That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Fuck being all sexy on Halloween, I am sexy every other day of the goddamned year. My Halloween is all about being as hilarious as fucking possible. And folks, if it’s not offensive, it’s not funny.

First real ‘live away from home, can do whatever the fuck I want’ costume was “Cocktease Gone Terribly Wrong.” I got the idea from an autopsy photo. I was in forensic psych at the time…not that that really explains anything. Anyways, it involved a very short skirt, a very sheer top, a fur coat, and my magical makeup powers to create bruised stab wounds and strangulation marks. I was nominated for best costume at the Rocky Horror show, but unfortunately, you couldn’t see my stab wounds from the stage. Offensive, but still damned sexy. And those heels, running for the last bus….shit.

Second costume was a rush job. I was working night shifts at the time, and woke up the night of my Halloween party at the local bar, two hours before show time with no costume. And I’m not about to rush out to Seductions to spend money on a costume I’ll wear once. So I look around, take out my sluttiest cocktail dress, which was starting to fall apart, and my shabbiest, wobbliest heels. Bonded up my wrists with extra fabric, clipped on my handcuffs, and again used magical makeup to create black eyes, bites and scratch marks. I stumbled into the bar, announcing that I was “Sex Games Gone Terribly Wrong.” The guy I was seeing at the time (with his girlfriend sitting next to him) simply looked at me and said “You’re fucked.” I was nominated for best costume that night too, but came in second to some chick who dressed like a flight attendant. Which all goes to show, it’s not up to ingenuity, it’s up to whose cock you’ve sucked. I’m just saying.

Anyways, at that party, two girls came in. Pretty standard girls, I knew them vaguely; one was average, one was a little overweight. And loud. Both of them. But they came in together, not in sexy costumes, but raggedy housecoats, curlers, smeared lipstick and pearls. In full character, they spent the night loudly calling their mutual ex-husband a bastard, and this here pain in my back is the only thing that son of a bitch left me and hand me that vodka, would ya?

I was so inspired. It was genius. They looked awesome, they were hilarious, they didn’t have to worry about tucking their tits into their outfits. I mean, twice already Miss Stewardess had to tell me “Um, your tit is hanging out,” to which I had replied “Uh…yeah! That’s kinda the point?” I then took a swig of my nearly empty Corona, not realizing quickly enough that apparently, once the clock has struck midnight, a beer only needs to be three quarters empty before it’s an acceptable ash tray. Niiiiiiiice. I’ve ditched that entire crowd, and the notion of putting myself through fashion trauma on what’s supposed to be a damn fun night.

Next year, I was at a party with my parents, only because nobody I knew was doing anything particularly Halloweeny, and my parents’ friends (well, really, my little sister’s friend’s parents, who are we joking about my parents’ social lives?) are makeup geniuses themselves. Except on a massive, prosthetic, monster making scale. Seriously, they live in a warehouse at the end of a winding road, and it’s filled with monsters and half formed heads. They have a secret room behind a bookshelf filled with giant creepy crawlies. And they loooove Halloween, so it was fun times.

Anyways, parents and children being there, I could only take my ‘offensive’ theme so far, meaning I couldn’t use the idea I’d been pondering for months. I was still all for the laziness though, and from here on in, fuck having to be sexy on Halloween. I went as Scarborough Barbie. For those who aren’t from around here, many people at my friends MTV/MuchMusic Halloween bash a few nights ago dressed as Britany Spears. My costume was essentially the same, only far more original, having done it a year earlier.

Sweatpants: check. Awful, awful makeup: check. Baby: check (I was SO PISSED I couldn’t find a black doll at Honest Ed’s – that was so key to the Scarborough aspect). I packed my cigarettes in the baby’s jumper, smeared candy on his face, named him LeShawn (it’s French for ‘the Shawn’) and left him upside down on the couch for most of the night, drunkenly explaining “he’s fine, he’s fine.” Fucking. Genius.

Word up, yo. (That’s my dad dressed as the Don Valley Parkway.)

Anyways, this year, I got to go as my dream, my vision. It was originally going to be “Miss Teen Mom ‘06 Disqualified” (which of course would now be ‘07). But Scarborough Barbie kind of covers that title, so although the costume itself stayed the same, I changed the title to something much more obvious. With drunken Halloweening, I wasn’t going to have time to explain, so I decided to keep the title plain and simple.

Botched. Abortion.

That’s right. I went as a botched abortion. Or rather, deathy by botched abortion. And it was fucking awesome. Sick, twisted, offensive, well executed, GENIUS.

I fucking win.

Please note the fetus in a jar.

That would be the post-autopsy Y incision. Also my cleavage. Originally mistaken for someone’s asscrack. Possibly mine, except for the lack of ink.

As luck would have it, someone dressed like a fucking doctor. Awesome. Please note pleading arms of baby in jar. Also note, as unsexy as all fuck. Sweet.

