happy december 1st.

*this post was inspired by miss Julie M.

It used to mean the first chunk of advent candy, the Santa-Claus-Countdown's commencement, sheets of fresh snow and the onset of panic at the mall. It'd be the day the decorations were deemed necessary, the kitchen reeked of sugary cinnamon buns, and the final bad preschool-crafted ornament was hung on our otherwise perfect tree.

Then, puberty struck.

Brothers, boyfriends, buddies who more resemble little boys all began the journey to grow some semblance of a facial forest for that long, hard month of Novemeber. Facial hair competitions no longer just reserved for playoff beards, testosterone-toting men took it to extremes (no names will be mentioned). Some, for an unselfish cause, but more, 'cause they could look like southern-state pedophiles and art-house whack jobs without man-to-man judgment. Nay, it's a chance for a man to give another a "dude, you look goooood" without getting a cut-eye in return. A pat on the back that says, "man, you are a man. I can see your testosterone growing out of your upper lip. Let's go life some weights, but only to get huge and ripped upper bodies while we still have stringy chicken legs." That was Movember 2009.

And now, on the first of the last month us of the (mostly) less hairy kind have a whole new reason to rejoice. Nothing to do with holiday happiness, only scruff-less gents and bare-chinned chums. A return to dating dashing young men and not bearded bums. In December, Santa Claus reserves his spot as the only man allowed to have a shrubbery shrouding his fine features.

And if he's not the only one, you might find me, running down the street with scissors.

There are, however—and let me stress—a select few Movemeber members who did it with good fashion, and for them, I offer up a humble tribute. But allow me to make my case clear—if your moustache doesn't reach these levels of majesty, save it 'till next year or face eleven months of severe ostracization by womankind.

(via http://www.alanpowdrill.com/)

how to (almost) die: dummies edition

On a rainy, rushed-hour-night, ride, ride, race your bike quickly through red lights. No light on your bike, no laws paid regard. Cagers careen out from their starting block, heads down. Brakes and bell, broken. Bones, somehow, not.

Bike stays on the balcony, until brake pads and brain are fixed.

showtime

For the last three years (and then some), this is what I've been fighting for.

Let me lay this down like mastercard:

Two gruelling hours each day honing my skills, perfecting every detail of every movement, not just my own, but also in synchronization with theirs - exponentially more difficult. Another chunk of hours devoted daily to manipulate my body, building the strength and endurance to the best of its ability. Countless days spent fighting with myself, with others, trying to diagnose what went wrong, did anything go right? No work, no money, no time. Weekends spent away, New Years spent sleeping, nights out, drinks denied and countless carbs consumed. Tears and blood, sacrfice and sweat, and every word of that is true.

Saturday, I woke up, far too early, and in a cold sweat. Within the hour I was practicing yogi breathing to calm mild hyperventilation, sweat beads dribbling down my back (not that I was hot). My hands trembled with the feeling only anxiety brings.

It shouldn't have been any different from the other hundreds of times I'd woken up these days, but it was. The day dragged and drew out till six p.m., I was doing anyting to take my mind off the thing.

And then it hapenned. It all just hapenned. Two hours and twenty minutes later, I was in shock. That didn't happen.. us? It couldn't. But it did. I ran, bolted out to meet the others, jumping and hugging and screaming and laughing like a fervent lottery winner. Except this, this was priceless. In hysterics, uncontrollable, delusional. This was it.

This was it. Or was it just the beginning?

http://firefly.ryerson.ca/sportsandrec/sports/varsity/index.cfm?team=131&page=press&article=1524

Here I go again (on my own...)

Sigh.

Looking at the date for the first time in what seems like months (and which is probably close to the truth), I know it's time. School was out for summer, and now it's nearly back in session, and with an intimidating Masthead class and a far more daunting internship approaching, this can only mean one thing: It's time I re-learn how to write.

