6 Canadian Dollars Richer

Today I reached an important milestone in my adult life. I swindled my 7 year old nephew out of 10 bucks, a fifth of everything he ever saved. And it was strangely gratifying. At least at first.

I pretended to be a hipster. And the little sucker was pitied into it. So it goes.

“Bra,” I began. “You know what it’s like being 25 and unemployed? I’ve got it tough man.”

He was genuinely concerned. Children, as annoying as they are, have an innocence about them that only time kills. One disappointment after another, that’s growing up for you. And Alex, that poor kid, learned a hard lesson today. DON’T GIVE MONEY TO BUMS, UNCLE INCLUDED!

So I asked where he got all this cash from. “Grandma!” His face was glowing. And there it was. From that point on, the guilt trip would be a cake walk. I went all Protestant Work Ethic on him.

“What!? She’s my Mom and I can’t even get a handout from her!”  Alex giggled. I’ve always had a knack for light, playful, humour. I even once put it on my resume.

‘SKILLS – self-deprecation,’ it read neatly.

On a side note, I’ll never forget that oddly effeminate guy who interviewed me at Ontario Place. For those of you who are fortunate enough to be Americans, it is a crappy state-run amusement park in Toronto. Enough said, right?

Anyway, he was rightfully confused by this ‘skill’. Apparently self-deprecation isn’t very employable. So I was told. But I got the job anyway. And I was part of a union. God help my country. But that’s another story.

Back to my adorable little nephew:

After a bit of verbal wrestling, he conceded. Still, I wish I was a more efficient salesman. Time is money, even when you are jobless. And I can’t be expending this kind of effort on every 7 year old I want 10 bucks from. Imagine my luck with a non-relative...

Here is another life lesson. If you have never been on the grind, DON’T take a promise for granted. You’ve always got to hustle. So when I got home, I watched Alex stick his little teeny-weeny fingers under the mattress in our guest bedroom.

There it was. A nice, crisp, clean Canadian 10 dollar bill.  And I took it – much to my family’s dismay. I’ll never forget the look on my sister’s face.

And then I realised something else. By taking his money, I had proven that I actually was a hipster. It was depressing.

There I stood inside my parents beautiful, downtown Toronto row-home with a 5 o’clock shadow and a vintage T-shirt from the Salvation Army.

Yes, I am technically broke. And while my most expensive asset is currently a Macbook Pro I spilled wine on 4 times (now worth about $200), I have never in my life been poor. At least not Cambodian-style.

Hipsters don’t reject materialism. They relish in being supposedly complex misfits who feel alienated from mainstream culture. Yet most of us grew up mainstream, and will probably end up that way too. How un-hip.

So I slipped on my skinny Levi’s and got a $4 organic latte at a coffee shop that played Broken Social Scene almost exclusively. What a great day. I was now 6 bucks richer. And still directionless…

A

50 Shades of Callused Clitorises

Since when is it acceptable to read fifty shades of grey, no less in PUBLIC? This morning I was sitting next to a girl, who could not have been older than 22, deeply engrossed. When I glanced over at the page "Christian" was licking the ear of some boring, housewife stock character. The reading comprehension level of that book is near 6th grade, and there is probably a high chance that the American public will begin including it in their syllabi for senior English class.

But more so than being sad because she thinks that this is actual literature worth consuming and isn't embarrassed enough to do it in some dark hole miles into the earth, I am ANGRY. There are two types of people that read that book: people that read it to live vicariously through some poorly written, "sexually liberated" characters written by a sad, Twilight fan fiction writing middle-aged woman and those who read the books to see what the fuck all of the hype is about. This girl from the train was definitely the former and because of that she has planted all sorts of awful thoughts in my brain about how she doesn't mind everyone knowing the exact erect status of her clitoris. Then again, I guess that's kind of the point of that book anyway. Sexual freedom, ahoy! 

Lady, go out into the world and actually get your weird on. Very far from me.

Love and hugs,
J

From Queen to Bean and Everything in Between

It is once again my favorite time of the leap year – OLYMPICS SEASON! The time of year when Bob Costas can say things like “The president of the Libyan Olympic Committee was kidnapped but released just in time for the Opening Ceremony!” with a shit-eating smile on his face and no one notices because they are preoccupied watching London tell its rich history of mass oppression to the currently oppressed masses. People are still being kidnapped, but look at our organizational and logistical management skillz!

There was no doubting the brilliance of the Queen’s entrance, however Daniel Craig as 007? The organizers blew £27 million, only spent £1 on Paul McCartney, yet still couldn’t spring for Connery? The Queen’s brooch/necklace/headpiece combo could have paid for the entire ceremony and yet the human race had to settle for the poor man's undercover operative. How disgusting.

The ceremony cycled through the UK’s history, however, as it is impossible to touch on all the historical struggle snuggles initiated by Her Majesty’s red coats, many catastrophes were coincidentally ignored by the Opening Ceremony. These catastrophes include, but are not limited to: the American Revolution, colonizing EVERYTHING, decolonizing EVERYTHING, and child labor, which was briefly reintroduced in full force for the Opening Ceremony. The stage resembled the ultimate Sandusky dream, minus the flying beds, as they make the children more difficult to get to.

Then there was Mary! My ineffable childhood dream of having 100 Mary Poppins love, coddle, and bring milk to me quickly turned into a treacherous trail of nightmare-inducing Voldemort-produced wizardry. The thought of a giant jack-in-the-box being vaulted out of a bed is enough to make me scared to sleep – apparently no one thought of the children. The thousands of children on that stage will go on to have Opening Ceremony PTSD and cost their friend, the under-funded NHS, millions.

England’s love for scaring young children shitless is up there with its love for under-spiced comestibles and the politically correct. Only black-on-black couples were featured and the white people, as expected, couldn’t dance. Subsequently, according to my research, it can only be assumed that being forced to love your country makes you a better dancer (see: Opening Ceremony 2008).

Overall, the 2012 Opening Ceremony was a little creepy and odd, just like the British. 

It is a national travesty that Mr. Bean has yet to be Sir-ed,

zrox