And finally, a close up of my handy dandy craftiness. Please note the coat hangers, they are essential, and probably the cause of death.

Fucking wicked. I rule.

It is going to be goddamned hard to top this one next year. I might have to scavenger through some car accidents for pieces.

I…have turned into my grandmother.

My grandmother is awesome. My grandmother will threaten random children with brutal violence if they sass at her. She has intentions to crucify half of her family. She makes homemade Bailey’s that ends up costing more but will cross your fucking eyes. She dyes her hair pink on random days. She wears spandex and goes bicycling everywhere. She knits, and she’s a motherfucking drama queen. She has worked her whole life and has no intentions of slowing down at 80.

She also, however, throughout my entire childhood, lavished me with gifts found in rich people’s trash. She learned this clever skill as a house servant for Jane Eastwood or someone I’ve never heard of but very hoity toity in her day. She actually used to live right in my neighbourhood. That rocking chair I loved when I was three? Found in the trash and glued back together. Nothing wrong with it except it had fallen apart and someone was too lazy to apply a little bit of glue. Paintings, jewellery, books. If you left it on your curb, it was Free Day at the motherfucking French Canadian bazaar that is my grandmothers insane but brilliant mind.

So during the past week, on my frequent trips up and down my street, I passed this small dresser placed out on the curb. 70’s kitch, but functional. My first thought was “my grandmother would totally take that.” I passed it again and thought “actually, that would be really perfect in my living room…my TV table is too low, and I do need more space for shoes and things….oh well.”

It stayed in my mind, however. I began to covet it, think about it every time I left the house. I mean really, where else do you get a four drawer set for free? Craigslist maybe? But that requires effort, haggling, arranging, possible rape. This thing is useful, dammit, and free. And RIGHT THERE, only a block away.

My third time passing it, I thought “Too bad I don’t have any friends around right now to help me carry it.”

My fourth time passing it: “Well, maybe tomorrow I’ll ask Snarky Friend to help me steal it. No,no, it’s America’s Next Top Model night, and she has to walk her dog. She’ll never make a stop here first.”

And really, did I want to turn into my Grandmother? Did I want to be seen dragging other peoples leavings home to furnish my half-painted and rabbit pelleted home?

I went and watched America’s Next Top Model with Snarky Friend. It was a great episode. I went home early, totally sober, which is an accomplishment. I even got off a stop early because I felt like going for a walk in the crisp autumn air.

There it was again. What to do, what to do? Oh my god! It’s garbage night! If I don’t make up my mind, it’ll be gone by tomorrow!!! I wanted it, I WANTED THAT DRESSER. What was I going to do? I couldn’t very well call up one of my friends and ask them to take a streetcar over to my place to help be drag a dresser a block to my door. But how was I going to carry it?

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. I walked past it. I went to my apartment. I took off my scarf, my coat, my shoes. I put my shoes back on. I looked at the cart I use for carrying groceries. Half the size of that dresser. But it had wheels. Okay. This may be disastrous. You are going to have to pass two pizza parlours packed with highschoolers, and you’re going to have to do it twice. Once with an empty cart, once with or without a dresser, depending on my lifting and maneuvering abilities. Can I do this?

Oh wait, that’s right. I’m Emerald. I don’t give a fuck who thinks what about me, and I want that motherfucking dresser. It will look good, and it will be functional, and it is fucking free. I would not be true to myself if I did not take that dresser. Right. Down the stairs.

I walk quickly past the pizza parlours and let someone on a bike pass me before I stop in front of my prize. I’m shaded from the streetlights by a tree. And although, certainly, I don’t care who sees me, I’m really kind of glad to be in the shadows. So I open my cart. It’s half the size of the dresser, right. Okay, so how to lift the dresser onto the cart?

Not. Easily. That’s how. Drawers were falling all over the place, I was being loud and cursing. The people inside the house probably thought I was some homeless woman rummaging through their discarded drawers for crack and cursing at finding none. Really, I’m just a clever home renovator. But I got it up there, I perched this chest of drawers onto my tiny grocery cart. I tilted it back, woah, the whole thing nearly slid out from under my grasp, it’s okay, I got it back.

Okay. So, now we walk – carefully – balancing this furniture on these fragile and already warped wheels, down the block. Down the block of cracked cement, and oddly laid sidewalk foundations where the cracks run parallel to the road, dragging my cart and my furniture towards the toppling oblivion of the curb. Three times I had to stop and readjust my delicate arrangement of weight and pressure points. One of these times was in front of the pizza parlour. But I am Emerald, and I care not what you obviously drunken bastards think of me. Last week at this time, I was lost on the subways. This week I am at least accomplishing something, so fuck you!

