Vintage wasn’t cool when I was in high school. Well, no one wore it when we actually got free dress days, unless it was Hallowe’en and someone went all-out with their ‘1960s Hippie’ costume (the only thing more embarrassing than that has got to be marketing Punk Lite to tweens). But somewhere between my ‘80s hand-me-downs and ‘90s quasi-raver gear, I had myself a nice little collection of retro clothing, all care of my auntie Elsa aka Liz Kolanksy aka ‘The Cool Aunt.’
The stand-outs included a gold evening jacket and a bright green mod mini dress that blew everyone else’s standard school dance fare (Calvin Klein Mom-cut jeans and baby tees) out of the water. Or maybe it provoked giggles. I can’t remember caring, just thinking I looked like the hot distant Brady cousin.
So I was thrilled when some time after high school I started heading down to New York and helping out Elsa with Studio 42 and Oly’s Vintage (named after my uncle Oly, whose salon then shared a space with her shop on E. 21st) – and with the Manhattan Vintage Clothing Show, a yearly showcase of vintage clothing and textiles for designers and fashion fiends.
It was then and there that I…
…learned how many designers’ ‘designs’ consist of re-issued vintage pieces (often after low-balling vintage clothing dealers – it’s odd, to say the least, seeing an exact replica of a piece you sold for a mere $75 for $1,000+ apiece in Saks).
…found out cool parties and media clippings don’t pay the rent, selling alongside a designer for Imitation of Christ who had moved back in with her parents.
…marveled at interns from major fashion houses sent over to buy up vintage items from their own labels.
…realized some people’s reaction to used clothing is still a decisive, ‘Eww.’
…ran into celebs and designers, managing to remain oblivious to their identities until afterward (except maybe Patricia Field and Betsey Johnson because, well, c’mon).
…found out even celebs and designers haggle.
Victorian cape from Studio 42
…gave some bullshit interview to a Village Voice reporter about the popularity of Victorian whites post-9/11.
…fell in love with every old timey soul living in New York, from a couple stuck in the 1800s to a gang of rockabilly kids (when I mentioned the cuteness of one of the boys, a girl from the group warned me he was an alcoholic).
…wandered around in a gaudy one-armed Miss Universe pageant gown and had it bought off my back.
…bought my first pair of (and god help the Sex and the City-ness of it all) Manolos for about $100 and learned the single upside to my giant shoe size: Lots of models have it, too, meaning I get a great selection of runway cast-offs and stylist steals.
Looks like I’m heading down again this year for Oct. 8 and 9, hopefully after developing a strategy for keeping myself from spending the last of my life savings on a Victorian cape or Chanel twin set (though it’s hard not to kick yourself for passing up a gorgeous 1940s dress for $100 only to find a look-a-like for the same price at H&M).
I wonder what it’ll be like this year, if it’ll be full of Mad Men fans looking for hot Joan-style dresses. Or Rachel Zoe wannabes hunting for peasant pieces to put under ‘stylist’s own’ in the fashion spread credits. Hipster kids, burlesque performers, bargain hunters and incognito millionaires. I doubt I’ll even want to hit Century 21 when I’m done.
And you say you'll LET me buy your used futon, too, if I take the place? At 25 percent off? Where do I sign?
As July 1st, aka ‘Moving Day’approaches, Montrealers are looking for places to live, like so many hermit crabs exchanging one dirty rotten husk for another. Between overcrowded open houses and Facebook pleas for help, it appears we’re getting desperate… but not that desperate. In my hunt for a clean, livable property I’ve come across more than my fair share of hell holes. But I swear – sometimes half the battle is just slogging through the Craigslist ads (or Craig’s List, if you prefer). Don’t these people WANT to rent their places out? Don’t they know they could get a few more bucks a month if only they put in a little effort? It boggles the mind.
Anyway, as is my way, I’m using my first post on The Tragically Unhip to complain loudly and to tell other people what they’re doing wrong. In this case, it’s listing and renting (or, god forbid, selling) a Montreal apartment.
Include photos. It’s the internet, people, not the back of the Mirror. If you can’t afford the $75 needed to buy a basic digital camera, borrow one.
Include good photos. You don’t need to be Annie Leibowitz, but fer chrissakes use your head. Offer shots of the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedrooms and whatever else potential tenants might actually need to see to help them evaluate a property. It’s really great that you sprang for a fancy crystal doorknob when you moved into the place pre-WWII, but offering three shots of it instead of, say, a snap of the bathroom just won’t do. Same goes for those of you who think detail pics of toilet plungers, Italian tiles, water meters, etc., are more important that shots of the kitchen.
Also, enough with those low-angled shots that stretch out tiny spaces, making them appear immense – we just might get wise when we actually visit the location. (And can someone please explain the reasoning behind including nothing but exterior shots? I can’t help but assume that these ads are posted by hobos with internet access who just snap facades at random and put them online in the hopes of conning people out of deposit money. Because if you were honestly trying to sell or rent a place, wouldn’t you be allowed inside?)
And hey, how about cleaning the fuck up? I’m not even asking you to paint over your delightful aqua and neon yellow walls or trash your precious used beer bottle collection (though, again, either would up your price significantly), just try taking your drying clothes off the door before you let me in for a viewing. Or shove all your old pizza boxes from one corner to the other, if only for a second, when you photograph that snazzy ‘European’ living room.
Oh, and please keep your creepy roommate out of the photos.
Include relevant information. Sure they may seem like minor details, but many potential tenants like to know little things like the apartment’s general location, the number of bedrooms, whether or not utilities or appliances are included, your contact info, etc. Trivial stuff. The whole 3.5/4.5 system used to denote number of rooms in Montreal apartments is mildly retarded, I agree, but that’s why you get a whole description along with your post’s title. Remember, you aren’t paying by the word – in fact, if you’re posting on Craigslist, you aren’t paying anything at all.
Don’t make me trek to HoMa and tell me it’s the Plateau. It seems, this year, that crafty landlords have dropped the term ‘Plateau-adjacent’ in favour of straight-out lies. No wonder so many are reluctant to list specific addresses – they know we can just GoogleMap that shit. I’m particularly amused by how many listings include magical areas like ‘Plateau North’ (Laval) and ‘Plateau West’ (NDG), which, oddly, don’t seem to exist outside of Craigslist’s real estate pages. Oh, and you might want to find out if I’m from here before lying your ass off about how long it takes to get to St. Laurent Blvd. from the east side of Lafontaine Park.
In the same vein, enough with your ‘creative’ interpretations of the word ‘room.’ A doorway is not a room. A balcony is not a room. And don’t get me started on what I’m supposed to consider a ‘bedroom,’ including door-less alcoves and 5ft x 5ft spaces containing washer and dryer hook-ups. Quebecers got so tired of this shit that they made it illegal to pass a window-less room off as a bedroom (or maybe it was just the fire hazard), leading many kind property owners to install plexiglass squares to let the sun shine in on your miserable existence.
That balcony? It’s a death trap. Honestly, I am telling you this for your own good. Don’t say I should have a BBQ out there because it will collapse, I will die, and you might feel bad for a second. (I think I might actually do a whole photo essay on the phenomenon of terrifyingly unsound Montreal balconies. That or the alarming number of Xmas trees and wreaths only now making it to the city’s curbs.)
Remember, this is Montreal. We’re cheap bastards. No one’s renting your one-bedroom for $3500, no matter how much work you put into it. (This is the part where the New York-based readers all laugh at how cute Montrealers are when they get angry about a little hole in the drywall, low water pressure, and paying over $1 per square foot.)
(And to anyone who ever read my old, crappy blog – god forbid – yes, this is a slight rehash. No one listened the first time around.)
But would Arthur Miller live here? (All photos by Genevieve D. Markle)
My living situations have always been a little, er, unique. I was born and raised in the Montreal ghetto of Verdun; lived for three years in a Mile End slum; and spent a combined year and a half in New York City staying in various untraditional housing arrangements, including a residence run by nuns, a flophouse on the Bowery with cell walls that didn’t even reach the ceiling, and various borrowed floors and sofas. If nothing more, these crazy, less-than-ideal housing situations proved that I am not as high maintenance as my preceding reputation would have you believe, as well as provided me with seemingly endless blog fodder with which to entertain you, dear Unhipsters.
