The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

Hipster Pick-Up Lines: Get Laid Faster Than a Bike Courier on Blow May 19, 2009

Filed under: Booze, Dating, Hipster Culture, How-To, Sex — Little Evie @ 12:03 pm

A few months back I Facebook-asked the coolest people I know for their best hipster pick-up lines. They were to be collected and printed in a once-promising magazine, and they were… only the article managed to land in a sea of silicone boobs and Simple Plan quotes. I can pretty much guarantee that not a single Tragically Unhip reader will ever lay eyes on the issue, except perhaps as a grotesque joke.

 

So here they are – plus a few that were too good to print – in all their apathetic glory. Feel free to add your own in the comments section!

 

    hipsterpic

  • Wanna go on a post-date?
  • Is that a pair of vintage Ray Bans in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
  • Ever heard of Williamsburg? I named it.
  • I’d like to have you on vinyl.
  • What’s your gear ratio?
  • Hi. I play harmonica in Arcade Fire. Wanna fuck?
  • Did you know that PBR actually stands for ‘Pretty Big Rod’?
  • Lemme add my app to your dashboard. If you know what I mean.
  • You would totally make it into Vice’s page of Do’s.
  • Seriously baby, I’ll take you out as soon as this check clears from my parents.
  • Are those Nudie Limited Edition Masa Japan jeans from outer space? Because your ass is out of this world.
  • Want to start a wolf-, fox- or crystal-related band together?
  • You’ve got bike courier eyes.
  • I like you so much, you make me want to update my Facebook status to In a Relationship.
  • Wanna meet my Cobrasnake?
  • I want to have a Casual Encounter with you. Don’t make me have to write a Missed Connection.
  • I only look asexual.
  • Boy: Hey, do you have any pretentious avant-garde photographer in you?  Girl: Er, no.  Boy: Want some?
  • Can you program my iPhone’s GPS with your bed’s location?
  • Yeah, I was kind of a big deal at last year’s Expozine…
  • Hey, haven’t we had sex in the bathroom at Green Room before?
  • You look familiar; didn’t I see you writhing around on the filthy floor of a L.E.S. dive bar on Last Night’s Party?
  • I’d like to see your ‘deep v’ — and I’m not talking about your American Apparel tee.
  • Want to come over and meet my cats, Harmony and Korine?
  • Looking at you, I’d swear I had ‘sexy lenses’ in my glasses… but I remembered these glasses don’t have lenses, they’re just for show.
  • Hey good to see you! Let’s go for breakfast at some overpriced breakfast joint that will refuse to put butter on my toast and most likely fuck up the bacon! It’s 2pm and breakfast time has just started! Uh… I’ll just circle around this parking lot while you change…. really? You like that? Ok…. I’ll just circle around while you put on cooler shoes, like mine. [Waiting outside] Maybe I’ll listen to Illo’s new song…

 

  • … did I mention I’ve got coke?

 

(Thanks to Nat Hutchens, Cindy Lou, Bobby Steez, Ms. Dawe, Mr. Lam and Mr. Curry and anyone else who contributed. Illustration c/o David Shaw)

 

Rant Control: How to List Your Apartment on Craigslist April 23, 2009

Filed under: Advertising, City Living, Home, How-To, Manifesto, Neighbourhood — Little Evie @ 11:52 am
And you say you'll SELL me your used futon? 25 percent off?

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.)

 

How to Be a Dog Walker in New York City January 14, 2009

Filed under: City Living, How-To, Money, Work — Genevieve D. Markle @ 2:38 pm
dogwalker1

Eight is great! (Photo by Genevieve D. Markle)

 

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:

 

dogwalkerad

 

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…

 

How to Look Cool When Air Canada Loses Your Luggage and You Have No Pants January 8, 2009

Filed under: Fashion, How-To, Transit — Elli S. @ 11:43 am

Yeah, I got nothing. My luggage has been in luggage-land limbo for three days now. My toiletries, my entire wardrobe, my entire life was in that suitcase. I have no hair straightener (’sup jewfro), and I have no clean underwear; but more importantly, I have no pants.

 

This, as you can imagine, can pose quite a problem when you’re in Toronto and you’re up to your ass in snow and all that’s available are summer dresses. And some leftover reject clothes, but those belong in the Fashion Crimes Against Humanity section. 

 

Things I have done:

- Worn thigh-high American Apparel socks over my leopard print leggings. This looked good on day one—it had a little bit of an old-school, sexy-stocking look to it, with a leopard twist—but it’s day three now. My leopard print leggings have been stretched to crap-catcher status, and the socks smell of wet feet.

 

Things I will most likely have to do tomorrow and every day until Air Canada delivers my suitcase:

1. wear my hot pink tights for the first time ever, which leads us to number two:

2. not leave my apartment.