At my door. Right. How to get it off the cart? Maybe leaning it slowly forward….and the cart goes flying out from under it, the dresser topples forward, catches itself between me and the doorframe, all the drawers spilling awkwardly half out and jambing, making it impossible to move.

And a lovely couple walks right by me then. Greeeeaaaat. And because this is Toronto, they walk right by me without offering to help. And because I am Torontonian, I am incredibly thankful that they kindly overlooked my existence, my plight, my assfuckery.

Okay, so I position myself in front of the drawers to keep them from falling to the pavement and breaking. That would be a travesty. I kick the cart out from under the dresser, it goes who knows where. The dresser itself is now upright, in front of my door. Awesome. This is doable. I take out the drawers, one by one, and cart them up my five flights of incredibly narrow, steep, and puke-pink fuschia stairs. Then I bring up the cart. Then, oh then, with my shoulder in the crevice of the dresser where a drawer had only so recently been, and my other hand staggering under the almost-too-far-to-reach bottom, the stairwell not wide enough for both of us, I shimmy, sideways, up a stairwell with less maneuvering room than a bathroom stall.

I got that fucker up the stairs. I probably woke everybody up crashing into their bedroom walls on my way up. But fuck them. I have a new dresser, and it’s awesome, and it was free.

My grandmother would be so proud.

Wow, I’m certain my blogstats are going to skyrocket with this title because the world is full of sick fucking bastards with too much time and access to Google on their hands. And probably some other gross stuff on their hands.

Anyways. No, I didn’t see anyone publically urinating, let’s get that out of the way. Though given I live downtown, a sighting is due any day now.

What happened was this: I went to the ATM, and stood at a polite distance from the man currently making use of the machines magical money dispensing properties. He noticed me. And became shifty. Seriously, shifty, like looking over his shoulder as though I were going to steal his pin number, tackle him for his card and rob him of his daily-grind crappy-tie life savings. Tempting, but no.

His shiftiness had an odd visual effect. He pulled himself closer to the machine, huddling almost, with his hands hidden in front of him, presumably at the money dispencing location, lest I dive in and snatch the protruding twenties. All this contorting and huddling and leaning in, however, made it seem, at least to my slightly warped mind, as though he were urinating on the ATM.

Now this is fun, I thought. And with nothing of great complexity occupying my mind, it began to wander. Peeing on the ATM, I thought, must give some kind of satisfaction. You know, sticking it to the man and all, the plastic machine that charges you exorbant amounts to store your money and hand it out bit by bit. Yeah! Take that, establishment!

To clarify, I don’t have any sort of obsession with urinating. I have never asked nor been asked to pee on anybody, and I can’t say the thought appeals to me. But the thought of peeing on things to claim territory/show disdain/piss off the general populace does appeal to me on a mostly hypothetical level. Motley Crue pissed on cop cars, surely we can come up with something a little more creative, yes?

I personally think it would be fun to sneak into my bosses office and pee all over her paperwork. It’s not like she does any of it right anyways, so maybe I’ll just draw attention to her errors with a more glaringly obvious defect: why, not only have these forms been filled out incorrectly, but they’ve been peed on as well! Imagine!

I’d like to visit all the subway stations with bathrooms and just pee in the corners. They’ve got to be cleaner than the stalls. And why bother denying the fact that the only people who use subway bathrooms are 1) homeless 2) drunk or 3) possessed of a weird and twisted brain such as mine? In all of these cases, one could hardly care less about the actual location of the stalls. Free spirits, all of us! It’s not a subway bathroom unless it smells of piss, we’ve got to keep up the image.

I must confess that I am curious as to the possible slinky-like effect of peeing down a set of stairs. Perhaps of government buildings, for the quiet, possibly incontinent anarchist in us all.

I would greatly enjoy peeing anywhere in the Phoenix other than the washrooms, because as we already know, the entire venue is a toilet bowl.

There’s an awful fake plant next to the coat closet outside my office door. Dusty, one of those mid-90’s fiascos for those people who like their homes to have a cottage-esque feel. Dusty pink petals, tacky, and gross. I’d like to pee on it, because any sort of defamation would be a drastic improvement. Also, frankly, it has offended my eyesight long enough that simply throwing it out is not good enough. It deserves to be peed on.

I wouldn’t mind peeing on my exes car. Mostly because he’s a bitch and I pwned him, but also because he thinks I’m a freak and I’d like to prove him…right? Hmmm. Also, it was an ugly car.

So. There you have it. I think that ruining something on such a personal level brings an extra bit of smugness to an otherwise bland insult, and while I may never act upon this belief, the thought will always be in the back of my mind, everytime someone pisses me off: “I’d like to pee on you.”

Sure, I might get my ass kicked. But it’s not about whether you live or die. It’s about how many people you inconvenience along the way.

So I’ve received a barrage of negative comments (that I regret deleting in a moment of ‘pffffft’) in regards to my opinion of the Toronto Independent Music Awards.