In the last two months, the longest (and most clever) passage I've written lies in a Facebook message, and nothing more. I chose to take a leave from Torontoist with travel plans in mind, and then with them botched I took the break as a vacation from writing, being far away from the goings-on of the city I was to be in the know about, and knowing I'd have plenty of the writing to do come fall. And what started as Torontoist hiatus turned into a full-fledged internet hate-on, something appropriate for a summer outside and away from the screen, but also one that left my blog blank. Many a time I've been in this same position, hit with personal guilt when I open 'my diary' to see the last entry two weeks, four months, one year ago. And it's not like I'm letting any readers down (right?). But now, it's not just personal, it's... professional. Well, semi-professional, at least.

Practice makes perfect, and though this blog isn't written for broadcast, it's a turn in the right direction. Turn-in/in-tern heading in the right direction. Right.....

Talkin' shit about a pretty sunset

Everybody loves sunsets.

This is, in fact, true. Never will you find a nay-sayer―between sunsets on beaches, sunsets over snow, and sunsets even from a cramped car, they're a universally-percieved sight of natural beauty. Sunsets are for first kisses, capping off a long, fulfilling day, or kicking off a night of things that can only really happen in the dark. If you ask a person if they would like to go watch the sun set from some comfortable location, they will almost always oblige. Bunnies, rainbows, sunsets, and love.

But what goes up must come down, which means the day is dawning on another realm, all of it a part of the beautiful balance that is nature. See, sunsets are nice. But it's predecessor, in my opinion, really holds the power.

Sunrises are saved for the more grandoise. I've seen a lot of sunsets, and they've all been nice and lovey-dovey and pretty, and I can't take away from that. But every sunrise I've watched (and I'm certain I can recall them all) has been symbolic of something ending, something beginning, something special. I don't mean just waiting at the bus stop on a goddamn early school day, no, that's just the opposite, it's the norm, it's godawful. But when you really sit and watch the sun rear its perfectly-spherical, luminous head, it sinks in.

Perhaps its this time of year, and being home that's giving me a bad case of nostalgia. I vividly remember the night of my grad―three years ago next week. I'll refuse to gloss over and say that a perfect night was had by all, because that was far from the fact. I divided my night jigging to Cyndi Lauper, and later, singing love songs to a toilet bowl at the Agricom. We couldn't decided on the after-grad destination, and spent the latter part of the eve peeing in Boston Pizza's, and miscommunicating with a limo driver. When we finally returned home, we rolled down the tinted windows and stepped out with bloody, blistered feet and bam!, there was the sun, saying hello, last night is over, you are done. I remember looking around at my friends and playing some reality-t.v. like game show―who, in one year, five years, will make the cut of the Real World, which friends will really "keep in touch" like they say they will (for the record, from that car ride, three). I remember watching the sun rise from an untouched acerage, and thinking of beginnings, and endings, and not much else. A Night to Remember, but that was just the grad's theme. A whole different world to wake up to, that's what it really meant to me on that late-late-night, that too-early-morning.

Then, another time. 

Last year in the gorgeous Gorge in Washington State, with two of my best friends from home, and one new friend, watched the sun rise as we packed up our campsite after a long, aptly-titled Memorial Day weekend. A weekend ending with goodbyes to places, to our campsite and our tent that we didn't once sleep in, to all the music played on a stage framed by nothing but blown-wide-open skies. We'd soon head in the car home together, and then I would solitarily head away by myself to my new home, my first summer away. I wondered what it would be like to spend it without the friends I'd had forever.

Last night, well, by now, two nights ago, I drove an old friend with a past home after a long night out. We reminisced, and as that familiar luminous body rose, I remembered the last time we'd driven this road. The last time, it was when two people became something more than friends. We'd climbed a bridge and conquered it, singing from the top to no one who'd hear that it was ours, that we were a "we." The other night seemed the same. We drove around familiar circles, and when dawn struck we were left to wonder if that was all really in the past, or if the past was playing into the present―into the now, into the new. It all seemed too recent, too real. As the car door shut and I was left alone in what was by now near to broad daylight, I drove home in dead silence, music not too crowd my wandering mind. 

