What a way to take our minds off of garbage strikes and heat waves, Michael Jackson. You even stole Farrah Fawcett’s thunder!

Forgive me for being glib. It really is hot outside. I fear the temperature might have turned my brain into congealed mush.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to say, but I know I should say something. The King of Pop is dead, a heart attack at age fifty-something. Right now he is toasting the news with the likes of Elvis Presley and John Lennon, those bastions of former generations who too met untimely ends.

But neither of them really lived like Michael lived. The outpouring of grief and astonishment stunned me yesterday. Hasn’t he spent the last fifteen years in disgrace? Bankruptcy and child abuse allegations…have we all forgotten? No, I suppose we haven’t, we’ve chosen to look past it, back to the music. It’s probably better that way.

I briefly considered tracking down today’s New York Times. Despite the fact that the newspaper is a dying beast, it may be worth it to keep this little nugget of history. As I rode the 501 home, I thought about other celebrity deaths and how we often think about “where we were” when we heard the news. Where was I? Getting my ass kicked in softball. I still have the bruise on my shin to prove it. Over time, that bruise will fade, but I doubt our collective memory of MJ will. If anything, I think his legend and his mystique will grow. Too many unanswered questions will lead to too many unauthorized definitive biographies.

Just ask Princess Diana.

As for my part, here is what I will punctuate the end of my opinion.

I doubt they will, Michael.

I love Canrock, that is, Canadian music. Growing up in the ’90s, I was fortunate enough to have some really effing good bands to listen to. Yes, the 90s were mainly punctuated with the likes of *NSYNC and the Spice Girls, but when I discovered “alternative”, there wasn’t much hope for the bubblegum crowd in my opinion. Forgive me while I go down memory lane today, but there’s a method to the madness, if you’ll allow me to indulge.

It started innocently enough with the Tea Party, a three-piece tribute to The Doors, complete with a very Jim Morrison-ish lead singer in the form of Jeff Martin. Now, when I say they were a tribute to the Doors, I don’t mean they played covers. No, the songs were original (and amazing!) but heavily inspired by Jim and the boys. The hair, the deep-throated growling base, the sitar…don’t even get me started on the sitar.

When I was fifteen or sixteen, they played a Hamilton waterfront festival, a free concert. It was actually the first concert I attended, and there they were, five feet in front of me (because of course I needled my way to the front) and I was in love. My body hummed with the ecstasy of seeing these troubadours in concert.

I know, a touch melodramatic, but I was seriously into Jeff Martin. I mean…can you blame me?

From there I moved onto Matthew Good Band, and, for a very brief moment, I Mother Earth.

Last Friday Kiki and I went to Tattoo to toast her friend’s birthday. I was in a bit of a mood and not up for the evening, but she convinced me anyway. It helped that she paid my cover.

Once inside, we found her friend amid the writhing bodies. In between the thrumming base, she screamed into our ears that “Edwin is bartending downstairs!”

Edwin was the lead singer of I Mother Earth. So, of course we had to go and see. I mean, would you pass up the chance to see a minor celebrity? Specifically one that is now serving alcohol to the masses? Didn’t think so.

We made our way downstairs. My gin and tonic was kaput by the time we squeezed through the bodies, so I had cause to mozy up to the bar. Sure enough, there he was, all six foot two of him, blonde-haired and bulging out of a very tight, very “rockstar” shirt. Perhaps it was because of my who-gives-a-fuck mood, or the first g & t already gurgling in my stomach, but I felt brazen.

When he caught my attention, I ordered a drink for Kiki and I. Noticing that he had an automatic shot dispenser for the alcohol, I leaned in, smiled and said, “looks like they keep you on a pretty short leash.”

He laughed and said, “I don’t hold it against them.”

Some folks claim Edwin’s a toolbag (and quite a few ridicule his less than stellar fall from Canadian celebrity grace), but I really couldn’t care less. He made me feel better that night, more than he’ll likely ever know, and my gin and tonic was delicious. If I ever go back to Tattoo I’ll be sure to let him know that.

Speed dating, originally uploaded by rémi avec un i.

When you’re single in the city, you’re bound to have some friends who are also single. Married folk have single friends too, but they mostly keep them around as a reminder of why they’re no longer single themselves.

Occasionally, single people like to hang out with other single people. Probably to remind themselves of why they’re single.

Last night I went speed dating.

