes a local sushi bar where all the waitresses are Asian and all the men are dying to date them. He says white women often ask him why the guys are hot for the Asian waitresses, and make their own assumptions. They assume, for example,  it's because Asian women are easy. (Wrong, he says. "American women are easy.")
They assume it's because Asian women are submissive. (Wrong, he says. They expect respect and they get it.)
In fact, according to Fred, the ingredient that makes "almost any Asian more appealing than almost any American" is that they seem to enjoy being feminine and therefore make men want to be masculine, whereas American women dress like men, swear like men and have a huge chip on their shoulder about men. The end result, he says, is a scrotum-dehydrating apparition that men find about as appealing as a visit to the proctologist.

Which is all very interesting and I'm buying all of it until I scroll down and see that Fred Reed is, like, 101 years old. So for him to be trolling bars for desirable young women of any ethnicity is just this side of creepy. For starters.
I happen to think he's a little bit correct about North American women being combative and potty-mouthed. 
But I also thing he's underplaying the Asian Sex Kitten image most men carry around in their Penthouse-schooled minds. 

For the record, I have female friends who are Asian. And who are black. And who are South Asian, Dutch, Portuguese, Guyanese, Sri Lankan, Belizean and Straight-from-Bell-Island Newfie. And based on what I know of each of these lovely women, here is what I think: 
I think people want something different. I think the exotic is alluring. I think sexual stereotypes play a huge role and we're lying if we deny it. 
But at the end of the day, for the normal decent folk among us, it all comes down to that most primal decider of all: compatability. And love. 
In whatever colour you find it.