I’m sorry that extended quality time with J♥e has interfered with my blog updates. Well, actually, I’m not sorry at all, who am I kidding?


When is a cigar not a cigar? When it’s– J♥e.

From our iconic mid-century LA compound.
January 27th, 2015.


My thoughts go out to you, sad little readers who’ve been waiting with bated breath for another update regarding my totally narcissistic, useless life of Caligula-style debauchery.

Fact is, I’ve been spending some highly-confidential quality time with J♥e at our LA compound.

As you can imagine, I relish this yearly opportunity to take a Los Angeles-sized break from my usual inner-city Toronto hell-hole routines: doula then undertaker to baby roaches; pulling on another hideous, shredded cashmere-polyester-mix GAP sweater for warmth, and desperately trying to restore the urine-colored bathtub to anything approaching white using a toothbrush and a can of Ajax.

You think I got these chapped hands from skiing at Gstaad?  Think again, groveling toadies!

As are the chimes of Big Ben to a Londoner,
thus is tradition to J♥e and I in the eternally sunny, almost oppressively perfect Butch Cassidy-Sundance Kid rewrite that is our existence. And it’s no different during the precious spiritual—by which I mean completely focussed on animalistic man-sex—retreat spent in our modest—by which I mean dialed back from palatial to merely luxurious—LA machine-for-living.

We always start by giving Juan and Juanita a surprise staycation, which I like to announce by screaming “la migra! la migra!” while stomping  around in my vintage SS boots and slamming a few doors. My word, how we laugh, “we” meaning “I”!   

Once the illegals have accidentally locked themselves in the downstairs panic room, J♥e and I put our cell phones on vibrate, close the electronically-powered vertical blinds, throw some tastefully-greyed driftwood on the Xanadu-sized fireplace and order in.  It’s gonna be a quiet two weeks!

With these tender hijinks, year after year, begins our cherished ritual of spiritual renewal, with the occasional break for a round of pervy, rules-free naked olive-oil wrestling.  It’s a life-balance thing.

turkish olive oil wrestling Google Search

pervy, rules-free spiritual renewal creates quite a stir with the neighbours!

Also, it’s important to maximize our remaining time here before the entire mid-century structure crumbles in cinematic slow-mo off the cliff-edge. But hey.

That’s the intoxicating level of existential terror that keeps us coming back to Manson country!

We have several fave activities
during our brief but erotically-charged catch-ups. “Eye-gazing” is number one, and many thanks to Jorge, our part-time bromance coach, for this technique.

You could probably try it with your frumpy, Goodwill-clad partner some evening, once you’ve finished scraping the congealed Kraft Dinner residue off the plastic tableware.  But I doubt it will have the same effect without the exorbitant fees.

Anyway, eyes are the windows of the soul, or something, and we—that’s J♥e and I if you didn’t pick that up on the first mention—spend a couple hours each day, eyeball locked to eyeball, and J♥e says the utterly black void he sees through my windows is very soothing after a tough day on set.

First bro to break contact gets to “bottom” for Juan, which adds a little extra frisson.

Sorry to be so TMI. It’s the way I get when I feel the subterranean rumble of subsiding foundations.  Mister Devil-May-Care, that’s me!


Dialed back to merely luxurious and crumbling off the cliff edge:  life in the slow lane.

(Evernote reminder to maid:  “Hey, Enchilada! How’s the PTSD?  LOL!! Just goofin’ around, Grape Picker!!

“Listen, this trip our world is all about sourcing wholesale collectibles – recently spotted 40% off marble fruit paperweights at Jonathan Adler, also stoneware vases inexplicably covered with 3-D breasts.  WTF, right??

“To anticipate your objections, these days even the Pope has a couple of those on the mantel! Yes, siree, Ms Francine Vatican Herself!!  And if that doesn’t convince you, two words: electrified fence. Capisce?

“P.S. – I lost the eye-gaze challenge! Again!!  I know, seriously??!  Am I a li’l freckle-faced rascal or what?  Am I?  You know I am!!!!

Ciao, amiga!”)

But lest you think that life is all piña coladas and expensive spirituality in our kastle-by-Koenig, let me tell you something.

While you turn three more shades of chartreuse from envy!

It’s not.  Far from it!

Though I bet that’s something that never occurred to you. While you were thinking it was.  All those things.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah. We, too—that’s J♥e and I—have our small yet impeccably man-scaped problems which obviously far outweigh yours. For example, I recently started to obsess about whether he’s secretly disguising some male-pattern baldness with discreet hair weaving—

—but I promised I would let that go.

When I wake him up every night at 3 AM to settle the question once and for all he calls me OCD in a really testy voice, and in response I throw an abalone shell or other similar knick-knack against the polished concrete mantelpiece, then fake-cry.

He has gradually begun to ignore this, and thanks a bunch, Jorge, for that technique, too. Nice work, bromance coach.