I met up with girlfriends in Richmond Hill, a northern suburb of Toronto populated with Boston Pizza’s and Alice Fazooli’s. Into one of these establishments we went to see if we could meet a future mate in five minutes or less.

The first thing that should be noted is that I was wildly overdressed for it. The dress code stipulated “upscale casual”, so I wore my new dress from Anthropologie, a black and white baby doll-type confection.

Mayhap I took “upscale casual” too far because I felt the most “upscale casual” in the room. Or perhaps, the dress is a dying breed, savagely hunted down in the clubs and taverns of Toronto by the more aggressive pair of jeans. Suffice it to say, I felt out of place in my confection. Plus, it was hot, the dress was short, and the seats were made of vinyl. You can imagine.

Five minute dates. You don’t realize how long five minutes can be when you have nothing to say to a veritable stranger. Luckily I’m a chatterbox and there were only a few awkward moments with my potential paramours. The conversations generally began with the same question: “What do you do?” Only once did I pull out the blogger card and he gave me a blank stare. I went back to “publishing” with the next guy.

Perhaps it’s the event that brings these type of men out, but none of them struck me as very interesting. I’m sure I didn’t come off sounding very interesting to some of them either, so I grant that it’s hard to impress someone in such a short span of time. While they were all engaging and none of them were openly antagonistic, I still wasn’t terribly impressed.

In fact, only one really grated on me. “Louis”* and I got on the topic of travel. He wrote off my opinion of a certain country as a byproduct of the company I kept on my travels and proceeded to yammer on about how he loves “discovering different cultures.” Eff you, Asshole. He didn’t even ask me why I liked to travel.

Did I meet any potential matches? While I did check-mark a couple of them, I doubt I’ll actually speak to any of them. I’ve learned over this year that I need time to get to know a person before I consider romantic feelings. I took a chance four years ago on an online relationship. It was good. We had a lot of fun. But in the end, I got burned real, real bad and I’m much more careful with my heart these days, whether or not I want to be.

*May or may not be his real name.

What do YOU Call it? by VAIN Beauty World

I share this story for TMI Thursday in the hopes that some poor, young thing thinks twice before considering a home waxing kit for her bikini area.

I say this with no ounce of hyperbole: Do not use a home waxing kit for your nether regions. Especially if you have never used a home waxing kit before. Remember, once it’s on, it has to come off.

With that in mind, let me begin my story.

It starts off innocently enough. A few years ago I was haunting the aisles of my local Shoppers Drug Mart, not really in great need of any supplies, but browsing just the same. Us women like to do that, stroll aimlessly through drugstores until our eyes alight on something shiny and nice-smelling. Usually it’s lotion. Now you know why we have so many open bottles of the stuff.

Conveniently located beside the razors and shaving cream is the home depilatory section. For years I looked upon these shelves with a mixture of great horror and wonder, not unlike the “Family Planning” section. I would sneak sidelong glances at these forbidden zones while rushing by the shelves like a chaste nun drawn by temptation, unless the aisle was blessedly deserted. When it was empty, I’d stop and stare. And often with a great look of consternation on my face, as if I can’t decide between the magnums or the fun pack.

Anyway, for some inexplicable reason I came to think of the depilatory section much like I did the rows of condoms and lubricants: a source of mysterious wonder only to be studied if there was no one else in the aisle to judge me whilst doing so. Maybe it’s because the two sections go hand-in-hand; you can’t get laid if you’ve got a hairy vag (or so Playboy and Cosmo have taught me.) Maybe it’s my Catholic guilt burning a hole through my soul as I gaze upon rows of latex in various sizes and widths. Or maybe I just don’t want people to know I have to Nair my eastern Euro mustache.

On this particular day, I found the aisle deserted and so I gazed upon the waxes. And something in my brain told me that I might have found an answer to that awkward question I’ve always had: what do I do about down there?

I was already convinced that something had to be done. Society taught me well enough that no one likes things au naturel. So I picked up a box, paid $10 for it and went on home.

Now, this might have had a happy ending, if I’d done this with someone else there. But I was young. Too young to be doing this because, had I been older and wiser, I would have realized that you don’t a) buy home waxing kits by yourself and b) wax your own vajay-jay. I was thoroughly convinced that other girls don’t have to deal with this problem (in reality, they do).

It wasn’t until much later that I began to realize that we all have to struggle through the same embarrassing bullshit. If we didn’t, we’d still be covered in fur and hanging from trees. We’re too smart these days not to be horribly mortified by just how furry patches of our bodies can get. Yeah, I know. Just trying to figure out that logic is giving me a brain freeze.