To summarize, I’ll try to remember as much as I can. Something about how they put in far more effort than my typing, and that I should be grateful such an event exists. Someone mentioned something about exactly how much money was given out. A lot of cursing and swearing and something about how it’s not their fault my night got raped or something. Someone told me to take an English class.

So, my apologies:

I’m sorry that your event, for all its hard work, still sucked. And that it was terribly, glaringly obvious.

I’m sorry you got so worked up over my opinion of it.

I’m sorry you got stuck with the Phoenix.

I’m sorry you give a shit about my motherfucking grammar on a BLOG!!!!

Please feel free to comment negatively all you want.

Okay, this is starting to get retarded. I know my Sassy Friend did something similar to this, but seriously, some of these are retarded and are worth mentioning.

From now on, I am going to keep an ongoing list of all the retarded terms people have googled that somehow led them to this here page. What…the hell-ass?!?

Starting today.

10/17/07

“I fuck my neighbour”

“Can I please quit blah”

“Man taking picture of fat lady camel toe”

“Dad hit on me”

“Getting a little buzzed for job interview”

          ….and why do people have this much time on their hands?

10/18/07

“fedex ups purolator dhl tnt”

      ….hmmmmm, we all know my beef with the postal officebut fedex? i hope this person at least read my site and got more entertainment than shipping documents to al-habib wherever.

 10/19/07

“Toronto Independent Music Awards”

   ….this one was googled a LOT, which might explain the plethora of nasty comments I didn’t bother posting about how I was generally a bitch for not appreciating all their hard work and corporate contributions.

“Greenmetropolis tit”

“Greenmetropolis fucks her neighbour”

   ….both of which lead me to believe that somebody is fucking with my head. Or trying to.

“Ways to get munny for fluff friends”

 10/22/07

“Bloor and Yonge “Exchange Station”"

“Fat Lady Camel Toe”

Okay, I know I’ve gone on about fat people and made a camel toe comment once. But people why?!?! Why do you want to see these things together?!

10/23/07

“Greenmetropolis monkey tit”

WHAT THE FUCK ASS?!?!?!

10/24/07

“Amsterdam Framboise” (I LOVE Amsterdam Framboise….but where the hell did I mention it?)

“Peeing” (See? I knew it would boost my ratings)

“Not getting a job and asking why.” (Because you’re a fucktard)

“Greenmetropolis chick with monkey tits” (I do not have monkey tits.)

“How to fuck my neighbour” (Can’t help you, my neighbour’s a douchebag)

10/30/07

“Assmonkey” (a favourite term, of course)

“Round Table to rent in Calgary”

“Fuck Geny” (I don’t know who Geny is, or why Jenny would be so gay to spell her name like that.”

“Court Agent Calgary.”

“Letter about my daily routine.” (I’d like to write a fucking letter or two….)

11/07/07

How awesome is it that the word Fuck leads straight to my page. Sweeet.

Today

Search	Views
wife fucks for money	1
costco, problems	1

Yesterday

Search	Views
fuck	1

So a friend of mine runs a “Zine” for all you hip indie folks. And since I was raised in the music business and rather well-versed in my snarkiness, she asks me to write a small blurb for her about the Toronto Independent Music Awards. Just a general run down of the night in general. Sure, I say, no problem. Free night on the town on a mission to make fun of the mass populace. No problem.

Holy fuck.

My first warning should have been the venue. For those who don’t know, the Phoenix is the live-music equivalent to the Zanzibar, ie: shittiest venue ever. It’s not particularly small or cramped or even poorly decorated. It just has that certain feel of….crap. The wildly popular clubs (still retarded in my too-cool-for-school opinion) are along Richmond St., which might be why it’s known as ‘The Club District’. The Phoenix is located somewhere between the Gayborhood and Your-About-To-Get-Your-Ass-Kicked-Ville. So yeah. Toilet bowl.

But whatever. It’s a night not sitting at home. Out I go, headlong into a night of barely-worth-the-laughs.

I will warn you that the story about getting to the venue is more exciting than the show itself. So, this post will likely be long and anticlimatic. Small blurb my ass.

I get on the bus, wearing jeans and my “THESE GO TO 11″ tank. A pulled together look with just the right touch of ‘fuck off, I realize I’m in a shit venue, thanks” attitude. Well done.

My bus stops for some reason as it passes our provincial legislative building – this is where people gather and bitch. There’s a lot of red and white floating around. Right, the election. Fucking Liberals. The bus is stopped because people are crossing the intersection with all these balloons, and they apparently have priority over, say, traffic.

Ten fucking minutes. Seriously. I don’t care much about this event, but I said I’d be there. Other people have left the bus, deciding to walk wherever. I am not about to walk 25 blocks to the fucking Phoenix. So, knowing it will serve no purpose other than venting, I lean out the bus and yell “You sonsofbitches just lost the vote you never had from me in the first place! Thanks for blocking all the traffic, assholes!”