And now? I live in Manhattan’s highly sought-after, highly gentrified Lower East Side. My rent is laughably affordable and I am within walking distance from everything I could ever need: 24-hour subways and drugstores, hip nightspots, great restaurants, cheap drycleaning and wash-and-fold laundry services, and my favourite museum, the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. My window offers a breathtaking view of the Williamsburg Bridge and there’s a branch of the New York Public Library just around the corner. Sounds like a dream, right? It is, but there’s a slight catch: my new apartment is in the projects.
Yes, the projects. Thanks to rappers like Jay-Z and Mobb Deep waxing lyrical about the housing projects that reared them (Marcy and Queensbridge, respectively), even the whitest-bread, most upper-middle-class North American suburban kid has at least a faint idea of what the projects are all about. My particular projects consist of twelve thirteen-floor high-rises that occupy a four-by-four block radius south of Avenue D and Houston, but were gratefully not gangsta enough to have made it into Unkut.com’s “Guide to Hip Hop’s Most Notorious Housing Projects“.
My building features all your typical project staples—an elevator that is permanently out of service, graffiti-adorned stairwells that smell like pee, and a non-existent recycling program (which I’m currently working on initiating)—while my immediate neighbourhood features all the things so commonly associated with low-income neighbourhoods: a check-cashing joint instead of a bank branch, a completely bulletproof glass-enclosed liquor store, and a dirty, no-name grocery store that I’ve been made to swear never to shop in by my well-meaning roommates. Despite all this, I can’t help but find beauty among the grittiness, so I decided to take some pictures to share with you, kind of like what Brooke did in this photo essay about her neighbourhood in Parc Extension, Montreal.
For the record, I am more than willing to state the fact that I am a very curious person who is almost always willing to try something once, even if nearly everyone I know thinks I’m ridiculous for doing so. SoI’m trying out a little experiment.
It started about a year ago with my very own Craigslist ad. The kind where I say that I have adorable curly brown hair and a no-nonsense attitude when it comes to grammar, but nothing like the ads that George Blott told us about here. The replies came in waves. There were the usual penis shots and overused poetic clichés mixed in with the bad spellers, all of whom got the same amount of respect in my books, i.e. not much. Then there were the surprisingly semi-decent replies that I couldn’t be sure about because they really could have been from anyone(e.g. a murderer, one of my exes). That’s the problem with e-dating: no matter what you think you can tell from someone’s emails, no matter how many go back and forth, it’s always the in-person meet-and-greet that seals the deal.
Sadly, I usually only need a few minutes to figure out whether or not I’m wasting everyone’s time. I even once almost walked right by a potential date and just gone straight home because I could tell before even crossing the street that he wasn’t my type. But I went through with it, and had one of the worst quasi-dates of my life. Through Craigslist,I met ex-convicts and really boring boys who still live with their parents in St. Leonard. Since nothing was getting more exciting than that, I thought I should change it up a little bit.
So now I’ve taken things to a whole new level: I’ve joined OkCupid, an online dating site. And as much as I claim that it’s purely for socio-anthropological research purposes, it’s also to satisfy my curiosity about whether or not real people can actually meet other like-minded, intelligent, non-creepy people through online dating sites.
I know that people with lower standards than myself can have a field day on such sites, but I wonder if we semi-hipsters can make a date of it as well. Because really, when you cut out the poor spellers, creepers, 56-year-old non-sugar daddies versus the 19-year-old D&D fans, you’re not left with very much. So far I’ve managed to “run into” four people I already know on the site, while only finding a handful of eligible bachelors who I’d actually consider to be worth my time and effort.
So for the moment the verdict’s out. One of the perks of OkCupid is that you can see who’s looked at your profile and then size them up however you like. And I learned how to block the overly-enthusiastic people who can’t take my lack of a reply as a hint. There will have to be some real-life meetings in order for me to rate this dating site against the wonders of Craiglist personal ads, but don’t worry dear readers, I’ll keep you posted.
I’m a little new to the whole “riding a bike” thing, but so far am pretty sold on the idea. I’ve always lived in cities with decent mass transit (except that 5-year stint in LA when I spent more on parking tickets than I did at Trader Joe’s) and never really got into bikes. If you live in LA and ride a bike it means you’re either seriously broke or all those D.U.I’s finally caught up with you. Nobody rides a bike, ever. We drive Mercedes and HUMMERS, thank you very much. I think one summer a friend decided to start a super sweet “bike gang” but we only got as far as the matching hoodies and then kind of gave up. Maybe we rode to the neighborhood bar like, twice. People are lazy in LA and it’s kind of hilly and spread out and we like our polluted skyline just the way it is because the haze truly makes for some “amazing sunsets.” Plus, what would we have to talk about if there was less traffic? I also spent some time in Seoul and New York, and the subways always treated me just fine. I swear I love the sweaty cattle car feeling and getting smushed up against strangers who think other people really must love their open-mouth-gum-chewing-spitty-bubble-blowing-smack-cracking sounds first thing in the morning (obviously a pet peeve of mine).
So a couple years ago I sold my car, started traveling, and up until now thought that I’d been doing just fine on foot/by bus/metro. Until last fall, upon my arrival in Montreal, when I was given, quite generously, a bicycle which I’m convinced possesses magical powers. Not only do I never have to wait for the bus or go underground ever again, but anything (that isn’t booze) which gets me not only out of the house but across town is like a damn miracle. I’ve been riding everyday since Spring kicked in and I now look for any excuse to throw on my fuzzy slippers and bike to the market, the dep, the post office, or the SAQ with my bathrobe flapping freely in the wind.
Just kidding; I wear pants if I have to.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m kind of a wuss when it comes to traffic, patches of ice, puddles, hills, potholes and basically everything else that isn’t a clear, wide open and completely flat bicycle lane. I don’t know all the fancy names for the gears and parts and crap, and I’m more the “basket and bell” kind of girl, but I finally understand why people are so into their bicycles. It’s been pretty wonderful and I actually feel fairly, almost, something close to… healthy? I like going fast. I like the way the sunshine reflects off my handlebars, I like the wind in my hair. I love the sights, sounds, and smells you just don’t get from riding the bus. I love riding by people’s houses and looking in their windows. Haha. Plus dudes think it’s cute when girls ride bikes.
All images by Brooke D.
When I got started, a friend in Minneapolis wrote asking if I rode a fixed gear because, in his opinion, “If it ain’t fixed its broken.” And I was like, “Well, my brakes are kind of shot and really only use one gear anyway… does that count? Ooh!! And did I mention it’s pink!?” Now, dear reader, don’t judge. I’ve been around the block once or twice, the whole world even, and yes, I know what a fixed gear is. I just don’t necessarily get the thing about them. I’m pretty sure I understand that they don’t have brakes and make you… cool? Well, not so much according to this guy:
I like bikes, I like riding bikes, but I have no idea what this guy is talking about. Four things I was actually able to decode from this little rant:
First: This guy’s messenger bag is way older than yours and ISN’T from Australia.
Second: Riding a fixed gear will only make you cool if you are him.
Third: He was the first person to do anything ever.
Fourth: He hates your pants. (Don’t worry, guy, I hate pants too.)
Nothing like some weirdo elitism to take something Super Fun and make it a Pointless Pissing Contest! So now I’m a little confused: is riding a fixed gear really cool or really really uncool? Is my busted up generic junker better than your Bianchi because it’s not as trendy? Are there some kind of style guidelines I’m not aware of? Why does this guy care if I wash my hair and what does that have to do with his bike? Are certain people just not allowed to ride bikes at all? Gee. There sure is a lot of stigma, social stratification and fashion involved in foregoing public transit, being healthy, and falling in love with your city via two wheels. I had no idea! Better start reading up to see if I’m doing this right; wouldn’t want to break any of the rules in this town. Ohwait!! I don’t give shit and I should be outside practicing my sweet wheelies, bunnyhops and gear shifting skills….
All photos by Brooke D. (Please don't steal, just ask!)