I’ll spare you the graphic horror that was the first and only time I will ever placed hot wax on my own pubic hair, let it cool down, then attempted to rip it off my skin. In the simple words of the JDL, never again.

ring / yüzük, originally uploaded by Caucas’.

There’s really no significance to this day, it’s just another regular June day, but lately I’ve been thinking about weddings. Perhaps it’s the recent bout of wedding bliss I’ve been witnessing in my little neck of the Internet—they’re a small reminder about my own near-walk down the aisle and how my life has changed in the last twelve months.

Y’know. Just regular old Wednesday afternoon woolgathering.

I suppose it’s also the start of “the season”, which means very little to me other than it tends to pop up frequently as a conversation topic at work.

A year ago, I was in the midst of a downward-spiraling relationship.

During a particularly miserable phone conversation, the ex blurted out “I was going to marry you!”, as though it were a good enough reason for me to come to my senses, pack my bags and move right back on in. It was pretty sad at the time to hear him say it in such a desperate tone, but that’s not the reason it stuck with me. It was the words. He was going to marry me. It wasn’t “We were going to get married!” or even an “I was going to propose to you!”

Where did I factor into that decision? I wondered. That’s when I knew that I wasn’t going to marry him.

I wasn’t one of those little girls who dreamed of her Big Day, the poofy dress, the handsome, grinning groom. When I was a little girl I dreamed of houselights and center stage. When I wasn’t singing, I was acting, and vicey versey. So I had no time to think about normal things like weddings. As far as I was concerned, I couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t involve the stage.

That ebbed away. (For the most part, but that’s for another time.)

Now I have time to think about weddings. The ex and I had discussed the topic once or twice. Even when I was still in love with him, I couldn’t rightly envision my own wedding. I suppose I would have to dress up, I remember thinking. And it’d be nice to get some gifts.

So when he told me about his ideal wedding, I was okay with it. I think he was a tad suspicious. Girls are supposed to be the ones set on the way their wedding should go, not the other way around. He didn’t understand that I had never thought of it, not even fleetingly. That’s not to say I don’t want to get married. I just don’t know “how” I’d like to get married.

And that brings me to what I ultimately believe: I hate that I have to create a “how”. Why can’t I just get married? You want to witness it? Come down to city hall. Maybe we’ll have a barbecue after. You’ll find me next to the handsome, grinning groom. We’ll likely be shitfaced, and so deliriously happy that you’ll forget that there was never a theme to begin with.

Insomnia by helloromeo

I want to be past this age. This age where I am so self-absorbed, so dependent on my own emotions, that I need to go over the days events in my head, at the end of the night, when I should be sleeping. Instead of a delicious dream of making it to the tune of The Widow by the Mars Volta with some delectable speciman, I am plagued by visions of my day.

Not just visions—snapshots of conversations, long taken out of context, that probably mean about as much to everyone else as they do to the universe: exactly nothing.

I’m being haunted by my own big mouth. I wish it would stop, I’m frankly tired of the bothersome thing. Or rather, the bothersome trigger it hits when I’m up late at night and thinking about things I should have already forgotten. I need to take up something that prevents me from being haunted by this big mouth of mine.

For awhile, I fancied that it could be sailing. But that went by the wayside. Lately it’s been singing. God, I’ve been singing for weeks now, trying to fill the whole kitchen with music. Truthfully, I don’t feel entirely comfortable in it because the walls are so thin, and I know the neighbors can hear me, but it’s my only harbour for my notes. Gertie is now gone. But then, Gertie was getting too small anyway.

The lovely thing is that I don’t always play music along to it anymore, that safe melody in the background. I suppose you could say that I’m being more dangerous, but I think I’m just growing more confident.

But then there are days when I am not so confident in my own mouth. When I am out of my league and unsure of myself, where I stand. Days when I’m living dangerously, but too afraid to feel secure in my own skin. It’s not easy to peel it off.

Last night seemed to ebb away too quickly. It was hot and my mind was not shutting down. Before I knew it, the first bird was chirping in the trees, a bright, clear song that was soon joined by the muffled sounds of the rest of the world as it awoke. Somewhere in the walls, a shower started running. The familiar rev of a Harley traveled up from the street below. Trotsky sat amidst the curtains, watching the birds wake up, occasionally chirping himself as he daydreamed about catching prey. All I could think was, God damn it, why am I still awake?