Back into the bus with a grumble; the driver asks where I’m headed. “I’m supposed to be covering some awards show,” I explain, making myself sound FAR more important than I am. He says I really ought to take a taxi. “Listen, pal,” I tell him. “It’s at the Phoenix. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but I’m not about to shell out $15 to get to that fucking toilet bowl.”

The bus driver, get this (and this is why anyone who says Torontonians are rude can kiss my motherfucking ass), pulls a twenty out of his pocket and says “Here, you’ve got somewhere to be, you need to get there. Take a cab, no worries.”

Holy fucking shit. Sometimes, my faith in humanity is restored. I hop off the bus to cross the intersection for a cab, stopping to have a chat with insolent coppage on the way. “So,” I casually ask the nearest uniform, “do they really think this is a good way to get votes?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, everybody thinks it’s the Liberals. They did this earlier today too, and everyone was pissed. It’s some fundraising thing for leukemia.”

Great. I just called a bunch of bald kids sonofabitch assholes while they pranced about with balloons on what was probably going to be the funnest night of their deathly ill year. Well done, greenie. Still, pissing people off is not a good way to get support, and I’m not going to be throwing my nickels into any leukemia jars this year. If anybody learns anything through this blog, it should be that preventing Torontonians from moving is cause for certain death, and probably from something more violent than leukemia.

At this point traffic begins to move. Slapping my idiot forhead, I jump back into the bus. The driver won’t take the twenty back. I give him a puzzled look – despite my somewhat suggestive shirt, I’m not exactly dressed to put out at random. But it seems there are just some general well-wishers in this fair city of mine. Awesomeness.

So the bus trundles it’s way over to my intended stop, after which I begin my descent to the Toilet Bowl. Along the way I happen to pass a building that actually makes me stumble over laughing, completely non-shit-giving about the plethora of indie kids (obviously headed to the same event) giving me the weirdo-stare.

It’s called “The Fudger House”. And not only is it called “The Fudger House,” but it’s a home for the fucking debilitated and likely incontinent elderly. Holy shit. Are you fucking joking?!?! I don’t care if the Fudger Family donated 3 billion dollars towards keeping old non-societal-contributing bags of bones alive for far too long. Lose the family pride, man! My God! “The Trillium House”, “The Named-After-Some-Random-Beloved-Aunt-Of-The-Fudger-Family House”, “The Smells-Slightly-Of-Antiseptic-And-Fear House”, anything! But no, it’s the Fudger House. And I laugh all the way to the fucking Toilet Bowl.

I’m not even in the doors, and this night is already a trip and a half.

I meet up with my cohort, grab my ticket that never gets checked, walk in the doors, and give the Toilet Bowl my initial and final perusal.

Lone Axl Rose lookalike: check

Gaggle of dad-rockers with long hair and fanny packs muttering amongst themselves about how the Phoenix USED to be: check

Token mullet-wife on arm of every other dad-rocker: check

Trendy black guy with $50 scarf: check

Far too many drunk chicks, over-dressed for the venue, but under-dressed for fucking ANYWHERE, squealing under the impression that they are in an actual club: check check fucking check.

Indie kids there for the indie scene and FAILING because this entire event does nothing but promote the corporate sponsorship allowing this event to happen: checkity motherfucking check

Barbie-esque chick in white floor length gown and tiara, blubbering mascara down her cheeks: new, but check

Semi-famous person used to M.C. an otherwise pitiful event: check

Yes, Sabrina Jalees was there. If you don’t know her, you evidently don’t watch the Comedy Network, or Trial by Video, the only thing left worth watching on any music station. She’s hilarious. In this case, she was wasted. Not wasted as in drunk, wasted as in they could have gotten any poor schmuck in a vest to stand up there and announce nominees that nobody had ever heard of without so much as a clip of music or video to promote said indie acts (or at least give us an idea of who we might like to win, or what the winners sound like.)

Because, you know, I thought promotion of indie acts was the point of these affairs. Not “and we’d like to thank blurrrrr for their generous contribution to this event and blurrrrr for blurrrrrrrrrr” and fiiiiiiiiive minutes later, some random band names are called out with zero information and handed some plaque garnishing them with a few bucks in studio time.

At this point, a third of the venue exits, because as is quickly becoming apparent, nobody gives a shit about this event. The fact is that any band who gets nominated for anything by self-promoting contributors is simply going to drag all their unimpressed friends along with them, and the entire posse will exit as soon as they either win or lose.