Montreal is full of gems. There are tons of places to drink beer, sip espresso, listen to music, browse the wares of independent artists and designers, and work on your slightly aloof (but hopefully not entirely unapproachable) super-engulfed-by-whatever-I’m-reading/writing/drawing demeanor while covertly checking out the cute girl in leg warmers or sensitive musician-type in the fuzzy sweater. It’s good like that. Well, at least The Plateau is.
However, dear reader, should you choose to venture just south of your comfort zone (I know it hurts), there’s a big wide world of even more Awesome waiting for you. Now, normally when I think of Downtown, I picture a wasteland of commercial consumerism (the Crap, Suburban Outfitters) and gaggles of Juicy Couture- and Ugg-sporting college kids. Am I right? WRONG!! In our very own city, amongst everything that is cheap and trendy, there is a complete throwback to the lavish lifestyle of bountiful booze, men in pastel suits, high-class hookers, quality service, and perfectly garish decor. I’m talking, of course, of the one and only Hotel de la Montagne.
Picture this: grand white pillars; enormous crystal chandeliers; a bubbling fountain complete with dramatic and slightly awkward rotating fairy statue; Art Nouveau (knock-off) nudes; stylish “mature” call girls; traveling business men; a skilled piano player tickling the ivories, banging out instrumental versions of bad 80’s Pop and Easy Listening; and, most importantly, a Happy Hour offering 2-for-1 drinks and $2.50 cheese and pickle plates. (‘Cause nothing says class like a jar o’ pickles.) Oh, and complimentary hand sanitizer in the Ladies’ Room. And a rooftop pool and bar during the summer months. If you’re really lucky, you’ll happen upon the hotel bar in full swing, when all the middle-aged divorcees come out in full force to bump and grind to all your favorite hits. I’m not even joking. This place rules.
Now. Don’t all come running at once, and by no means should you abandon ship from your fav neighborhood coffee shop/dive bar. I’m just saying that there’s more out there. If you need to call it Ironic or Kitsch or whatever else to justify leaving the Mile End, that’s cool. Do it. Maybe I’ll see you there! (Or at the dangerously amazing karaoke bar up the street. But that’s a post for another day.)
Spotted on a lamppost at Mont-Royal and St. Urbain, Montreal:
"Bye Bye Mon Cowboy" - Mitsou (1988)
This is what happens when graphic designers lose their dogs: they make eye-catching yet über-dramatic reward posters. According to this Funny Sign, Cowboy has not just gone missing; rather, he has been “KIDNAPPED”! The approach taken here sure as heck beats the one I spotted in New York last June, where the creator of the missing dog poster and his promiscuous use of unnecessary quotation marks got me wondering whether his “dog” was even a dog at all. His sign looks like shitzu in comparison:
Well?! Is it a dog or not? (All photos by Genevieve D. Markle)
I was re-reading one of my favourite books last night, The Colossus of New York by Colson Whitehead. I read his short passage about hipsters and started giggling because I was just asked to contribute some hipster pick-up lines to a certain totally rad print publication (we’ll see if they make it past the cutting room), as if I’m some sort of insider, as if I actually know what I’m talking about. But wait, isn’t part of being cool not realizing that you’re cool? I’m confused.
Perhaps inspired by Marianne’s new book review project, Grasshopper Reads, I humbly suggest you check out a top ten list of books I compiled back in August, before this blog had even the semblance of a following, called “Lit-Picking: Quintessential New York Books“. It was in this post that I first recommended Whitehead’s oeuvre, from which here’s a snippet to whet your palate:
Hipsters seek refuge in church, Our Lady of Perpetual Subculture. There is some discussion as to whether or not they are still cool but then they are calmed by the obscure location and the arrival of their kind. Keep the address to yourself, let the rabble find it for themselves. Wow, this crappy performance art is really making me feel not so terrible about my various emotional issues. He has to duck out early to get back to his bad art. Three cheers for your rich interior life, may it serve you well come rent day. Beer before liquor never sicker. This one’s on me. Somehow he ends up buying every round. Hour by hour the customers change, grow humps horns scales. The little noises they make: her boyfriend’s out of town, his college roommate is in town, my friend’s band is playing downtown. He made too many plans with too many people and things will not turn out okay. She’s a little worried because at midnight the new legislation goes into effect and the draconian Save the Drama for Your Mama laws are really going to cramp her style. Hit the town. It hits back.
If there’s any one song you haven’t heard yet that you need me to tell you to download, “Blood Bank” by Bon Iver is it. Coming home from work after a long day, on a night when I had no plans, I found myself remembering a band that a friend of mine had told me about. We’d been talking about music in a coffee shop when she told us how she’d gone to see this amazing band, composed of four cute men singing in perfect harmony together. She described it as a “warm and chill” show. As three of us hunched over her laptop and listened, I felt alternately warmed and chilled, and it was something special; I went home to buy their music online. I typed in “Bon Hiver”—which is how I remember “Good Winter” being spelled in the days I took high school French—but couldn’t find the band.
I read a blurb about them in a magazine a few days later, completely by chance, and when I saw the correct misspelling of their name it was like a lightbulb went off inside my head. I remember thinking how strange and confusing language could be, especially when you know the theory and the vocabulary but lack the context of culture, idiom, and slang. Now, I’m not normally the type of person to think the world revolves around me, but listening to their music makes me feel like I’m the star of an independent art film about a sad young woman who’s not really fulfilled in life for some sad, poetic reason, and Bon Iver is playing in the scene where I’m about to figure out something big or transcendental or have a huge revelation. When you live in a big city, you spend most of your day being anonymous, and the rare person who makes eye contact with you will forget your face in a matter of moments. It’s nothing personal; you walk by hundreds of people on the street without saying hello, or ignore the person sitting next to you on the train. So once in a while it’s nice to daydream about how the cinematography would match the soundtrack to your life, even if the movie you’re starring in is more or less anonymous.
Today I decided to take a personal day. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I’ve had to deal with the following stressors in my life the past week alone: real estate agents appraising my house; a 5-day plumbing debacle that left me and my roommate without water and with sporadic flooding; me undergoing on-a-whim plumbing endeavors (I understand why some lesbians have toolbelts now); and a variety of awkward social encounters. As such, I haven’t had a decent amount of breathing room or personal time. When my roommate asked me what my ideal plan would be for this magnanimous day of rejuvenation, I replied, “I’m going to sleep in as long as possible, laze around in my pajamas, and watch When Harry Met Sally while being horribly nostalgic and self-reflective until you come home from work and we’re forced to interact with other people outside of our home.”
While watching the movie, I did in fact become incredibly nostalgic and got to thinking about my internal struggle of loving and hating New York City. I’ve briefly touched upon these subjects in the past, but never really gone into them in more detail other than some sighing here and there with a few references alluding to my unyielding romanticism. I admit, I’ve been lucky enough to have had several relationships—and even a few memorable non-relationships—that still bring a smile to my face, but one thing is certain: There is no place like New York when you’re happy and in love. It’s a love paradise. But that can create a cynic in some of us, because when you see these lucky couples grooming each other’s best outfits with care, laughing and looking incredibly happy while dining in the city’s finest restaraunts or even on the subways or strolling the streets, it can widen the hole of loneliness within some of us.
I could write a snarky humor piece expressing my distaste for the amount of saccharin-sweet couples that I encounter on a daily basis, but today I’m just thankful for this one “single lady” thing: being able to cry at home in my pj’s while watching the New York I dream of courtesy of Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal.
I’m sure my Sally is out there—probably in Brooklyn.
“Where have you been, O Fearless Editor?” you might be asking yourself as a result of my not posting anything for over a week. Wednesday marks the one-month anniversary of my extended vacation here in New York City, so you’d think I’d have all this free time and inspiration to write epic tales about my adventures (or misadventures, rather) in the BigAp. Alas, the truth is that I am rather nomadic these days, living on various friends’ couches, floors, and beds while I wait for things to fall into place and start making sense again.
And so I bring you: The Top Ten Places I’ve Crashed in New York City.
10. The house in Greenwich Village where my favourite poet, E.E. Cummings, lived and worked with his wife and muse, Marion Morehouse. (Note: I did not actually sleep here, but I did interview to be a live-in nanny here, which is close enough.)