Well, the day has started. I’ve had three hours sleep, but I’m awake and somehow I still feel fresh. My sharp-tongued brain punished me all night, and it was enough. If I’m lucky, I won’t self-flagellate for a few weeks now.

Inookshook, originally uploaded by madmonk.

I am writing this from a bunk bed, deep in the woods by Catchacoma Lake. The rain patters across the roof, reminding me that it is both dreary and wet outside. Inside this one bedroom bunk house in the middle of nowhere, Ontario, I am staying with 51 and 52, along with Trotsky, who cannot be trusted to fend for himself for an entire week. We are forced to share an “organic toilet” that is essentially a compost, and I can’t help but shake the image of the Flukeman each time I go to use it. Thus, this is my vacation.

Until I return, here is a short bibliography of other, better blogs that may entertain you until I’m ready to emerge back into civilization. I was hoping to do it with a tan, but God seems to have other plans for me.

1. My Masonic Apron: written by an acerbic Jew from Pennsylvania, My Masonic Apron is often hilarious and never dumb. The Dear Apron letters are special treats, if you like your treats filled with acid-tongued wit.

2. Chickens in the Road: I have mentioned Chickens in the Road in the past, when I passed the Kreativ Blogger award onto Suzanne, but I’m mentioning it again. Suzanne McMinn (Harlequin author) lives a life I can only imagine in West Virginia, with goats, pigs, (a) sheep, huge dogs, nine cats, and a brand new miniature donkey named Pocahontas. Best country cooking food pr0n I have ever seen in my life.

3. Fearless in Toronto: lives the sort of life in Toronto that I think is only true on the internet. I mean, my Blackberry doesn’t ring off the hook as often as her’s does. But then, I’m a homebody curmudgeon, so what do I know? Regardless, I find her life fascinating.

4. Thoughts of a Lusty Reader in DC: Reason number eleventy-five why I think DC has a disproportionate number of really effing good bloggers is Lusty Reader. Finally, a reading blogger who writes about reading. If I find another book blog that consists of nothing more than daily memes, I will through Viola at something.

Have a wonderful week, Dear Reader. Oh, and thanks for all the great responses to my question. It was a thoroughly enlightening read.

Tell me the truth, how much of a full blog post do you read? Do you skim it? Catch words and boomerang back to them if they interest you?

This doesn’t have to be specifically about my blog either.

Hey, remember this:

The Pie Shack, Toronto

It opened on May 22, right here in my own neighborhood. Two blocks down from me. This past Saturday I held a party on the thinly veiled pretext of having some of this here pie. Oh, and sangria! I love wine.

Anyway, I spent Saturday cooking, cleaning and running errands.

Nothing like hosting eight people in your bachelor apartment to put a fire under your ass. You notice everything: where everything is, where it isn’t, the smells in your home, the balls of lint you’ve been collecting for charity in the corner of each…corner.

On top of that, you’re hosting this party for some of your very favourite people in the world right now. And you’re sort of relieved it’s only eight people because you really wouldn’t have the room for more if they happened to pop by.

It sends a chill down my spine just thinking about it.

What pulled it all together, though? What was the keystone in the success of this evening?

Pie.

Apple-raspberry pie from The Pie Shack (2305 Queen St. East). I don’t know what sort of magical elves these two “partners in crime”, Tim and Daniel, have enslaved to make this pie, but it is damn good. The crust alone is delicious. No wonder they can fill it with anything. The soft, buttery crust propels you to finish the slice and seriously consider another one. The filling is just a bonus that compliments the crust by acting as a lighter balance.

I’ll be back for more pie. I shouldn’t—my dress size is already groaning in protest. But I haven’t tried a warm slice yet. Is it still unbecoming for a woman to like her food? Or can I say that this is really good pie and I would endure a ten pound gain if I got the chance to have one of these pies on a regular basis?

Well, that’s why this pie is so delicious. You wish you could have it every day. But the delicacy and the price ($25) means that these are special pies. These are pies to take to Sunday dinners with your family in the park. (I know this is hokey, hear me out, though.) A treat you trot out for your favourite guests. Sure, there’s a recession. But it’s summertime, and we can still afford to have a good time with our friends.

You will enjoy this pie. And your guests will be satisfied, with full bellies, sleepy eyes and smiles on their faces because they capped the night off with a little bit of pie.

Pie Shack Pie

(Image Source via The Pia Shack)