I'll have two double flu shots, on the rocks, please.

Thought swine-flu fighting suits were too much?

Now, even a screwdriver's dose of Vitamin C's not enough to wash down the guilt of not drinking one of these "proactive" concoctions:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/22/fashion/22shake.html?_r=2

Superpower, anti-H1N1 cocktails!

Perhaps my smartserve certificate can suffice as a PhD. Bartenders, usually the purpotrators, the aggravators of caused illness - now the medicine men and women.

Take one, two, or twenty, and call me in the morning. Or better yet, call me when you're about to pop the first potable placebo, because my social life could use a good fixxer-upper.

zzzzzzzz.....

I've peaked at twenty-one.

In the olden days, or rather, four mere years ago, I would spend three or four days on end playing volleyball games all day long, surviving on little sleep and staving off sickness with a healthy, balanced diet of mini eggs and fruit leather. Today, it's eleven-thirty, I've eaten my mix of complex and simple carbs, proper protein and fats ratios. I've exercised for four months leading up to this day. Today, I've played two games, and I'm tired, weary, and whiny, and I've bailed out on night-time hangouts for a second night in the row. Sad as it is, I don't have enough left in me to give this blog entry some dignity by drawing it out, instead, I'm choosing to drift off, securing the double digits of sleep I need for sustenance.

I hope it's not downhill from here.

Good morning, good morning!

Unemployed? No more health benefits?

Ease up. Pfizer wants to help you.

They won't give you a job, nor pay off a year's rent, but they're willing to help out with another bare necessity―with free one-year subscriptions to, among others, everyone's favorite peppy little pill―Viagra.

It's funny, but it's also feasible. Ya dee ya da, recession, reschmession―sex always sells. You can't stop people from having sex when they can't afford theatre at night (in fact, they'll probably spend more on birth control out of fear of bringing a little bundle of financial burden into the world). Sex shops are selling out―not selling out like arena artists begrudged by those who read Pitchfork, the other kind―and getting their best business from all those who're getting some. (In March, I did a story for broadcast on Queen West's Condom Shack's resexssion successes―they said this years been their best by far. This means we, as a society, are either getting sluttier, or cheaper. Or both.). But it all kinda makes sense. It's cheap, easy entertainment. Well, just not easy for all... hence the help of Viagra―friskiness that's fun and frugal!

for such a small price, ms. perry requests your presence....

where I belong.

Some way, somehow,

No matter how much work I've done, regardless of how much homework I have left to do... on Monday nights, the point at which I realize I can work no longer always seems to align perfectly with the buffering of a certain gossip reel...

NYmag awards the highest number of points -- 25 -- last night for Derroda's personal ringtone "I'm a Slave 4 U" for whenever Eleanor summons.

My own tally?

I'm a slave to Gossip Girl. Plus 25 for owning my Monday-nightlife, JRN 312, 0.

Dear "gentle"men at the library...

Go home. I don't care if you're commuters, this place is meant for the mute. I don't want to hear three phone calls about your trip to Holt Renfrew tomorrow and the size of your deep-v, because it probably won't look good when you wear it with your douchey sideways cap. And you won't be picking up any chicks with the amount of gas you pass. Rolling on the ground laughing at bodily functions is reserved for the toddlers on playgrounds, and crackheads in my backyard, but loudly, purposefully, at the library? Not my idea of a rootin', tootin' good time. 

"Settle down, boys," I say, and flash the international symbol for "shh." They drop the level down a few decibels, belch a few more times, and spend twenty minutes talking about fat chicks on Facebook.... and then another twenty about how they should get going. I turn to agree, but they are leaving. The pretty-boy in the Hollister shirt apologizes for his pal's rudeness, rather than saying sorry for his own like a man, and I lie, roll my eyes and say it's ok.

Finally, at 10 p.m., it's quiet. I reorganize my books, uncap a fresh highlighter, and get ready to get down to business. But then I hear that familiar rustling... and a soft "hey" from my left. It's pretty-boy, back in blue, and wanting to make ammends. "I'm so sorry, I really want to make it up to you. Can I take you to lunch?"

I look up, squander a snicker, stare deeply into his eyes... and say "no," and nothing else.

"Well, can I at least have your number?"

Sorry, I only date boys who are out of diapers. Go back to the 905.

signs of the apocalypse.

Inflation. Stock markets crashing. Cheaply outsourced labour.

None of the financial headlines have played a major role in my life of cheap thrills, until now―Dollarama, the everything-for-a-dollar-and-sometimes-less emporium, isn't living up to its great name.

According to the news, the store's infamously low prices will jump after sixteen years of standstill. For someone who feels so passionately about the establishment, and spends approximately half of her dollars at the 'rama, this news is absolutely detrimental. Where will I buy my shampoo? Juice boxes? Cases of spam?!

Dollar-and-twenty-five-cents-er,ama just doesn't have the same ring to it.

and a warm welcome goes to...

guess who's joined the blogosphere??

the bitch is back.

lilo, hohan, red-headed slut (yes, like the shot), whatever name you assign to the bitch, she's out there.... and blogging on gay rights (and a mysterious "special someone"). Feel free to become commenter no. 3207... no, wait, 3212...