9. A loft space on Canal Street in Chinatown where the two floors below me had been padlocked shut as a result of being the former locale of a sweatshop for counterfeit designer merchandise.
8. A floor in East New York, Brooklyn, in a semi-basement that was a mere two blocks away from reggae genius and Studio One founder Coxsone Dodd’s famous record shop on Fulton Street, Coxsone’s Music City. Sheer proximity to such a legendary reggae mecca caused me to remember my Patois and nickname my hostess’ cat “Pussyclaat” despite the fact that she was a sweet little kitty who really fell in love with me and slept every night in the triangle formed behind my bent knees as I slept on my side. Good for nights when I wasn’t cuddling with a boy. (See number 7.)
7. Single/twin bed in Bushwick. With another human. Squished.
6. Double bed in Spanish Harlem that required my passing through about seven security gates just to gain access to said bed.
5. Private bedroom in an Upper West Side residence where the radiator was broken so I had to warm myself up by blasting myself with a blowdryer before jumping into bed with a hot water bottle and seven sweaters.
4. The VIP room in a Russian bathhouse/spa in the Financial District. (Note: I did not technically “crash” here, but I did come very close to falling asleep during a massage.)
3. The W Hotel on Lexington and the W Hotel in Union Square. (Okay, so I only had drinks at both bars, but could have very easily been taken up to a room if I was drunk and/or slutty, which I’m not.)
2. King-size bed in a huge apartment by the East River in Hell’s Kitchen with a dead fish in the toilet bowl.
1. Upper bunk on a set of bunk beds in same apartment, which is on the 14th floor, which is technically the 13th floor. Maybe that’s why I’ve been having such bad luck since I got here?
I had quite a thought on this fair, non-specific day in Brooklyn, sitting around listening to Crystal Castles and Kap Bambino with just a hint of The Kinks and Chopin all day.
I’ve always been of a certain inclination that if you truly are of something, you should possess the constitution to relish it without promotion. (That goes for you, too, E-Train Jesus-Plagued Preachers.) However, I feel that it is necessary for me to post it for all three of you to witness so that I cannot take it back tomorrow when I remember that I don’t have a washer and dryer.
This idea spawned sometime ago, only I was too arrogant to acknowledge it. And now, as I sit and try to catalogue all of the various things/people/animatronic caterpillars that I could possibly dismember in order to reveal my literary dark intuitiveness and rapist wit to “the world” (previously mentioned unascertained “three”), I am at a loss.
Tomorrow (which is today; because I am still edgy enough to stay up late), will be as it always is: My coffee will still taste like battery acid, I will fuck up my omelet, my neighbor’s children will continue to be paradigms of perpetual dudgeon while interpreting inexorable stampedes for 18 hours each day, and someone in my neighborhood will still look disappointed when they discover that I continue to be white.
- adopt one of the new first names people have mistakenly been calling me since I got here: Gena, Gemma, Geneva, and—my all-time favourite—Genovese.
- stop supporting The Corporation by no longer buying my smoothies at Jamba Juice. Instead, I would travel the 45 minutes and three subway lines necessary to go buy a Punk Rock Smoothie from Vox Pop on the Bowery. (The “David Byrne” is made with strawberries, mango, peaches, and orange juice. Yum!)
- not have allowed those porn websites I reviewed to steal my credit card info, causing my bank account to become frozen, resulting in me having no access to my own money and having to live off of Clif and Luna bars because I can’t afford real food.
- not have stolen the following items from a hotel room at the W: mini post-its, W stationery, a pen, two serviettes, and the latest issue of City magazine.
I don’t know if it’s just me, with my simple Midwestern features and misleading mannerisms that indicate to many that I should be engaged in all their trials and tribulations, but it really seems as though it is nearly impossible to so much as stand in line to buy chapstick and ballpoint pens without someone exclaiming, “Do you know how bad the economy is right now?”
I usually just smile and nod politely while scream-humming Arab on Radar in my head. For me, so long as I can afford a pack of cigarettes and a place to rest my increasingly-worn shoes, I’m all right. Sure, I miss dining on fancy cheese with Tiffany silver and wiping my ass with Egyptian cotton toilet napkins, but I’ve really embraced falling on tough times.
In all seriousness, I haven’t really felt the cold sting of an ungracious economy. In college, I was too busy drinking 2 for $10 bottles of foul Shiraz and nursing my preternatural angst to apply for valid internships or look for relevant, resume-filling work opportunities. Chances are, regardless of the state of the union, I would be doing exactly what I am now. That being: working jobs that are painstakingly underwhelming and sitting in my apartment thinking about how much easier it would be if someone would just deliver me a grownup kit, complete with tie and glasses, and I’d start work in the morning.
Perhaps I was just worn out from the constant flood of nay-say that came my way upon my decision to move to New York. People would apply witty catchphrases to conversation, such as: “When you shake someone’s hand in New York, check to make sure you still have all five fingers!”, which merited my response of: “People shake hands in New York?” Most would continue on to say that what with the “hustle and bustle” and the “Angry New Yorker” persona (which I’ve only experienced with visitors, but take care—that will come later, I am sure of it): “You’ll be destitute! Do you know how expensive it is there? Do you?!”
Truthfully, the only thing that I’ve noticed a difference in price with is the cost of cigarettes, and frankly, they’re worth every penny. Other than that, I can understand the “cost of real estate” argument (location, location and all that), but if you subtract insurance, gas, tires, oil changes, and the will to live that it costs to drive around that suburb collectively known as America every day, and you will probably even out. If you can wrap your brain around not dining at Jean-Georges four times a month, then you’re set, as far as Manhattan is concerned.
All this reasoning, of course, came before I walked into the abomination of the Way of Things and Natural Order: I am of course speaking of your local Brooklyn laundromat. I came prepared with your expected laundromat staples (water, trail mix, Vogue, detergent, and a roll of quarters), but when I arrived, everything went horribly wrong.
Apparently, modern washing machines are too sophisticated for the average American quarter; don’t insult it. These days, they only accept a specific magnetic strip card—never to be misinterpreted for the sub-standard credit card—which you are required to pay 99¢ simply to obtain from a machine that is also anti-coin, pro-paper bills, and anti-reason, rationale, and general convenience. Once you’ve signed away your rights as a citizen to get the magnetic strip card, you have to pay $4.00 per load for the average single-person load, or $2.00 per load to use the smaller machine: a real bargain if you happen to be one who only washes a single washcloth and perhaps a pair of underpants (but you may not want to overdo it; nobody likes a glutton). After that, it’s a mere 30¢ per 8 minutes to of dryer time. Fifteen-minute intervals would be menacing. Be serious.
I’ve wanted to move to New York for as long as I can remember: the shoes, the music, the films, the grime, the practice of being in the midst of millions of people and still having the advantage of being entirely unto yourself. I couldn’t resist and thus made a very hasty decision, one that had bright-burning warning signs that read “ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? DO NOT DO THIS!” This decision involved moving into the living room of a single, 45-year-old (legally 60) female owner of three bastard sons of The Renegade Angel Lucifer (her “babies”, better known as “cats”) on the Upper West Side. Decent rent, fantastic neighborhood, bat shit insanity. It’s an epic and convoluted tale that has so scarred my psyche that I don’t ever imagine being able to cleverly adapt it into a satirical greeting card or miniseries. (Those of you who are intrigued, know that it involved cats shitting where I slept; statements like “Well, since I’ve gotten through menopause…” followed by “…but that wasn’t until after I stopped using cocaine”; and awakening to find her watching me as I slept.) Needless to say, there was an in-building laundry room, sympathetically priced at $1.25 a load, and I was blissfully unaware of how good I really had it, in laundering terms.
This is The Man: weighing me down, cuh-cuh-cuh-crushin’ me.
Today’s catcaller was a professional dog walker. (Does that make him a dogcaller, then?) Despite the fact that he was being yanked up West End Avenue by four huge dogs of different breeds—all on designer leashes and wearing typical Upper West Side winter dogjackets—he was still able to check me out sufficiently and deem me attractive enough to merit a “Hi, sweetie.”
