A Friday Feast of Fun!

To Quote Michelle Obama's Family Rabbi, "This song rules because the chorus is un-fucking-stoppable. not just unstoppable, un-fucking-stoppable"

I've hit a new low. In fact, I've hit a bunch of them. Three so far.

Come, loyal followers, sit upon this erudite knee as I regale tales of a boardwalk supreme, a place where courtesy, decorum, and class are swapped in favour of hair gels and Ed Hardy T-shirts. A place where lite beer flows as fresh as the water it takes like, where you're just as likely to find a skinny bitch on the rag (that's vodka, club soda, and cranberry juice) as you are to find a skinny bitch on the rag (that's an emaciated... you get it). I'm talking about the pure, blissful genius that is MTV's Jersey Shore.

It's eight people sharing a beach house in the land of the Jovi, all hoping to have the ultimate Jersey summer, filled with boozin' and bangin' . This shit is beyond reality TV. It's unreality tv, because who had any stinkin' clue that this place, like this, actually existed? I'm learning more about the world, plain and simple, exposing myself to new cultures and new ideologies all at once. I've seen the future, and it has a fake tan and a stupid nickname. This, my friends, is Guido.

This week, "Guidette" Angelina's home-girls Alana and Elena swung by the shore to visit, which led her to skip out on her job at the custom t-shirt store as she dealt with the fight she had with her married boyfriend. Get the picture?

DJ Pauly D, of the pierced wang and italian flag tattooed across his back, has been hooking up with fake-tittied J-Woww. Yes, her name is J-Woww.

Muscleman Ronnie has been hooking up with Sam Sweetness or something like that, who's right on the verge of kinda-hot (the delightful upper-limit of the girls on the show). Sweetness was previously hooking up with Mike, who calls himself "The Situation", in some reference to his abs that I can't even begin to understand. Ronnie and Sam just had a really adorable date. At least, adorable for the Jersey Shore.

There's also a Slate-dubbed "unfortunate little person" called "Snookie", whose obnoxious attention seeking is compounded by her addiction to pickles and drunk-to-the-verge-of-barfing-like-a-freshman guidos, one of whom spat out the immortal line "i think we're on the same page". It was his only one of the episode. Speaking of Snookie, I know from the season preview that there's an episode in which she gets punched in the face. I can't wait for it. That's how low I've sunken.

And then we have Vinny, who really doesn't contribute as much as the rest, but once he got in a fight at a club. That was kinda cool. Go Vinny.

It occurs to me that I could, and probably should, make this incoherent rambling into some sort of observation on modern reality television and the numbing of North America's collective brain. Thanks, MTV. But I'm going to end that preachy shit right there, because I'm really damn glad this show exists. Am I going to try and be Guido? Fuck no, our knight Thug Wrangler fills those crisco'd shoes quite smoothly, thank you very much, although I can only dream of one day being able to look directly in to a camera lens and espouse "fuck it, it's the fuckin' jersey shore! what do you expect?". I love it because it reminds me of two important things. 1. the outside world exists, and there are some really entertaining real people in it. 2. I am much better than them, and it's fun to know that. they are all selfish, manipulative, and I would pay never to speak to them in person. Yes, I understand the irony of exploiting them on television for my own entertainment. But, if that's wrong, I don't wanna be right. Besides, I'm three deep already. No way I'm turning back.

One last observation: Whenever the tanned unite to make a spitoon of one another, a female hand is always raised to the camera, attempting to block the view of the actual act, as if we can't tell that theyre doing the tongue-dance. Tough shit sister, this is my damn entertainment.

But on a more serious note

It has come to my attention, just today, that The Big Bop and the Cameron House, two enjoyable and familiar Toronto bars-cum-music venues, will be closing pretty soon.

Yesterday, I read with significantly greater shock and horror that the Carlton Cinema is sharing a similar fate after today--its last day, December 6--when they'll be screening Monty Python and the Holy Grail with popcorn as its own Last Supper.

I don't live in Toronto most months out of the year anymore, so my sentimentality may be unfounded, even exaggerated. But I am sad. Mostly for the Carlton. Regardless of my support for the establishment as of late, and regardless of how much direct involvement I'd had with any of the three above mentioned venues in my meager near-21 years of being, it never occurred to me that they would die.

(I won't pretend to make this a universal message, because it's pretty specific; if you don't want to indulge my sentimentality, you can scroll away now, leaving with the simple message that the closure of these Toronto sites is sad and makes me feel old.)

I can recall a dark night in June of '05 (I think it was '05) when ICGYABL and I went to the Aquabats show at the Reverb and Bernice slept through it; or when some of us saw Juice Money Orchestra at the Kathedral, immediately surprised at how not-shitty they were. There was a time when some of us stumbled, underage, into the Cameron House, never carded, and ICGYABL bought a CD from some hip indie-folk four-piece on a whim. Perhaps most importantly, I can remember going on several--and I mean several--dates at the Carlton, and seeing some of the best films of the last five years there.

It's inevitable that venues close, money gets tight, and the Capital-M-"Mainstream" wins out over smaller film and music spots. I am not surprised that these venues have finished, nor do I think it's for the worst that they did. Mostly, what is affecting me is the realization that moving away from home does not keep it preserved in a museum or cryogenic ice-chamber. I cannot return and find everything the way it was. Though I experience this every year, the Carlton's death was the final nail in the coffin of my childhood.

Soon I will be 21. That's adulthood no matter where you are on the map. The closer school gets to completion, the closer my summer jobs get to becoming life careers, I begin to ask: where is there stability?

In which I realize I am absolutely more like you fellas than I realized

Bacon-wrapped scallops, fresh from the Halifax Farmer's Market, sizzling on my stove.

And OHMYGOD they were delicious.

From the guys who brought you Baconnaise...

Mmmvelopes.

Envelopes... that taste like bacon.

So, after thousands of years and kajillions of horrible tasting envelopes licked, we’re happy to report that J&D’s Bacon-Flavored Mmmvelopes™ are here to save the day. No longer will envelopes taste like the underside of your car. You can enjoy the taste of delicious bacon instead.

What's next... lemons and limes that taste like candy?!?!?

I'm happy that progress can be so delicious.



ps good luck on 'xams, all y'alls.