Then there’s the body hair issue.  As you can see, J♥e is rigorous about nuking every last follicle till he’s smoother than a Vatican choir-boy, which ups the eye-candy but means I keep sliding off his chest. Clamber, slide, clamber, slide. Jesu, Maria! It’s like trying to perform frottage while scaling a glacier.

Which pretty much sums up bromance in general.

That’s my status update—call me blogged, Facebooked and tweeted!

While J♥e finishes his cigar, I’m going to take my morning constitutional on Wilshire Boulevard with our Yorkies, Macy and Saks. Those toxic LA breezes help clear the cobwebs, and, bonus—free chemical peel!—while I, with my astonishing gift for 24/7 visibility, whip up a wee bit of a stir in my fishnet tanga.

And let’s be frank: If those little yappers get thrown under a stretch Hummer, oh well, they get thrown under a stretch Hummer.

That’s just life in the slow lane.  Ciao, bello!

(Attention Ge♥rge Cl♥♥ney:  Please don’t start imagining this whole piece is intended to shame you, or that I’ve wasted even one more second thinking about your chiseled jawline. Or the sweet-pervy nothings you might be whispering in my ear right now, none of them about restraining orders.  All is forgiven if you’ll just answer. C’mon. What would Rosemary have done?  That’s right. Answer the phone, baby.)


This post first appeared in January,  2015.  
I'm repeating it here, updated and revised, as part of my 
"best of my blog" series.

INTERPRET MY DREAM* CONTEST!! ** (with guest blogger Meryl Streep)

I had this dream*: I was back at the Royal Conservatory of Music, but as an adult.

Oh really. How original!  This usually means you get to wear, for example, ridiculously undersized Buster Brown shoes and a sailor suit, unless it’s just the Buster Browns with knee socks.  Which is distressingly like Japanese porn.  Just add pigtails and some California rolls.

At any rate, I was practising piano in one of their studios when Meryl Streep as a teacher came in with her pupils – I had run overtime.  Like Big Surprise, right?

Meryl plays her as  a rather plaintive, gaunt figure in black, a cross between, say, Isabelle Huppert, Emily Dickinson and Meryl Streep.  Or Charlotte Rampling.  Or Meryl Streep playing Charlotte Rampling, which she would do better than Charlotte Rampling would.  I’m just surmising.  I mean, probably better.

Let’s all hear it for Meryl fucking Streep, Mistress of The Universe!

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.

The bit where you get frantic and confused:  I began to pack up, and in the process I became – altogether now – frantic and confused. I suddenly realize that it’s Meryl Streep’s bags I’m searching through and packing and repacking – and even more compromising, I’ve taken some of her valuables and put them in my pockets, like, gaspwhatever.


PRIZE:  Most of this NOT included. NOT PICTURED and probably NOT included:  Little Swedish flag stuck into the mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes NOT included.

I’m missing reruns of Seinfeld for this?

I realize my mistake and confess to her, and start to return the valuables – documents, cards, pics of her children, there seems to be no end to the stuff – but she is horrified and offended and accusing. Nothing I say or do will convince her of my innocence or that it was just a mistake.

Yes, it’s the old “back at school with-optional-humiliating-nudity” trope. I leave the studio to find that there is a handwritten sign in the high-school-like hallway slyly publicising my mistake for all to see.

Oh Meryl, every dream has this sequence somewhere, you just can’t remember it.  This is why every time you go to evensong at Saint Swithin’s in the Mange you look at the minister and instead of his face you see a large, unruly vagina. OK?  So you can probably cut down on the Vicodin.

Random musings to convince you that if you spend another three hours on this rubbish you’ll extract some kind of life-lesson that you can subsequently spin into a spiritual cash-cow type product that preys on people’s stupidity.  q.v. “The Secret”: But WHY has this happened? What’s my EXCUSE? Is it the darkness of the studio, my haste, the fact that I keep putting on her thin-framed, unattractive spectacles?  My overweening desire to sit around doing nothing and get paid?

Oh, fuck it.

I mean, I’m trying to milk this puppy for all the foreshadowing I can get and it still reads like a rejected script for “Pee-wee’s Playhouse”.  That’s the episode where Meryl Streep plays everything, including the postman, the fat chick and all of the toys, cause she had some spare time on her coffee break or something. I’m telling you, her “Little Red Fire Engine” is devastating.
And that’s even before she sings “Die Winterreise” from memory in the original German, while accompanying herself on a replica fortepiano she built in her hobby room.
Why don’t we all just kill ourselves so Meryl can do everything?  Hey, Meryl for POTUS ! Meryl for CEO of Con-Agra!   Meryl for—Hey Meryl –  wanna write this blog post, too, I bet, don’tcha!The dream goes through a dissolve and now Meryl Streep is writing this blog post.  Go on!  Knock me over with a girder! 

CONTEST**: Interpret my dream*!  (by guest blogger Meryl Streep)

Meryl Streep:  (sounding exactly like David.  No.  Better than David.  Her comic timing is impeccable.)  You may be wondering so here’s why you should just do this:  I’ll Purolator a single IKEA Swedish meatball*** with a tiny container of lingonberry preserves to the author of the best and most convincing exegesis.