I giggled at the thought of what our first date would be like had I responded favourably to his advance—getting to know each other better over coffee: me, him, and his four borrowed dogs. Then I remembered that I’d actually applied for such a position once. Two years ago, when I was living in Chelsea and working part-time as an accountant, I felt the pinch and decided I needed a second job. I found a dog-walking ad in the ETC. section of Craigslist and decided that the job would be the perfect marriage of two of my favourite things: taking long walks and being around doggies.
You’d think they were screening for infant care specialists, though, with all the prerequisites and questions they asked me with just my initial application. I was asked to explain why I would be a good candidate for the position, and also to please supply a personal story about a special experience I’d once had with a dog. Now, I hadn’t yet tapped in to my lean, mean blog-writing skills back then, but I like to think that I’d composed a pretty heartfelt and true story about how much I loved my neighbour’s dog growing up.
His name was Mikita and he was a Golden Retriever. I used to spend hours over at my friend’s house, doing all the things my parents would never let me do (like watch cable or play with Barbies), and often I would just sit on the floor and rub his belly while watching Saved By the Bell. Some of the fur on his underside looked like it had been crimped with a crimping iron, and he had these big, soft, floppy ears that were just perfect for petting. That dog loved me, and I loved him. I used to volunteer to walk him and even pick up his poo, which was a very big deal for a budding germophobe like myself. When I heard, at age thirteen, that Mikita had been put to sleep, I sobbed hysterically and was unable to go to school the next day. So you’d think that they would have called me for an interview, right? Wrong. While I was competent enough to handle a small company’s accounts receivable and payable, somehow I wasn’t qualified to be a dog walker.
Here is an example of the kind of ad that professional dog walking companies are posting on Craigslist these days:
Bitch (female dog), please. I can land an interview for an Executive Assistant to the CEO position with fewer hoops to jump through than that. Shall I fetch you a stick, while I’m at it? Come to think of it, I could really use a good bone right about now…
Mid-afternoon, Southbound 2 train: I am heading down to Fulton Street to meet Twan and our Pantsless Posse in Lower Manhattan to participate in Improv Everywhere’s 8th Annual No Pants! Subway Ride. I’m committing a huge fashion faux pas by wearing jogging pants out in public, but I wanted to wear something stretchy so that I could remove my pants in one fell swoop when it came time to drop trou: none of this taking off my boots, touching my pristine socks to the subway platform, undoing my fly, trying not to pull my underwear off along with my jeans, leaning on my sidekick for balance as each tapered leg inevitably got caught around my ankles, and trying to shove a big, inside-out ball of denim into my purse. No, it was sweats for me.
I’m inwardly smirking, alone on the subway, feeling like I’ve got a secret strapped to my chest like some performance artist subway terrorist, eyeing all the unsuspecting passengers who have no idea of what I’m about to do: walk around pantsless in one of the busiest subway systems in the world in the middle of January, all while keeping a straight face, as if this kind of thing happens all the time in New York. Organized by the awesome folk at Improv Everywhere, they estimate that another 1,999 people would be joining me in this mission.
I meet up with the No Pants! Players in Foley Square. We chug some champagne from Twan’s Nalgene and prepare to go bottomless. We’ve all been assigned to ride the E.
Scene 2
Mid-afternoon, Northbound E train: We get on at the beginning of the line, at the World Trade Center stop. We are not due to take off our pants and exit the train until 34th Street-Penn Station, so we sit together and chat as if we were regular commuters. One by one, as we approach each station, our fellow participants discreetly remove their pants and exit at their assigned stops to wait on the platform for the next train to arrive. I’m sitting next to a spunky Asian lady in her mid-fifties, who, eyeing all these men in their boxer shorts, turns to me and asks, “What’s going on? Are they participating in a marathon and cheating by taking the subway?” I shrug and reply, “I really don’t know.” When the girl directly to her right, still seated, suddenly shimmies out of her pants as well, the lady cries, “Oh my God! Her too!” Then she turns to me and declares, “You must be one of them! What kind of group is this?” I play dumb. When it’s my crew’s turn to drop our pants, she shrieks in delight: “I knew it!” We exit at 34th Street.
I’m wearing beige cheetah-print boyshorts to go with my Burberry galoshes. Even in my skivvies, I gotta match. Leaning against a pillar, ironically reading The Subway Chronicles, a young man mosies up to Twan, who is standing a few feet behind me, and asks, “How come y’all ain’t wearin’ no pants?” Twan answers, “It was just too hot.” Then the man spots me beside the post and whispers to Twan, “Now she can keep her pants off if she wants to.” Unaware that I’d overheard the whole exchange, he approaches me. “Where are your pants?” he asks. I reply, “They were uncomfortable. I’m liberating myself. You should too.” He said, “Yeah, but I don’t want my wing-ding to get cold.” The train pulls into the station. We all get on, pantless, and ride in silence until 53rd Street, where we transfer to the 6.
Scene 3
Early evening, Southbound 6 train: The conductor is audibly laughing as she announces the next station and asks us to stand clear of the closing doors. Two boys enter our car through the ajoining doors and announce that they are raising money for their basketball team by selling Peanut M&M’s, and would we like to support them? Always one to encourage young kids to stay out of trouble, I buy a bag for a dollar, as does another hot chick in frilly black panties, and the boys just stare at us, stunned. I’m sure we made their prepubescent day.
Two men are sitting with their eyes at my crotch level as I straphang above them. One says to the other, “I’ve been riding trains for ten years; just when you thought you’d seen it all.” A middle-aged mother and her daughter start chatting with me about Magnolia Bakery when they overhear me asking a pantsless cake decorator if they’d opened up a new location in Midtown. Other passengers’ reactions range from the inquisitive to the shocked to the insulted to the hysterical. Some choose to ignore us and some choose to engage us. We all get off at Union Square.
Scene 4
Evening, Union Square: The Pro Pants Ministry is nowhere to be found, but I manage to collect literature from the following organizations who are trying to save our heathenish souls:
- The Bible Baptist Church, of Sharon, TN, who claim that “Smile! God Loves You!” is “The Biggest Lie Ever Told.”
- The Christian Light, of Harrisonburg, VA, who alert me that “Jesus Christ is Coming.”
- Manhattan’s Victory in Grace, who provided a check quiz to determine whether or not I’ll be “GOING TO HEAVEN?”
- James L. Melton, independent, who proffers “Seven Simple Things You Should Know About Salvation.”
The cops usher us out of the subway station and the party moves to Shades of Green Irish pub, a block away from Union Square. It is snowing, but still we trudge over sans pants. Over beer and chicken wings, we introduce ourselves to fellow Pantsless Participants and exchange stories and business cards. Facebook friends are made, some numbers are exchanged, and I realize that there is nothing quite like walking around with no pants on to serve as an icebreaker. Perhaps our new friend, finance professional Jordan, said it best when he mused, “Underneath it all, aren’t we all just not wearing any pants?”
"Tell me how I'm s'posed to ride with no pants?" Jordin Sparks ft. Chris Brown (Photo courtesy of Leon Feingold)
6:05pm I arrive at Boss Tweed’s in the Lower East Side. I am the only person in the bar.
6:15pm The bartender comes out of an entryway unseen by my sober eyes. Remarks that there will be no karaoke until Thursday but, “Damn, were you awesome last week!”
6:16pm I order the daily “special”: a shot of Jack Daniels and a Budweiser for $5.
7:10pm Three “specials” later, I am buzzed. I recall that there is a beer pong table in the front of the bar. I am in game mode.
7:30pm Two guys come in and begin setting up the table by filling disposable plastic cups with the contents of two pitchers of beer. I look on in amazement and watch the first game unfold.
7:45pm If there was a league for beer pong, [Ed.'s note: There is.] these guys would be MVPs. These players are geniuses and can play the game like professionals. They are both so good that the game ends by 7:55pm. This is only adding to my excitement. I want in.
8:10pm I am halfway drunk and fiercely playing beer pong with the two pros. We spot three gangly looking kids who must be from NYU, eyeing us like we suck. They approach us and declare that they can whoop our asses. We loudly contest this and immediately re-rack. I order another “special”.
9:10pm We promptly kick their butts, but amazingly, these kids are some tough competition. They fight the good fight, but lose regardless. I am now 90% drunk and am in no way legal to drive. Good thing I live along the J, Z. (The subway line, not the rapper.)