 

If there’s anyone in the downtown Toronto area who has an extra pair of pants, holler.

 

 

But here’s a peculiar airplane-related story that has nothing to do with me not having any pants:


On this particular flight back to Toronto, I was left to sit beside the strangest person I have ever had the (mis)fortune of sitting beside. She was probably about 42, with short black hair and an unfortunate lady-mustache. She didn’t say hello or bother with small talk, which is fine because I’m not the biggest fan of single-serving friends. 

 

I suppose she didn’t talk to me because she already had a friend with her. A small, hand-sized teddy bear that was somewhat disheveled and dirty: two things that screamed “crazy-grown-woman-who-carries-around-a-stuffed-animal!”. She put it in the pocket of the seat in front of her so that it appeared to be smiling up at her with its plastic eyes and its threaded smile. As she was reading her National Post, she would every so often acknowledge it by giving its nose a little poke. When she ate her Greek salad, she put the bear on the tray, and would pet it lovingly between bites. 

 

Towards the end of the flight I—no longer trying to subtly glance, but rather fully gaping at this point—noticed that the stuffed animal was sitting on her lap, and that she was looking down at it making it nod every few seconds by poking its little plastic nose. I wonder what they where talking about.

 

Also weird was how every time I coughed (which I courteously did into my elbow, taking my cue from McGill University’s coughing etiquette sign), she would begin fanning herself with the safety instructions card. This happened every single time I coughed; she would just tut and fan away, as though fanning herself would keep away the germs that I clearly had already safely stowed in my elbow. I spent the four-hour flight trying not to cough, which is hard to do when you’re sick.

 

She occasionally made comments under her breath, the first of which I acknowledged and tried to say something in agreement. She completely ignored me, probably because she was talking to her teddy bear. Silly me.

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go raid my roommate’s closet for some jeans, which is stupid because I’ve already done that and her jeans won’t magically fit me today, when they were two sizes too big yesterday.

 

Late Night Letters: Words of Dad December 27, 2008

Filed under: Culture & Society, Home, How-To — Meagan Burbidge @ 7:50 pm

Dear Christian Parenting Weekly, Daily, and For The Rest Of Your Hell-Bound Days, Monthly Editor, Mrs. Michael Noah Callahan, III:

 

Allow me to start this letter by saying that I found your article on using real butter very insightful. I never thought of olive oil and other substitutes as un-American but when you really think about it…

 

Anywho, I have a situation that I really think your staff might have some opinions and/or thoughts about. The other day, maybe it was night (I’m losing track), I came downstairs to find my children watching television. I know that in the typical American home, this is not uncommon. However, I wasn’t so much surprised at finding human beings watching television in my home nearly as much as I was surprised to discover that these humans were my children.

 

Now, before you start name-calling, hear me out. This has been difficult for all of us. I mean, here I am, in my own house—my castle—and these little bastards are just sitting there: existing. It was the strangest sensation of betrayal. Now I know how Heston must have felt when he realized that he was actually on Earth the whole time in Planet of the Apes.

 

Being a go-getter, a glass-half-full sort of person, I decided to make the best of it. I thought to myself, “These kids need me. They need to know they need me or their spirits will die and they’ll just crumble.” So I engineered a character-building and connection-based obstacle course for them: a character-building connectstacle course, if you will.

 

I began with a lesson in dominance. This was easily accomplished as they were sitting down and I was standing. I obviously towered above their tiny structures to show them I was boss. I also pulled on their ears and flicked their noses, which I thought worked because they looked rather disturbed, which I read as: “Whoa, I better not mess with this guy.”

 

Except it didn’t work at all! The girl poured herself the last cup of coffee and went outside with a cigarette. I looked to the boy, who was hurriedly making a ham and cheese sandwich, which I presumed was for me as an apology. Instead, he just returned to the couch and ate it himself while watching rap videos.

 

So next I tried stern verbal reprimands. “Bad! Up!” I exclaimed. There was no response. “UP!” I repeated more aggressively. Still no response. At this point I recalled a passage I had read about Rottweilers and how disobedient they can become if they are not employed. So I said nothing and left, returning shortly thereafter with three full baskets of my dirty laundry and a stack of hand-written business letters that needed to be proofread and typed.

 

Four hours later, I returned from the local “watering hole” to find not my alleged children clean and pressed and smiling up at me with high hopes of more employment, but an empty couch and—you’ll never believe it—the three baskets of laundry and the stack of letters completely untouched! To say I was a bit upset would be a lie. I screamed and yelled (and cried, a little). I even broke my poor late mother’s favorite cricket dart. I bemoaned to the Heavens: “What could I have done to deserve such lazy children?”