I would gather that only the scenesters and the drunk girls stuck around for very long. The drunk girls because it’s just too much effort to pay another cover when you can just keep sucking back the overpriced drinks, gushing to yourselves about OMFG, we totally dated the same guy for like two minutes. The scenesters would have stuck around for the scene points (despite the conglomerate slime over everything) and because for some reason they never seem to mind the fact that a) nobody sounds unlike anything that has been put out in the past three years, and b) that the sound and lighting sucks, because it’s the fucking Phoenix and they’ve never been able to get it right.

I’ll apologize here if I sound bitter, but I’ve spent many a night behind mixing consoles and I do have somewhat of a clue. I’ve heard better indie at local band-battles at the Operahouse, though to be fair I was seeing the drummer of one of the bands, (ironically called River Phoenix – to hell with privacy) and the sound guy at the time. Even Surface Rising sounded better than anything at this half ass of an awards show. If you don’t know who they are, good. It means you’ve never been accosted by their bassist outside the Velvet Underground, waving a demo tape and dirty earbuds. Even my audio-tech comrade couldn’t make them sound unobnoxious when they opened for Apocalyptica (who were awesome, and marked the last occasion I was impressed by a live band. Ever.)

Admittedly, I have been impressed at the Phoenix. (Note: at the Phoenix, not by the Phoenix – a Toilet Bowl it always was and forever shall be). Also, this was many moons ago. Once was by Angelique Kidjo, a clicking, wailing, West African goddess who would sound impressive singing in a bowling alley bathroom. The second was Classic Albums Live, for the mere fact that they could mimic the White Album down to the cacophonic NUMBER NINE NUMBER NINE NUMBER NINE, regardless of how many different people and odd things they had to get onstage. And again, they probably could have done that in a bowling alley bathroom. It actually may have sounded even better.

Other than that, the Phoenix is an audio-visual failure, and the Toronto Independent Music Awards was no exception. It was poorly organized, the programme was nothing but one big advertisement with more details about the coordinators than the bands, nothing about anything made me care about any of the acts, and as usual I was surrounded by poorly dressed morons.

On top of that, in an effort to not look completely out of place, I purchased an amaretto-and-cran for myself, and a coke for my partner in disbelief-at-all-this-crappery. Eight fucking dollars. Thank God for that bus driver. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d have left the Toilet Bowl not just outraged at the state of the music industry (the INDIE music industry at that), but outright pissed off for having spent eight dollars.

However, the way I see it, I spent other people’s money for a free drink and a reminder of why I’d rather dig my eyes out with a spoon than continue my lineage of music industry bullshit.

That, my friends, is called breaking even.

So normally I only write when I’m seething with rage for one stupid reason or another. But right now I’m sick and medicated, and just too tired to be angry. So instead, I’m going to try and come up with a list of things that actually make me smile. Or even laugh, maybe. Though I can have a really evil laugh sometimes.

- We have a traffic ticket court agent here in the office. The one who brought in the cute tattooed DUIer. He’s rather cute himself, but freshly married. And obnoxious. I very much enjoy pointing out when his tie is crooked, and answering the phone with the name of his competitor here in the office when I recognize that the call is coming from his cell phone.

- Candy stores. Seriously. I love candy stores. The cliche “I feel like a kid in a candy store” is true for a fucking reason. I can easily spend forty five minutes in a candy store just to buy all the vintage candy like zebra striped bubble gum. I am the cheapest date ever. Candy store + trip to Blockbuster + couch = awesome.

- Watching fat people trip.

- Going to the Zanzibar with a bunch of guy friends (I unfortunately don’t do this often anymore, I shed most of my guy friends when I grew up and got a real job). For those who don’t know, the Zanzibar is the shittiest strip club in Toronto. Seriously, I’ve never laughed harder than seeing a girl try to be sexy while pole swinging to fucking Creed. Also guessing how many kids each chick has had is a fun game.

- Squirrels.

- Knitting on the subway. I always get a seat to myself, because nobody wants to sit next to the angry looking girl with flying pink needles.

- Denying people friendship status on facebook. DENIED, FUCKER!!! Hahahaha. Also stalking old friends that I would never actually talk to again on facebook and laughing at their pictures.

- My snotty bitch of a downstairs neighbour wakes up earlier than me and plays her obnoxious jazz radio at 6:30 in the morning. The city bylaws state that 7:00 is when you can legally play music. I don’t complain, because I technically have an illegal number of animals, and I’d rather not get into a legal battle. So instead, at 7 on the dot, I fucking BLAST Nikki Sixx’s latest album, ironically called SIXX AM.

- Buying a ten dollar bottle of champagne and dancing to Girls, Girls, Girls in my underwear for no reason at all.

- Farting in an empty elevator, and then saying out loud to nobody in particular “GOD, keep it to yourSELF once in a while! Jesus Christ!”

- Yesterday, I had to put a whole bunch of spare chairs back into an empty office. I arranged them in a semi-circle facing the door, in a very expectant manner. The next person who walks in will be very creeped out. It amuses me.

- Telling angry people they have something on their face.