10:00pm I get cocky with my beer team and decide we should whoop the NYU kids’ asses one more time before getting even more intoxicated. Everyone agrees, and the NYU kids put their game faces back on.
11:00pm The NYU kids beat us in the final game. At this point no one dares to suggest further play. We retreat to the bar and drink some more.
All I remember next is that I had a quick moment of lucidity and left in a mad dash to catch the subway before it was too late. At least, I think I did. Who knows when I left, or how I really got home. But I assume it was via public transit and I show no signs of getting mugged. Oh, the things I do in the name of research.
It’s New Year’s Day. Some people come up with resolutions on this day, like resolving to quit smoking or vowing to complete their 21-day body cleanse. My resolution is to get the heck out of Montreal. And so, it is with no sadness or regret that I bid adieu to my hometown and depart for the greener pastures of New York City (again). Because I bet you’re dying to know my itinerary, here are the top ten things I plan on doing once I get back to New York.
10. Consider various (legal) get-rich-quick schemes, such as selling my ova for $10,000. (Before you start blasting me in the comments section, please note that I am highly unlikely to do this.)
9. Treat myself to a mani-pedi at May’s Nails on 14th. It’s been too long, and these tootsies need some pampering.
8. Attend the Emanuel & the Fear album release party at the Bowery Poetry Club with Unhipster Meagan Burbidge. (Note to self: Whore off blog whilst present.)
7. Hit up the same East Village consignment stores that the Label Whores at Jezebel did and try to sell them my (authentic) Joie slacks and Imitation of Christ skinny jeans, neither of which I am able to squeeze over the ginormous booty anymore.
6. Stock up on closeout-priced brand-name beauty products from Jack’s 99¢ Store in Midtown. Love that place!
4. Eat takeout with Gandhi in Union Square. Daydream about world peace.
3. Daydream, in general.
2. Hook up with that hottie who’s been trying to get in my pants since 2006. (See, kids? Persistence does pay off!)
1. Renew my membership at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. Hope to run into (and be hit on again by) a certain former No Wave musician who is much too old for me. Le sigh.
I am proud to say that in some 100+ posts, not once have I committed the great girly cop-out of comparing a situation in my real life to a plot line from Sex and the City. I am about to break that record today, but I promise to never do it again. See, there was this episode in Season 3 in which Miranda was mortified to learn that the takeout girl at her favourite Chinese restaurant already knew her menu selection before Miranda could even place her order. She read much more into the incident than was necessary, turning some mild teasing about her food-ordering habits into cause for an existential crisis about her boringness, predictability, and singledom. She realized: I live alone with my cat; I don’t have a boyfriend; I order in so frequently that the employee knows my order by heart; hence, I am monotonous and pathetic.
A similar feeling hit me the other night when I stopped off at the souvlaki place near my apartment and the counterperson, Angie, recognized me. She looked past her customer to where I was standing in line and called out, “Hi! How are you tonight?”
It was horrifying. I thought, “How could Igo somewhere frequently enough for an employee to actually recognize me?! This is unacceptable.” Having always prided myself on being somewhat detached and rarely doing the same thing twice, Angie’s acknowledgment of my familiar face hit me like a ton of bricks, causing me to go home and ruminate long and hard into my vegetarian pita and side of rice. Add this to the fact that I’ve been cat-sitting for the past four days, and I was suddenly feeling a lot like Miranda: single, predictable, and like a crazy cat lady.
But you know what I said to Angie once I realized that she knew me? I answered, “Fine, thanks. But you won’t be seeing me around much longer, eh? I’m moving to New York in a week.” Yes, typical me: throwing in a disclaimer to impede anyone from getting too attached because I know that I’m just going to leave them in the end. Suddenly this became not so much about the neighbourhood Greek restaurant and my frequency there, but rather about my tendency to stop, drop, and roll away from anything that even remotely resembles a relationship. Holy eureka; if I had a therapist I’d call her right away with this amazing new insight.
While I’m sure it’s nice to have a routine and to be a staple in your local scene, I don’t subscribe to the idea made famous in the theme song from Cheers about how “sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name.” The thought of being a “regular” anywhere terrifies me. I guess just prefer to maintain my enigmatic unpredictability—and to not get too attached to my takeout girls.
When I moved recently to my new neighborhood, I immediately noticed all the great hair and beauty ads in the shop windows along Jean Talon and the diversity of human beauty proudly displayed behind its panes of glass.
I went walking the other day and decided to take a few pictures to chronicle the variety of faces I saw peering back at me from the inside, looking out. Some were really striking, some were extremely cheesy, and some were a little straight-up creepy (e.g. mannequins of small children with dirty, matted hair is a little… I don’t know… ew?).
I was greeted warmly with waves and smiles in some shops, actually kicked out of others, and had the pleasure of meeting one man who stood proudly by a photo of himself taken some 40 years earlier (see the black and white number).
It’s winter. My front stairs are covered in a solid sheet of ice. Despite my job being all-consuming I have twenty dollars in my bank account, and for the first time in 5 (or is it 6?) years, I have a boyfriend.
Excited to socialize and see all the friends I’ve been ignoring, I planned this weekend to be action-packed and busy buzzing. What ended up happening both Friday and Saturday nights is that I was fed dangerously caloric meals by the boyfriend and fell asleep on my couch at 10:00 or so, while he watched something terribly unfunny on TV.
Yes, it’s December. Christmas time, and the holidays are one long chain of parties, shows, and yummy food-related social events. And yet, I’m about as likely to leave the house for any of this stuff as, well, my grandmother.
Hi. I’m new here. And I have a confession to make…
But I have to whisper it real low and quiet-like so no one can hear me. Maybe I should just mouth the words into a glass jar and bury it … or maybe I should write it on a piece of paper and burn it or see a priest or create a cathartic piece of short fiction about a girl whose name is “Brook.”
I’m writing now from a mid-century modern teak chair drinking coffee, chainsmoking in the flannel shirt I bought at Beacon’s Closet in Brooklyn, listening to David Bowie. I like cool shit and my friends like cool shit. I have bangs. I work in a coffee shop on St. Viateur (just kidding) and my boyfriend plays the tambourine in a noise band (that’s not true either)—is that really such a crime?
There. I said it. Like, WHOOOOOOaaah. That feels GOOD! I feel oddly empowered, like I’ve Taken Back the Night or reclaimed a dirty word. Like “cunt.”
Now that that’s out of the way, this being the Tragically Unhip blog I’d like to offer my services as in “insider.” I will shamelessly accept invitations to cool parties, art openings, record releases, and film screenings as a conspicuous consumer of pop culture (with, of course, an appropriate measure of humility and self-effacing awkwardness in my reporting so as to blend in). I’m new in town and need all the play I can get. So bring on the free booze, no-strings flings and Cobrasnake-style fame and fortune, so that I’m not stuck at home watching re-runs of the “The Hills” on a Friday night. Wait…. er, I mean drinking pisswater PBR and doing mad blow with Steve Aoki at Cinespace.
It’s no mystery that these are troubled times. Just open up a copy of Guns and Ammo or The Albuquerque Tribune and you will find its illustrious pages, once saturated with jubilant prose of economic promise, now sullied in financial obliteration. One may ask, “How can I ‘live the dream’ when I’m two blocks away from the breadlines?” This very question crossed my mind as I snacked on Coulommiers and fresh apricots. I spent hours in deep rumination, until visions of my destiny bolted into my psyche like a right hook from Christ: I would be the Chief Executive Officer of the Paramount Motion Picture Group.
I sprang into action, heading toward the County General emergency waiting room, to employ my lawyer-friend. That was until my Doberman/Affenpinscher, Orwell, interrupted me by regurgitating the Coulommiers and Milka bars I had tossed him. I shoved him into the arms of my mother’s doorman and was struck by an incapacitating thought: Who, on this Earth, would be qualified enough to take charge of Orwell while I dot the I’s and cross the T’s out in Hollywood?