Entry fee: $500.¹  I know, I know, just see the footnote. You must perform a skill-testing question that will probably involve pronouncing the word “exegesis” and naming all of the Canadian Governors-General since Confederation. OK, one Governor-General.

No it’s not Sarah Palin.

Entries MUST be written with a fountain pen in INDIGO BLUE INK, preferably in those little plastic vials that used to explode all over your pencil case and get on your white shirt.  See, it’s like having a dream* along with me!  Never, and Virginia, if you’ve forgotten, I’m going to remind you to never never never again forget how good I am to you.   N-E-V-E-R.  Now get those pens scritchy-scratching!

*       DREAM is genuine.
**    CONTEST is bogus and anyway it ended yesterday.
***  See picture.  DISCLAIMER: Serving suggestion only. ONE meatball delivered per winning entry. Meatball MAY or MAY NOT contain “meat”.  I reserve the right to have Meryl Streep play the meatball.  

Lingonberry preserves included, quantity may vary from that pictured.

Prize does NOT include creamy mashed or possibly puréed? potatoes OR garnish of frozen-then-microwaved “petits pois”.

OR lovely IKEA plate. I broke them all. Anyway.

Meatball pre-dates IKEA meatball recall of 2013. Use at own risk.

ONE entry per household. ONE this. ONE that. More rules, more rules. Blah blah blah.



¹ I know.  But it discourages the the riff-raff, along with the word “exegesis”.

Quick note from  guest blogger:  

This was a supremely challenging role, David.  I think the worst part was mastering the “oot and aboot thing”.  And when I say I didn’t eat, I truly mean I did not eat for a full week!  I think the correct plural for “Governor-General” was a sweet touch of calculated authenticity.  And I know you do, too.

That’s all for now, love.  Thanks for the opportunity to suck all the oxygen out of another role!  I’ll give you a charmless, self-satisfied hug once I flesh out some back-story.  Aren’t I just the best? LOL! It’s a rhetorical question!

Bisousthat means “kisses” in French!  I was pretty sure you wouldn’t know that unless of course you went to Yale! 



I hope your autograph book is back from the cleaners


Flash! Flash! Click! Click!

It’s a week since I reached the heady milestone of 10 “likes” and 10 followers on this blog, and you can bet your sweet patooty that life will never be the same again.

I’m sure the only reason that I’m still able to leave my apartment unmolested – an act whose desirability leaves me somewhat conflicted, what with all those hours spent on Craigslist laboring in vain for the opposite result – is the sub-Arctic, -16C* temperatures outside my Toronto igloo-in-the-sky. Or is it that rancid, faint whiff of whale blubber, which I smear over my Stanfield’s combinations in a desperate attempt to retain heat, that accompanies me through the months-long, socialist darkness of the Canadian winter?  Who the f— knows?

*For American readers, who quite understandably prefer Imperial measurements to those commie Centigrade ones, -16 Celsius is approximately equivalent to “freeze your bollocks off”, or six tablespoons. I hope that’s more clear.

What does the future hold, I hear you cry. Well, I’m absolutely choughed (pronounced “chuffed”. It means “thrilled” in the U.K.  Don’t even ask.) to tell you I’m currently awaiting  Céline’s email response to my offer of opening for me in Vegas, which will surely arrive once Wind Mobile has taken the cap off my “unlimited” data plan.

Unlimited? Wind, you grand kiddeur, you!  LOL!   May I add, with just a hint of chough, that only in Canada do you find a telecommunications company honest enough to name itself after the British slang for intestinal gas. Which is just another example, along with tar-sands oil and its avatar, our own Stephen Leacock – sorry, Harper – of the dry, self-effacing, last-laugh’s-on-you Canadian humor that constitutes our biggest export.

But back to me.  Please.  Fame of this magnitude brings responsibility, and there is work to be done.  I have spent the last eight days devising a strategy for my own and my fans’ protection, seeing as a spring thaw is bound to happen.  So here it is:  Once the snow is down to armpit level, around August, I will wear attention-grabbing, Alexis Carrington-sized sunglasses from Dollarama whenever I leave the apartment, or, as I now refer to it, my Toronto compound.  (Pictured: Professional re-enactment, please do not try this at home.)

I know. But when my security is at stake, nothing, but nothing is too big a sacrifice, and Céline swears by them.

And where does this leave you.
I’m sure you may be wondering.  All ten of you.  (Or is it 20?  Assuming the likes and the follows don’t overlap.  Mon dieu !)  Well. Let this be my promise :  Though it’s great to “arrive”, I will never, ever forget the little people – that’s you – I crushed to pulp on my way up.

Bisous, baby, I’m literally out of here as soon as my car arrives.  And get me Justin Trudeau on my cell.  Tell that pretty little candy-ass liberal I want to learn the Quebec for “tête-à-tête.”