- Weed. Seriously, how can that NOT make me happy?

- Raspberries. And buying a pint of raspberries and putting one on each finger tip, wiggling them around for a bit before eating them all at once.

- Spinal Tap, and my tank top that says “These Go To 11″. Also telling anybody who doesn’t get it that they are losers for life and out of my club.

- Cookies with pink or green sparkles on them.

 Yep, those are a few things. I know, I’m kind of weird. But I enjoy myself. Later, I will create a list of things that piss me off. Just because I’m all for equality. Or symmetry, really.

MEDIA FUCKS YOU UP

Guess what? Technically speaking, I’m about 10 to 20 pounds overweight. Shocking, I know, considering my fucking hate-on for fat people. But what I hate about fat people is not necessarily their looks so much as their fucking loser attitudes and general fucking laziness ranging from “oh, I’m going to eat cottage cheese and melba toast for a week and it’ll fix my life” to “I’m fat and sassy, so I’m going to wear Baby Phat clothing and big fucking obnoxious earrings and you can all just squish over in your subway seats.”

Fuck you.

I have a problem with obesity because you are killing yourself with fucking cheeseburgers. Cigarettes are at least chemically addictive, and even then I’ve got to consider myself a monkey for lighting up once in a while. Heroin addicts, we already know I’ve got a soft spot for them. I have a serious problem, however, with death by fucking cheeseburger. One, it’s ridiculous, and two, you’re a moron for doing it to yourself.

Having said all that, however, I will continue with my original train of thought. My extra twenty pounds aren’t killing me. I’m not at risk for diabetes, skyrocketing cholesterol or anything of the sort. I don’t even really look overweight. It’s called dressing right, okay? Skinny jeans not so much.

I happen to have the fortunate genetics to distribute the majority of my adipose cells to my awesome set of tits and a not too shabby booty-and-hips combo to match. Okay, so I’m less than thrilled with my arms and I’ve never had abs in my life. But generally speaking, I’m quite the sexpot. And while it’s partially due to genetic good-luck, it’s mostly due to attitude. I’ve got tits, you’re going to like them, and if you don’t, then you may happily help yourself to the plethora of skinny trendy hipsters in my neighbourhood, lovingly termed the Annexorexics. (God, I love living in the Annex. So many mockery targets just floating by.)

This positive attitude, by the way, does not include obnoxious earrings. And if you ever buy me anything Baby Phat related, I will kill you, because you are clearly an alien.

So what I hate more than self-destructive fat bastards crying over their flame-broiled whoppers are skinny little fifteen year old girls who bitch about their waist line. This is not okay! Who is your mother!?!? Sure, being fat is unhealthy but 1) you’re not fat and 2) being emotionally self-destructive is just as unhealthy, and it takes far more work than dieting to fix the potential damage.

Actual conversation:

My mother: “Emerald, I think you’ve put on some weight. You need to be careful.”

Me (at fucking FIFTEEN!): “No, I haven’t. You have, you feel bad about it, and you’re projecting. Go eat some celery.”

I’m not sure how a fifteen year old manages to gain that kind of insight, but thank fucking hell. More fifteen year olds need to. There are too many people feeling shitty about how they look with no fucking need to. Too many people vomiting, too many people obsessing, too many people doing far too many stupid things other than just eating fairly healthily, getting their asses outside every so often, and only once in a while getting completely baked and going through two bags of Doritos.

Greater insight has been gained through the further fortune of being a makeup artist. I’m on the set, I’m under the lights, I’m painting, I’m preening, I’m poufing the hair. Trust me, they look like shit without me. I have drawn on cleavage, and I have created abs where there were none. So maybe I’m lucky enough to be in the industry that bombards people with images of how they are supposed to look, and know that it’s bullshit. The definition of fantastic is chowing down on catering and laughing at some ridiculous model trying to suck in an ass muscle that doesn’t exist. Fan-freaking-tastic.

So, insecure fifteen year olds, and the populace in general, listen up:

You’re not going to have the body of a Baywatch bombshell unless those happen to be your genetics. And even then, it takes far more effort than most of us have time for. You know why they look like that? Because it’s their job! They pay the bills by spending half the day at the gym and the other half pretending to act. That’s just how it goes. The rest of us, for the majority, pay our bills in a manner that doesn’t tone our biceps. Sorry.

Stop buying forty dollar jars of cream to reduce your wrinkles by 32%. Stop buying diet pills that just make you shit more. Stop measuring yourself up to a poster of someone who spent two hours in hair, makeup and wardrobe, and then a week in photoshop. You will fail, and you will feel like shit for no damn reason.

And that makes you a bigger retard than a fat ass with obnoxious earrings.

So, like, Oh-Em-Eff-Gee, Brittany has lost her babies to K-fed. Like, kind of scuzzy, isn’t he? Like, what’s with the puffy jackets and, like, non-hygiene and shit? I know, can you believe?