I tried the Internet, despite the fact that I have never found anything useful on it outside of the E! Network site. I skeptically employed the assistance of my mother’s cheeky 7th grade neighbor, Billy, for a half pint of Seagram’s. I asked him to try and conjure some sort of government-censored set of codes in order to crack into IRS records of fauna custody programs. Billy looked annoyed, confirming my assumptions that this quest would warrant itself fruitless.
Evidentially, there exist numerous service and information sites for what is called “pet sitting”. The National Association of Professional Pet Sitters (NAPPS) offers pet owners an alternative to the hassle of dealing with the sights and smells of a kennel and the common people in it. The site recommended monitoring the habits of your pets and translating that information to their certified sitters. Some of these included eating and sleeping (Orwell’s favorite), as well as walking (?) and running (?!) schedules. The site reads: “Animals get to stay in their familiar environment, maintain their diet and exercise routine and are attended to by caring professionals.”
Unfortunately, “diet”; “exercise” and “caring” are all terms that are unfamiliar to Orwell. I had to tap into my creativity database (my brain) to think of an alternative to the NAPPS Alternative. Most of the pet sitting “dog” category was too liberal for Orwell. I couldn’t leave him to the devices of the runners and the walkers and the Prius drivers.
All Orwell liked to do was sit, so a sit-ter seemed appropriate. I decided to settle on a cat sitter because Orwell identifies more with cats: the sloth, the vindictiveness, the vomiting. He’s an individual and will not be swayed by the showoffy standard of “active” dogs. So off Billy went again, down the digital superhighway. Each cat sitter was worse than the next until I happened upon a snippet about a dreamer named Tammi Liston.
Tammi, like everyone, had spent her youth wanting to be a veterinarian until she realized that it’s gross, and committed to something easier, like a Certified Personal Accountant or a parent. According to a 2001 Yakima Heraldarticle written by Paul Dunn, “Her love for animals, an obsession since childhood, is deeply rooted, but her love for blood is not. ‘When I was a little girl I wanted to grow and be a veterinarian,’ she says, ‘but I couldn’t be because I can’t stand to see animals in pain.’”
Now, here she is, eons later, doing what she does best: caring for animals, so long as they aren’t sick or missing limbs. That is precisely the kind of person I want looking after Orwell.
Being an adventurous person, I’ve seldom been known as “the shy one” at parties or reluctant to try something this side of non-life-threatening. Occasionally the lines blur between safety and sanity, although for the most part, the proverbial fire extinguisher is always close at hand. But what happens when you venture out into a very solo-themed world—one such as the dating scene—alone? Normally your social circle would be within reach for assistance, but when meeting someone in an intimate setting for the first time—such as after exchanging emails or being set up “blindly” by mutual friends—you realize that you have to navigate the ropes on your own. Frankly, I haven’t had that much practice in “dating,” as I seemed to just fall into my first few relationships, which were all long-term. Now that I live in the Big, Stinky, Worm-Infested Apple, I find my options for dating are both limited and intimidating. Emotional and physical climes tend to brush against each other unavoidably, so when meeting someone for the first time you get that sand-papery bristling of awkward against cold.
But first things first: Where do you find someone to begin with? Do you hope with clenched eyelids and crossed fingers that each time you go to the club you’ll actually find someone that you have startlingly-amazing conversation with, enough so to get their phone number? Do you entrust your romantic future with friends who promise to set you up with someone whom they consider “just your type; you’ll wonder where they’ve been all your life”? Or do you head out alone like a kamikaze in search of the accidental coupling to end all further dates? I even notice fate-driven, Missed Connections-esque attempts at finding “The One”. Then there’s the romantic in all of us who wonders whether or not we should say something to that cute stranger at Barnes and Noble who’s been glancing up from their book/paper/iPod repeatedly in our direction. You may convince yourself that it’s merely your imagination or self-flattery, but what if you took the chance? These are questions that I think everyone asks themselves.
I’ve tried my hand at a variety of approaches for finding good conversation and the possibility of an introductory, trial-basis roll in the hay. I’ve met some stellar, trustworthy, and memorable friends through a variety of social networking means such as (but certainly not limited to) Facebook, MySpace, Friendster and, last but not least, Craigslist. I’m sure almost everyone you know has utilized CL at some point in their life for something they wanted or needed—and why not? You can get anything from a free hottub to an indestructable motorcycle.
In essence, I believe New York to be the epitome of grand circumstance. As the adage goes—and what helps this single girl smile more often in her search for love in the mean streets—you always find what you want when you stop looking for it. And thankfully, New York offers a plethora of distractions.
As a screenwriter, I frequently travel to what arrogant people call the industry cities: Toronto, Vancouver, New York, Los Angeles. As a young cosmopolitan woman (why did the magazine have to destroy that word?), I also love to travel whenever and wherever I can afford to. And “afford” is the key word here.
I was recently interviewed about a home exchange I did in Toronto during TIFF ‘08. The journalist was interested in “industry folk” who had opted for a swap rather than a hotel, and wanted to know why. Well, isn’t it obvious? No check-in times. No continental breakfasts. No pint-sized accommodations. And it allows one to stay comfortably in virtually any city one would want to visit… for free. Or for almost-free.
The price of membership at HomeExchange.com starts as low as $75 USD per year. For that price, you can, 1) spend one night at the Days Inn in Plattsburgh, NY (and I have), or 2) for one year, stay anywhere your heart desires, so long as your own apartment is tempting to someone in return. Thanks to HomeExchange.com (drifting into infomercial, here), I’ve stayed in a beautiful 1-bedroom flat in Montmartre, and during TIFF we stayed in a spacious and newly-renovated apartment in Bloor West Village. Recently, I was in contact with a fellow screenwriter who spends most of the year in Alaska, and who’s agreed to have open non-simultaneous exchanges: my Outremont 2-bedroom for his drop-dead gorgeous 1-bedroom beachfront condo in Santa Monica. This doesn’t include the many offers I’ve received from San Francisco, Valencia and Ibiza.
So really. Don’t hold that atrocious Cameron Diaz/Jude Law movie against the many eager home-swapping globetrotters at HomeExchange.com—it would be your loss.
Since the Tragically Unhip’s inception some months ago, I only once broke my personal self-imposed rule of never blogging about my private life. I’m about to break that rule again, but I promised myself that this will be the last time. From now on, I refuse to divulge anything more intimate than which films make me cry into my Doritos when watching them alone in my apartment. (Last Tango, believe it or not, is one of them.)
I think the blogger persona I’ve conveyed to readers (and you’re free to disagree) is one of an experienced but perpetually unsatisfied girl, a New Yorker stuck in a Montrealer’s body who fears she’ll never settle down, a nervous wreck who counts her grey hairs and unconsciously picks at her bacne in public, and a complete nerd notwithstanding having impeccable taste in music and fashion. Somehow, despite my uncoolness and neuroses, I still manage to get invited to hip parties, but while I’m there I feel totally self-conscious and unhappy. I should specify, however, that these insecurities exist in me only when I’m in Montreal. In New York, such feelings are completely foreign—possibly impossible. I’m a different person when I’m in in Montreal, and, to put it mildly, I’m miserable here. So all this led me to look for a therapist.
I always thought that seeing a therapist was a bit self-indulgent—you know, all that talking about yourself and stuff—but I started seeing one five months ago, to mixed reviews. Today I met with her for the last time so that we could “close my file” and say our goodbyes. I’m still as unhappy as ever, so what could have changed to make me no longer require her services? Well, what’s changed is that in one month’s time, I will be taking my sweet, sassy little self back to New York City. Yes, New York—as in not Montreal. To live there. And to feel happy and productive again. And to not need a therapist. Oh, happy day!
But how does this affect you, dear Unhip readers? It won’t, except that we will be including more New York content in addition to the heavy Montreal coverage we already provide. We will also gradually be introducing new Unhipsters to our team of writers, hailing from such scene-centric cities as Toronto, New York, and London. Yes, things are looking up, les amis, so be sure to stick around—because we’re just getting warmed up.
