... but you're freaking me out.

The next city, I love you film stars an all-star roster of players and directors similar to the last (which I did, in fact, love). This time, I'm hoping for little quirks to make big moments, to make the flick―from the predictable New York accents in delis to unexpected encounters in front of brownstones, and perhaps a little love on the soundtrack from James Murphy. 'Cause right now, it's a little unsettling to hear the trailer's theme sung by a Canadian.

jagerbombs, anyone?

Accoring to the Star, this is douchebag.

According to a certain communist's favorite blog, this is douchebag.

As for me... this is douchebag.

Now, compadres, I must ask you to act as intellectuals. Redefine Webster's. In an age where the term is entirely relevant, and widely-used, but rarely, if ever defined, I ask: what, loyal readers, does being a douchebag mean to you?

Feel free to point fingers.

the riddler

We've heard the riddle. It's about as puzzling as the case of the chicken or the egg, and just as persistent.... If a tree falls in the middle of nowhere in the woods, and there's not a lumberjack in earshot to hear it, does it really make a sound?

But with lumberjacks replaced by tractors, and fewer handsome woodsmen to saw away at the pines, we're left with the need for a new update on the age-old riddle. And when you're working your weekends away, you do a lot of thinking, and not a lot of colourful story-telling―no catching up over coffees, no stories over Starbucks nor Strongbows, no face-to-face heart-to-hearts. So, Riddle me this: If some story-worthy, unbelievably exciting thing happens to you, and you have no one to tell it to (at least by the time it slips your mind), is it really that great after all?

You tell me.

in the meantime...

from what I hear, the designer lines at h&m were supposed to be... er, fashionable.

I don't have the internship to prove it, but I can still call out bad clothes when I see 'em. Please, get out of my cheap Swedish emporium...

maybe I should get a mac

I just wrote the most deep, thought-provoking blog of my life.

.... and then Safari crashed.

Alls I can say, is that it involved this photo, and was brilliant (I'm sure). Alas, I need to get back to life in the real world before I can return to the world wide web... in the meantime, read this.. and this.

Will write later.

xoxo

the best nights are...

the kind when you need a shower before you go to bed.

quite the fortnight.

In two weeks, I've...

• Cut my hair... twice.
  
• Screamed at my credit card statement after a NY trip where the most common phrase to exit my mouth (even for Orbit at 7-11) was "charge it"... and then again, when I realized all I bought was pretty, frilly summer dresses and went out and decided I needed to buy a week's worth of practical clothing.
  
• Taken on two new jobs. Only one shall remain next week.
  
• Acquired a taste for hip-hop. Yes, even the typical rock-or-bust chicks have their phases. Nothing beats biking to beats a la the Midnight Marauders (this, of course, was aided by an ode to NYC's hip-hop scene circa 1994. Jonathan Levine makes Boyz II Men look whack, er, wiggity-wack).
  
• Bought a television after a year's hibernation. ... And then a splitter, so I can watch t.v. AND read nymag simultaneously, because that's absolutely and entirely necessary.
  
• Drank blueberry beer and a green apple beer float... and actually enjoyed the latter.
  
• Lived out of a suitcase. Not the same bag, mind you, but out of a bag for two weeks straight nonetheless.

Oh yeah. And partied with Kenneth Hotz.... God's gift to womankind.

vote yang.

Since when has cuteness factor been first priority in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics?! 

The Ancient Greeks, the originals, played naked. Dicks flopping around during discus throws aren't exactly "cutesy".

Bad teeth and children go together like milk & cookies (and hopefully the former is not a result of the latter). If you don't think these kids are cute, then go dig up your grade one class photo.

are YOU ready?

It all started out with pink.

The rebellious, fashionistos at high school, rockin' the pink tee (likely to be paired with a fake-vintage-logo trucker hat, a la Ashton Kutcher). Guys were finally comfortable with their sexuality, and not afraid to step out in a nice rose shade.

A few years ago, American Apparel extended the classic v-neck shape to the men's department. At first, it was a v, now it's a vee... the deep v. I saw a vee so deep last week (at Sneaky Dee's, mind you) that I was worried the wearer's chest hair was soon to transform into treasure trail. And apparently it won't be a cut above for the coming season―men's vee's are here to stay. Chest hair, beware.

T-shirts are one thing. A basic shape shared by both sexes for years, a standard cut, a standard material. You can't really go wrong with Fruit of the Loom. But for every fall-back staple in fashion, there's an equal and opposite unfortunate piece, that gives me an utterly unimpressed reaction.

Men in skirts. What happened to men at work? It's like Boyz II Girls meets Backstreet Babes. What's next, men in floral, floaty dresses? Call me a traditionalist, but if a 'man' ever shows up on a date wearing an outfit more effeminate than I, I'll bid my farewell and boot it to the nearest Amish community... even if I'm running in heels.

all washed up

Thursday, 7 p.m. - 3 a.m.

Friday, 9 a.m. - 5 p.m., 7 p.m. - 3 a.m.

Saturday, 12-8 p.m., 9 p.m.- 3 a.m.

Sunday, 12-7 p.m.

                                           

I'm only home because my work got rained out―four hours of downpour, for four short hours of redemption. I could have biked home in the end, the drizzle, but instead I took a taxi, knowing I'll have to walk it tomorrow. I'm spending a good fraction of my earnings to save my legs. Sorry if I've disappeared, I'm just trying to make up for two months of too much. June & July, I loved you, but you're bringing my bank account down and it's time to make it up. 60-hour work weeks on the way, and I don't really feel like myself.

Mostly I think I'm just pretending to be my roommate.

drug potion no. 9

For the last few weeks, I've felt the uninhibited urge to do something wild, crazy, something entirely out-of-character. I'd been dying for some new dye under my skin, but couldn't decide on a design. I wanted a haircut, but was wary of the length, not to mention the cost of a good crop. I'm not badass enough to pierce anything besides my ears, and any other body modification was essentially out of the question. So how's a good girl to satisfy her reckless cravings?

The answer can be found in a simple count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...9 camel no. 9's.

This weekend, I left my athlete lungs to succumb to the beauty of the pink box, the rarity of the American-breed, the long, narrow sick-on-a-stick between my pointer and middle finger. I said 'when in Rome' (which, in this weekend's case, was actually New York City―and there will be more on that later), and made a pact with myself to polish the pretty pack before Tuesday dawned. Saturday night came, and I socially smoked my way through my share of a 26 of Seagram's, a couple of Mexican beers, and some classy champagne. My buzz wasn't killed thanks to the booze, but I can't say I craved the 'tine. I smoked once the next day and struggled through half a butt or two. Nine cigarettes in a weekend―not bad for a rookie, but for once, I feel accomplished for not meeting my personal goals (mom would be proud).

My preferred summer treat on a stick? Popsicles. There is no substitute. Smoking still sucks (no pun intended), even if all the pretty people stick to it.

Oh yeah, and if anyone wants to bum a smoke, let me know. I've still got the rest of the pack back in Canada.