What has happenned, what is to come... real sunrises mean beginnings, endings, but nothing in between. 

mmm.... stiegl.

Mama Kass finally settled down and got herself a job.

Well, and by "settled down," I mean I now get to drink Jager out of the asses of pinatas, serve six-litre pints of Honey Brown in vases still stamped with Home Sense tags, and sell beers and bratwursts I'll never be able to pronounce. And, uh, get paid too.

Meet my new home, weeknights, weekends, days―whatever. 'Cause if it all goes as planned, well, by the end―I won't really know the difference.

(If you're in town this weekend, drop by. It's disco pirate party time. It's a bar, duh. But friends get a 25% discount.

...and yes, there will be hot tubs.)

prayers for the prairies.

Welcome back to the wild wild west.

...well, minus the wild part. So far Sherwood Park has been, as usual, quaint, pleasant―words sometimes considered synonyms for drab, and dull, but that's a matter of perspective. The pace of the place is, to say the least, a small adjustment from the days of jaywalking the city, but once it sinks in, it doesn't hurt so hard.

Sometimes life out here's like a scene from Full House―with seven people in one house (NOT including a dog named after brand-name amonia), I'm prone to assume the role of Stephanie, the poor middle child who's life is sooo unfair. And as for sleeping in, well, that's not an option when your sister tap dances above your bedroom at 8 a.m. But being woken up my a human sound instead of a machine (I'm talking about YOU, cranes at St. Michael's!) is sorta comforting, as is warm, streaming sunlight that won't be blocked out by a neigbouring condo at 11:01 a.m. (makes afternoon tans tough). 

The suburb's the suburb, it's not worth glossing over. I could spend my months here honing in on what they don't have―which is plenty―but while I'm around, I mine as well take on what they do have to offer. Parks-a-plenty, free and fresh gourmet, old friends, family, and, of course, a room of my own.

Me and the local geriatrics ward Some of the fam who I love very much!

Summer, bloody summer

My summer was all laid out.

Four months in Asia. Fly into Singapore, head North 'till I'd eaten every piece of Pad Thai and Pho on the continent. Hike, skydive, thrill-seek, adventure. Of course, ambition, when planned in pairs, sometimes falls through. I counted up my losses, accepted defeat, and made a compromise.

I set myself out, instead, to head home to lounge with mom and pop, eat Chef Frere's exquisite food, educate my little sister on getting past puberty (now that I think I'm finally over it myself), and, of course, keep a little extra coin in my pocket. I was unreasonably enthusiastic to visit the prosaic prairies, to relax, and sleep in my high school hideout. And then, come July, to rent a flat in Prague, and stroll along the promenade for a month or two. Sleeping in, and drinking Czechvar until I slept again. And I wasn't ever planning to go it alone.

But now, it seems, I am―right here.

Since Sunday, I've hastefully been arranging interviews―of the summer job sort, people pointing the mic at me instead of the school year's opposite―in hopes of earning checks to cover my coffee for next school year, instead of a plane ticket to anywhere the hell outta here. I've stopped trying to sell off my room to some stranger. My little sister will stay stuck to fend for herself at the dangerous age of thirteen. No one will be left to scarf Mike's leftovers at ungodly hours. For me, it's more concrete, more city, more same ol', just with the addition of some occasional sunshine. Those had better be some damn happy rays or I'll be carrying S.A.D. with me all through this sorry summer.

it's not farewell, it's just "for now".

League's on. I'm (temporarily, I hope) waving bye-bye to blogosphere and welcoming the world of volleyball. I can blog the rest of my life, but now's prime time for play.

If you really want to see me, come to a game. Bring a sign that says my name in obnoiously huge letters. Bring noisemakers, and if you choose, a brew or two... I'll never tell....