Montreal appears to be a breeding ground for coolness, as I wrote about here. But what other cities do your favourite hipster bands consider inspirational enough to cause them to pen entire songs in their honour? Below are the top ten hipster songs about cities. Give yourself a point for each of the cities you’ve visited (I score a seven!), and for those of you who use any and every excuse to get wasted, feel free to play these tunes at your next party and take a shot every time a city is mentioned. Note that I did not include any songs with “New York” in the title because Wikipedia already has their own list of songs about New York City and I don’t like being redundant. Get the playlist here.
10. Dundas, Ontario
Artist: Manitoba
Album: Start Breaking My Heart
Eff you, Dick Manitoba, for making Dan Snaith rechristen Manitoba, his one-man electronica act, as Caribou. The last time I checked, you can’t copyright a Canadian province. As a result of his completely un-punk rock behaviour (suing?!), Dick Manitoba will never see me in his dirty bar on Avenue B. Dundas, a suburb of Hamilton, is Snaith’s hometown, which is also home to the Junior Boys, another awesome Canadian electro act. While Montreal might breed hipsters, it’s possible that Dundas, Ontario, breeds Polaris Music Prize shortlisters.
9. Roman Holiday
Artist: Camera Obscura
Album: Lloyd, I’m Ready to Be Heartbroken (B-side)
Camera Obscura’s “Roman Holiday” evokes memories of sappy romance movies and first kisses with its summer-y sound and obvious Audrey Hepburn reference in the song’s title. I can’t help but wonder if the “Lloyd” the band name-drops on the A-side of this single could be Lloyd Dobler of Say Anything fame? That would be, like, romance overload.
8. Una notte a Napoli
Artist: Pink Martini
Album: Hang On Little Tomato
The title of this Pink Martini song translates to “One Night in Naples.” Sounds almost like that Paris Hilton flick, eh? If you know your Latin music styles, you’ll quickly be able to discern that this is a cha-cha number. Dance accordingly. (But don’t film it, as you never know what could happen if the tape got into the wrong hands. Just ask Paris.)
7. Balade à Toronto
Artist: Jean Leloup
Album: La vallée des réputations
If you can’t understand what’s being said in this song, ask one of your French-speaking friends to translate it for you, as the lyrics to “Balade à Toronto” are beautiful and ought to be heard by everyone. My neighbour from just up the street, Jean Leloup, somehow found the time to compose an existential love poem to his sleeping girlfriend during a road trip to T-Dot. He asks what happens when we wake up one day and realize that we’re old: are we happy to have loved, or do we lament the things we never said or did?
6. Vancouver
Artist: Jeff Buckley
Album: Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk
Jeff Buckley doesn’t say “Vancouver” once in this song, but does mention London. He also sings a lot about rain, something that both cities are famous for. Buckley calls himself his lover’s “failed husband contender” and “loan shark of bliss.” Heaven knows I’ve met my fair share of those. The world lost a great artist the night Buckley went swimming with his boots on. A moment of silence, please.
5. Montreal
Artist: Of Montreal
Album: Cherry Peel
Of Montreal are not actually from Montreal. They’re from Athens, Georgia. The story behind the band’s name is that lead singer Kevin Barnes met, fell in love with, and had his heart broken by a girl from Montreal. He sings, “I may be here now, but I’ve never left Montreal.” However, if you’d rather see Kevin Barnes’ naked penis over hearing him whine about how traumatized this chick left him, then click here and follow the links.
4. Paris is Burning
Artist: St. Vincent
Album: Marry Me
Multi-instrumentalist Annie Clark’s “Paris is Burning” has a Moulin Rouge, carnivalesque feel to it, ultimately crescendoing to a frenetic climax of horns and marching band rhythms. This is a good track if you’ve been playing the suggested drinking game while listening to this playlist because Clark says “Paris” at least eight times in this four-minute song.
3. No Train to Stockholm
Artist: Erlend Øye
Album: Unrest
I just spent five minutes trying to find that weird letter O on my keyboard, but finally gave up and ended up just copying and pasting it from my iTunes. Norwegian DJ and electronic artist Erlend Øye wanders from his comfort zone, picking up an acoustic guitar and creating a romantic, ambient pop love song with “No Train to Stockholm.”
2. Sodom, South Georgia
Artist: Iron & Wine
Album: Our Endless Numbered Days
Let’s get metaphysical. Throw on anything by Sam Beam’s Iron & Wine and inevitably question your mind and/or the meaning of life.
1. Tie: Coney Island Baby
Artists: Bluegrass Student Union / The Excellents / Lou Reed / Tom Waits
Albums: The Legacy / The Golden Age of American Rock ‘n’ Roll, Vol. 9 / Coney Island Baby / Blood Money
Four different songs with completely different lyrics—all named “Coney Island Baby”—that are imperative listening to help you understand the evolution of American music and popular culture. One is a barbershop number, another is doo wop, another is classic New York heroin rock, and one is growly old Tom Waits, who is in a league of his own. I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Coney Island, and even sang my own version of “goodbye” in this piece I wrote back in September.
Since moving to New York, I’ve realized how much I’ve changed as a person. I’ve lived in over eight states and travelled most of the Eastern Seaboard while living in a number of different environments: from a small town, to deep in the bayou, to high in the mountains of the Northeast. But in all my geographical experience, never have I encountered such a fickle city. September 20th marked the two year anniversary of when I first landed in New York and spent my inaugural night on a fold-out cushion on a floor in Bushwick. The weather wasn’t quite cold yet and I barely needed a jacket when I started my first job as a recruiter at a firm in Midtown.
Photo by Genevieve D. Markle
As with most places, I met people. I’ve met considerably more people in New York than anywhere else, but my experiences with people here has proven to be more surreal and bizarre than anything I’d experienced before. I look back now and realize that New York years are not unlike dog years, in that every moment spent in this city counts for almost double the life experience as compared to other places—just from the amount of stimuli you witness by walking out the door. But with this intensity comes the added stress; I barely slept during my first first four months here, working 12-hour days, because the thought of not having a job in this massive metropolitan matrix was too much for me to fathom.
It makes me think about things, like why I chose not to follow my lifelong dream of competitive horseback riding: how I gave it up for love after so much training and dedication because when you’re young, anything is possible. Instead of ribbons, jumping, grooming, training, and quiet nights with perfectly visible stars, I instead have the hum of an island generator fueled by people, things, emotions, memories, birth, and death. With the economy in its current state, there’s plenty to fear, and sometimes I entertain the idea of going back to the Eastern Shore to do non-profit work like I did before coming here. But then I realize that after a day or two, I would miss all this crazy chaos, and the starlit quiet just wouldn’t be enough.
Spotted in Fort Greene, Brooklyn on an Unhip friend’s refrigerator:
Stop that scatophiliac! (Photo by Genevieve D. Markle)
The poster says it all. I really don’t have anything to add to this, except that I love how the author uses the word “peace” as a verb. The story behind this is that our contact’s roommate intercepted the woman who was plastering her neighbourhood with these flyers and asked if he could have one to take home for the fridge. And history, ladies and gentlemen, was made.
Do we have another reclusive street artist on our hands? (Banksy, I’m looking at you here.) This is what I ask myself when taking my daily stroll along little-used (and little-known) Groll street in Mile End. A graffiti artist by the name of Zato One has stenciled a significant number of works on the sides of houses lining the narrow street. You may have already seen some of his stuff around Montreal without even realizing it; he was the artist responsible for fighting guerrilla marketing with guerrilla defacing by altering those hipster Vespa ads that started popping up on vacant walls during the summer. So what’s the story behind his tongue-in-cheek, mild social commentary? Does he have an artist’s statement? Googling his name turned up very little: one measly mention on Wooster Collective and a photo or two on Flickr. Whatever the deal is, I’m feeling it. And I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for more.
[Update: It has since been brought to my attention that the King of Tight Pants was not actually done by Zato One. My bad. Does that mean we have another anonymous stenciler to ponder now?]
Side of a building on Groll street, Mile End. (All photos by Genevieve D. Markle)
So I was thrilled when some time after high school I started heading down to New York and helping out Elsa with 
Tragically Unhip Staff
Genevieve D. Markle
Marianne Perron
Kimberly Senf
Laurin McNiff
David Fiore
Celeste Parr
Poppa John
Tess Hart
Brooke D.
Elli S.
Meagan Burbidge
Mr. Flint
George Blottttt
Little Evie