Well, I dunno, I mean, she’s like their mother, you know? Like, they can’t just take her babies away. It’s like, crew-wull. Those poor babies.

Well, she fed them, like, fucking Doritos and shit for breakfast, you know? And, like, it looked like she nearly dropped them that one time, so I think she totally deserves to lose her kids.

Okay, everybody just shut up! Stop gazing upwards at the entertainment news flashes in the subway or on the elevator, (presuming you have a real job and are not just on your way to the mall). Quit holding up my grocery line up while I’ve got bocconcini cheese jiggling around because you feel the need to sneak a peek at Brit’s life in an overpriced magazine that you’re too cheap to admit your addiction to.

WHO FUCKING CARES?!?!?

Gleaning celebrity tidbits from glossy pages and by-the-second e-updates on your hotmail homepage is no better a practice than slowing down when driving past an accident in the hopes of seeing crushed humans. Because that’s all you’re looking for folks, isn’t it? Crushed humans. Someone got married? Big fucking deal. Someone’s getting divorced and throwing wine in someone’s face? WOW!!!! Raaaatings!!!!!! You couldn’t possibly give a shit about the people that half of you sheep stupidly emulate until they find their lives going down the tubes. And then you watch, oh yes, because it makes you feel a little bit better about the fact that you don’t have their million dollar homes and Range Rovers.

And the commenting, my god! “Well, I don’t think she deserves to keep the kids,” and “Well I think they should have split custody,” and “Not unless she goes to some parenting classes or something!”

Fuck you! First, I had Doritos for breakfast plenty of times, and I turned out fine, okay? Secondly, what are you, some sort of marriage counsellor? Where the hell do you and your tight-jeaned poorly-highlighted posse get off commenting on the relationship between two people you’ve never met? Do you have no idea how biased the media is?

If there is one thing I hate more than celebrities, it’s the media that perpetuates their gossip. When you see Angie and Brad on the coast of an uber-expensive-luxury-getaway-island, don’t they look pretty? They’ll never publish that awkward photo of her accidentally swallowing her fiji mountain bottled water the wrong way and trying to cough her lungs clear with a horribly twisted face. Meanwhile, Ms. Anniston is ‘heartbroken’, as clearly indicated by the inset picture in which she looks terribly forlorn. What you don’t know is that a millisecond earlier, she may have been absolutely beaming and thinking ‘fuck that bastard, my life is great!’ The forlorn look you see was a momentary ‘Shit, did I leave the stove on?’

Oh, but then, when Jen is out with a new man, it’s her turn to get the flattering light! And it’s your turn to see a picture of Ms. Angie pronouncing a rather cacophonic word. (Seriously, just try to get a flattering photo of yourself while saying something like “Quebec” or “Roquefort”. You’ll look like a jerk no matter what.)  And suddenly she looks like a raging jealous monster because she’s got that brow furrow thing going on. You know, the one people get when they think “Oh my, what an unflattering sushi arrangment.” Her marriage must be in trouble!

And then eeevvvvvverybody has an opinion on what Brangelina needs to do. As though Brangelina knows who the fuck you are and gives a shit about you and your misinformed advice.

For that matter, why does anybody care about them or any celebrity? Sure, sure, cinema, art (sometimes), blah blah blah. You want to give your opinion of the movie, fine - they wouldn’t put the movie out there unless they at least hoped somebody cared about it. But who cares what colour Lindsay Lohan’s thong is, or how long she’s going to spend in rehab this time?

Side note on rehab: Consider 80’s rockers who grew up on heroin/blow/’ludes/whiskey as part of the Hollywood scene in which everybody took part. (The minutest amount of googling will show you that all those bands came from one expansive peer group usually hopping between the Rainbow, the Troubadour or the Whiskey-a-Go-Go.) One can kind of see how after spending two years on the road surrounded by strippers and drug dealers, someone is going to develop a bit of a subtance abuse problem. Lindsay Lohan did a few crappy Disney movies, and now she’s so stressed out, she’s in rehab to deal with the resulting cocaine problem? LAME! 

What the fuck is Paris Hilton famous for? All her movies, all her crap ass shows, some brief handbag business, all came after her sexpose videotape. And she’s pissed about it, riiiiiiiight.

You want the juicy gossip, fine, fine fine. Buy your fucking magazines. I like slowing down when driving by accidents just as much as the next person, and I will by no means deny that when I happen to see a photo of a cracked out Lindsay Lohan blubbering over some teenage drama or another, my immediate reaction is to laugh my ass off.

But until you go to college for whatever counselling degree you choose and then tromp on down to Hollywood to get to know these sad characters on a personal basis, can you please do me the grand favour of keeping your life-coaching-to-the-stars crap to your uninformed self?

Thanks.