Found, kitchen counter, 8 p.m.

Dear Kass,

I took a coule shots of your vodka [of the nine-dollar-per-litre bottle from New York] one night after the LCBO closed. Here is some Grey Goose.

(heart) Russ

When I walked in the door four hours ago, fresh off my four-hour flight, my roommate skipped over to say hi with the glee of a six-year old on Christmas morning. He'd painted blank canvases for the bare walls on the weekend―the decoration we've dreamed up for months, yet never put art into action. For once, the place looks lived in... new DVDs and a TV to watch them on. Mood lighting for the rooms. And even, if the kitchen sink isn't always clean as per my nazi-style inspection, I can't get mad―because who am I kidding; I had to steal his camera just to write this post. 

Russ―1, Kass―0.

oh dear god.

Froshies are trodding on my territory.

Scads of Abercrombie-clad clones are trampling all over my home stomping ground..

My backyard is backed-up with over-eager freshmen and all of the o-week, type-a's, busy pumping up newbie spirits and putting a damper on mine.

When I walk, I want to walk fast, mission-walk, through clear streets. I've got a lot of limb from the waist down and don't want to put it to waste. Call me a claustrophobe, or a country folk, but I just need some room to stretch out on my home street.

this is the end, my only friend.

It's the last day of summer.

Well, technically it's got three weeks to die off, but my landmark is typically the day before school begins.

So here we are, after months of wishing for summer, it's gone daddy gone. I spent the first half of yesterday in regret, and the second half wishing I had a better tan... but last night I looked through forgotten photos from the four months past. Sasquatch to Seattle, Niagara to New York, B.C. to BluesFest on the beach. I read books I've always wanted to, and some that I needed... I started listening to hip-hop. Some summer it was, and it's not that I'm ever reallyready to go back, but at least I can accept the fact.

So, today I'm spending the day basking in the last of the smoking rays, baking my skin 'till it's bronze, finger painting  and playing at the ex, and dancing 'till it's way past bedtime. I'll come home and sloppily lay out my fresh notebooks, new pens, and my never-been-used schoolbag, and cat-nap 'till class... so what if I show up a little bleary-eyed. Bring it on, fall.

The following is a small memoir to such a sweet summer.

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.

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.

Go your own way.

For so long I've wished I could stretch my too-long legs further and straddle the two cities where my life lies. Sherwood Park, home sweet home, place of all good things old and nostalgic, and a select few of the most perfect people.
Alas, one can only reminiscence on the "glory days" for so long (and preferably no longer than a year or two, lest I be caught dead wearing my grad sweats on the streets anytime in the future). Scrumptious summer is starting to spring out of this half-hearted sunshine, and I can't see it the same driving around in SUVs, staying stagnant inside, and coming home to curfew. Especially the curfew.

Toronto offers work, weather, and a thousand-and-one more ways to enjoy it all. I can't imagine deserting this haven, how could I leave behind an entire summer's vacation? I've already begun two to-do lists, of wants and wishes. Suite 1005's staying alive for a sweet, sweet summer.

It's a girl!

Oh, hello there.

I suppose I can't christen this site a newborn, however I can dedicate the baby as a rebirth. It's a little-known-fact that I'm no stranger to life online, in fact I've spent summers in this other dimension, pale, chilled summers in the basement on everything from Neopets to Nexopia, Dollz to Don't Panic, before getting a little more personal. I've kept the blog running since junior high, but it's remained in the private sphere for years and years.

But at a time of Facebook, Digg, youtube, Flickr, etc etc etc..., the facade of online privacy is falling through—I figure if my writing is subject to critique, or at least some form of loyal fan base readership, then—I 'm coming out, I want the world(wide web) to know.

And now, it's time that I let you all into my life, in photos, in rants and raves, in relentless banter about nothing and everything... and into my little corner of the world.