… is post something short, sweet, non-dyspeptic and by someone else.
But, goldarnnit, the someone else here is J Walter Thompson, the venerable ad agency, the original “Mad Men” blue-suited dinosaur that’s updated its DNA and partnered with Tourism Toronto to create a soul-stirring 60-second promotional video (actually, an entire campaign) about my hometown that brought tears to my old-man eyes and gratitude to my aching, feckless heart.
I’ll be updating with an authentic slowpainful post very shortly. In the meantime, enjoy:-
Well, come Monday the 19th, I donned my tiara with the great, big flashing “L-for-loser” and trotted off, unopened VISA bill in hand, to vote, non-strategically, for the Beard Party.
Mainly ’cause of their free Birkenstocks platform and their fantastic thank-you-gift collectibles for any voter over nine who could be persuaded.
I’m thinking – and these are just the ones that are top of mind – of the Special Election Edition Linda McQuaig “Make My Hair Pretty – Please?®” Doll (cheap batteries, tube of Dippity-Do and tiny, dandruff -encrusted brush included); and of course the Jack Layton Memorial Steeped Tea Mug with inspirational quote – “I said it was massage and Olivia says so too!”- which dribbles “Sleepy-Time” onto your white collar through its secret hole and then just – breaks.
You may be wondering.
Voting in our first-past-the-post system brings with it all the enfranchised fun of buying a Lotto 649 ticket just after you’ve spent your rent money on another ball of “hard”. Though it be ever so complex, all you need to know about this system is that voting for who you believe in is for chumps. Believe in?! Puh-lllllease!
You vote for anyone you think will win who’s not the person you don’t want to win, and/or the person called Trudeau, whichever comes first. Are you getting this down?
My vote for facial hair therefore virtually guaranteed the sweeping into power of the National Liberal-Twink Alliance Who Are Virtually Indistinguishable From The Conservatives But Certainly More Hot If It Is, In Fact,The Person Called Trudeau.
Rim-Job Thought Experiment™ To Determine Voting Preferences:
To determine which Canadian election candidates are “hot”, and therefore who to vote for, try this Rim-Job Thought Experiment™. Yes, ladies, you too!
Part 1: Are you lying on your back? OK. First, imagine Stephen Harper sitting on your face. Look, I didn’t say this was going to be easy. That’s right, you got it, go to town with this image. Fill in lots of detail. Spare yourself nothing regarding his personal hygiene, unkempt pubic hair or lack thereof, his reactions. DOES he react, that’s a good point, excellent work, Céline! You see?
Now, in preparation for Part 2, please brush your teeth.
Part 2: OK, now, on the other hand, imagine The Person Called Trudeau lowering his ass onto your already wagging, eager tongue. Keep going, make this as concrete as possible! Imagine his ululations of pleasure as you probe and savor! Get specific! Does he grind his butt? Or does he just let his weight settle down, down, down, so you fear – or hope – you might meet your maker while clamped in his luscious, gluteal embrace? Bring. It. ON! Right?
Conclusions: So, having tried the Rim Job Thought Experiment™, who do you think is hotter? Well, I would definitely agree with you! Yes, I am kind of awesome, and it’s sweet of you to bring it up yet again!
Thus, with a Canada-wide blast of hold-your-nose-and-anyone-but-Harper mass strategic voting, an eerie is-this-Alzheimer’s-or-is-it-really-1972? wave of déja-vu, and a collective panty-moistening of every female over 45 in the entire country, we elected The Person Called Trudeau in a landslide of taut muscle, tousled hair and optimism.
Steve Harper, that glassy-eyed alien (and for that matter, his crack-fueled croney Rob Ford, Toronto City Hall’s very own “Night With Chucky“) was nothing after all but a second-rate, tone-deaf accountant at karaoke night dreaming he was onstage at Massey Hall.
Mr Harper? Your rapture flight will now board, and may you and yours have swift and final uplift.
And Mr Ford? Robbie Baby Bobbie Boobie? Eat more food, dude. You hear me? Robert darling?
Here in Toronto, the City Without A Soul, where the terrible WAR ON CARS rages unabated – at least, according to the Neanderthals from the 905, who drink petroleum for breakfast and, although unable to cope with words greater than one syllable or concepts greater than one person, think nothing of simultaneously texting, reading the National Post and driving an SUV up Jarvis Street, all the while dragging that morning’s decapitated cyclist under the rear axle – and where an architecturally-significant Victorian pile like the James Cooper House can be bent over the kitchen table by developers, its voluminous petticoats lifted and a condo shoved up its ass —
In the days leading up, I like to spend a little time getting in shape before that big ol’ parade passes by. (And you can just shut your trap, Barbra. This is MY moment for closure.)
Seriously, at my age you can’t spend too much time toning up. Especially since I hocked my diamonds. One needs a little – glitter and be gay – around the turkey-wattle, not to mention an emergency supply of drab turtlenecks from the fashion mausoleum that is .
(Re: Diamonds. That’s ticket 43b at McTamney’s Pawnbrokers, 139 Church. If anyone’s interested..?)
No point being bitter.
So, in the spirit of sharing and caring that is the exquisitely-distilled essence of Pride, here’s a little taste of my warm-up routine. Just for you. Advanced, you cry? Perhaps, but I guarantee that, once mastered, this little sucker of a move will blast your cares from here to Des Moines!
Now, before you all dash out in a frenzy to your graveled rooftops and start your reinforced gussets a-poppin’, a word of advice: Please, please don’t try getting in shape without warming up, will you?
Or without diamonds.
(Half-hearted Photo Credit: Photo so totally not by me, of me, or any-preposition-you-can-think-of, me.
I stole, sorry, re-purposed it and subjected it to inappropriate context and public derision.
FIRST PIC: College Park, our understated (and, this being Toronto, under-appreciated) Art Moderne gem, known to the geezer generation as “Eaton’s College Street”, looks like this in 2014. But inside, on the 7th floor, was the Eaton Auditorium, and the Round Room, designed by Jacques Carlu in 1930; designed down to the china pattern and waitresses’ uniforms. Two words: Lalique fountain. Just let that sink in for a moment.
The tenants who owned the neglected structure in 1977 wanted to demolish the 7th floor in its entirety and replace it with OFFICE SPACE. Luckily the Toronto Historical Board stepped in, and the 7th floor has been lovingly restored as “The Carlu”. Although it’s now a privately-owned event space, you can visit, you can hire it for events, and at least it was preserved.
As for the owners who actually considered demolishing a marble-inlaid architectural gem containing a Lalique fountain; an important piece of Toronto’s history that marked its coming of age; the masterpiece of a visionary Parisian designer and hundreds of dedicated artisans – not to mention the Eaton Auditorium, whose acoustics were so perfect that Glenn Gould made recordings there – and replacing it with orange-and-aqua industrial carpeting, soulless cubicles and fluorescent lighting: Gentlemen, may all your sleep, every moment of it, from now till the day of your collective passing, be fitful.
SECOND PIC: But College Park as we know it is actually unfinished. This is what it was INTENDED to look like, before the Crash of 1929 wiped out the funding: A rival to the Empire State Building (or a precursor of the Pałac Kultury, aka the former KGB headquarters, in Warsaw, depending on your taste). Personally, I say hooray for the Crash of 1929.
All together now, studio audience: “Didja know…?” “Well, I never…!”