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.

Bore-book

On a vacation once upon a time, a friend set me straight while I was greedily snapping photos of all my surrounding scenery―"Pictures look better with people," she instructed. When I got my photos back from the trip, the first forty or so were fast-flips, "nice" but nothing more, but the rest, after receiving her wise words of wisdom, were pictures worth a thousand words, or at least a second glance. Lesson learnt, I'm not saying that you need to cover the Eiffel Tower with a close-up of your giddy face for it to be picturesque, or even that every last picture must contain signs of human life. No, not at all.

BUT, when I see entire Facebook albums (frequently under the titles of: "Random, [insert name here]'s Random Pics, or RANDOM NITES OUT!!!) which consist of the following (and include captions like "BONNYVILLE!!!; the beautiful scenery [thanks, tips], and, my personal faaav, ... the lack thereof. Yep, the picture's boring enough that there's no possible description)... it makes me squeamish (part because I'm guilty of wasting my own time browsing, and partly because it's just morally wrong). But don't let me do all the talking... see the horror for yourself:

Now, by NO MEANS am I suggesting that it's even acceptable to post four, or even TWO albums of one night at the bar with you and every party pal from frosh week smiling with your eyes shut and a Smirnoff Ice in hand, because really, a) you're trashed and probably don't look that good, b) the photos all look the exact same except for stage of your drunken eyes and the fullness of your drink, and c) it invades my news feed religiously, ever Sunday morning. Drinking doesn't have to be in moderation, but pictures do, for Chrissakes!

The moral of the story?

Stop wasting precious Facebook bandwidth and go back to Photobucket where no one cares. Or, at least, where no one with unimaginable amounts of spare time and a high fever will have to see them.

But my dog ate it!

After spending someone else's vacation spending your dollars and theirs, you come to wonder where all the Washingtons went. You look back on a few blurry pictures, but your memory of the night is still fuzzier than the photograph. A few concert stubs, the words fading from the dampness of the back pocket, created by your crowd neighbour's sweaty... whatever. A train ticket, a plane ticket, and a TTC transfer, paid for only by the quarters in change from overpriced drinks. 

And suddenly, it dawns. Money's great, money makes the work go 'round. Money is quite possibly the only material possession in the world that can make every person in the world giddy. Just listen to the Lotto 649 testimonials. But the funny thing about money, honey, is that it ain't worth nothin' till you spend it.

And that's just what we did.

You might be wondering where I've been the last month (or, more likely, you haven't noticed at all), well, I've spent the last two fortnights digging deep into my pockets, enjoying every pretty penny I pull out. Sadly, now I look kinda like the guy off Monopoly who pulls the lining from his back pockets out of the poor broke ass of his jeans, and puffs out the floppy bottom lip in desperation. Patios, pitchers, road trips, all the summer staples of a cockaigne (word of the day, look it up kids) seem perfect, but the pocket can't take it. My wallet's burnt a black hole, and the sun's not coming to wash away my pain.

So what can a poor girl do? D-uh. Invent a thrifty, spend-free guide to summer in the city! Heed my wise advice and you'll be thankful once October rolls around and your broke ass can't even pay for a ten-dollar Halloween costume.

*feel free to leave further, more conniving ideas in the comments box

Make friends with someone who does good deeds to benefit all of his friends.

Couples and couple of friends bike rides. You can't hold hands but you can bike side-by-side, which is way cuter anyway.

House parties, house parties, house parties. I can't stress this one enough. You will spend money at the bar, and at Big Slice. It's inevitable. Avoid the temptation by mingling with drunken pals old and new, preferably the generous kind who'll spot you a drink―or two―each. And the best part is, you'll actually get to talk to your friends without straining and engaging in a little ear-to-mouth-shout-style convo when you're standing next to the amp. Which is highly beneficial, especially when you're a straight guy trying to talk to another straight guy. Or worse, when someone's got a wild (turkey) case of bourbon-breath.

Hang out at book shops and/or record shops and read and/or listen as you please. No one's gonna stop ya―you're just  learning about your future "purchases". And what wise worker would want to prevent your highly-educated purchase? 

Look for free festivals. Luminato, far past. NXNE, just  missed it. Pride Week's just begun. And even if you don't consider yourself part of the rainbow, evyerone's gonna be drunk, drugged, and crazy. Beats the $16 movies. Speaking of beats.... Beats, Breaks, and Culture―Ladytron, Thunderheist, Crystal Castles... and free haircuts. The madness! And yo, if you like dem Marley boys, you will already know you must be here for Caribana―the ultimate BYOW summer carnival.

And if  the impossible happens, you've exhausted all your options and all of the above fails: walk, nay, run to the nearest park for some quality people-watching. Allen Gardens Crack Park, Trinity-Bellwoods, Ashbridges, the world's your film noir. The only equipment? X-ray eyes and an inquisitive mind. And if you're really curious (like my roommate), bring your pa's binoculars. A little voyeurism never hurt anyone.