 

Hours later, I figured I should try a more nurturing approach. I called up a pediatrician and asked for a recommendation. They asked if my child was screaming and moody and unresponsive to my attentions. I said yes and they told me that it may be the Terrible Twos, to which I told them that yes, I have two children. In the end they recommended freezable chew toys for teething, which I quickly obtained from our Armenian neighbors.

 

When I asked my wife what in the creeps I could do about all this stuff with the kids she asked me, “What kids?” I explained to her about the people I found in the living room, in silent hopes that perhaps I was mistaken or that I was like Nicolas Cage in that Christmas movie and would just wake up in my Financial District penthouse. But instead my wife told me to get the eff out of her room and locked the door behind me.

 

As it turns out, my children are 19 and 23 years old and there are rumors of yet another one somewhere out there. I don’t know. I guess I just got my days and months mixed up somewhere in that time frame. Honestly, all this time I thought that the neighbors just had a really loud TV. I figured the small-sized bikes were part of some strange circus-inspired aerobics regimen my wife was on.

 

So, CPWDFTROYHBD Monthly Editor: Help! I have slightly older children who need to be taught to respect and fear me. Suggestions are urgently requested!

 

Please send more pudding samples.

 

Thank you,
Papa “T-Dawg” Burbidge

 

How Not to Throw a Pancake Party December 16, 2008

Filed under: Food, How-To — Brooke D. @ 9:41 am

1. Hypothetically suggest at some point in a crowded room that it would be “awesome” to make pancakes for all your friends and lovers the following Sunday.

 

2. Talk it up all week, reminding everyone and inviting strangers off the street.

 

3. Sleep in really late on said Sunday. Begin watching the Britney Spears documentary in bed, half-asleep.

 

4. Be jolted back to reality by roommate calling your cell phone from the next room to announce, “Dude. We have to go to the store …”

 

5. Stumble to dépanneur in pajamas to debate the difference between “baking powder” and “baking soda.” Throw caution to the wind and do paper-rock-scissors to decide.

 

6. Peel an old recipe off the refrigerator, then realize you have absolutely no means of measuring what may or may not be the correct ingredients.

 

7. Disregard all prescribed proportions, declaring a penchant for improvisation.

 

8. Experiment with one half-burned, half raw pancake. Delegate all cooking duties to roommate’s best friend’s girlfriend.

 

9. Attempt to redeem yourself by proudly serving store-bought cookies straight from the box at the end of a delicious brunch lovingly prepared by everyone but you.

 

10. Sit back and enjoy the company of friends, regardless of your complete failure.

 

How Not to Name Your Baby November 25, 2008

Filed under: Hipster Culture, How-To, Language, Musings — Genevieve D. Markle @ 3:03 am

Back when the idea for this blog was but a tiny little seed in the neurotic brains of a few unemployed writers sitting in a Montreal café and nursing the cheapest drinks on the menu, we brainstormed about potential subject matter for what we could cover within the vast realm of unhipness. Kimberly suggested, “What about hipster baby names? I just had a job interview with a dude who’d named his daughter Brontë.” (We’re a little unsure as to whether the proud papa had remembered the umlaut, but I’m including it here for purposes of literary accuracy.) “Oh yeah?” I replied. “Well, I once dog-sat for some designers in Brooklyn who’d named their son Bodhisattva!” Now, even I, a born-and-raised Buddhist, think that this is a little much, and I’m not so sure how “zen” little Bodhi will be feeling when he’s getting his butt kicked in the schoolyard every day by a fat kid named Tony. So in the spirit of Brontë and Bodhisattva, I bring you some of my favourite trends in unfortunate baby names.

 

Last Name First?

I loved the last season of So You Think You Can Dance?, but unfortunately Kherington’s retarded name completely detracted from her incredible dancing ability. Her parents get double the disapproval from me, not just for giving her a last name first (in this case, Carrington), but also for getting all clever and creative with the spelling. Nicole Richie recently named her daughter Harlow after actress Jean Harlow, while other mothers choose to name their offspring after their favourite fashion designers. Designer Gucci Westman is a well-known example of this, and you’d be surprised how many children I’ve met named Chanel. To think that if my mother had been a Christian Dior fan and an unwed mother when she gave birth to me, I could have been named Dior Diorio. I’m not kidding.

 

New York, New York

Now, I heart New York just as much as the next gal, probably even more so, but giving your child a New York-themed name is a bit silly. Posh and Becks have little Brooklyn Beckham, while Ashlee Simpson and Pete Wentz just welcomed Bronx Mowgli into the world. Remind me to throw myself off the ferry if someone ever names their kid Staten Island, will you? King of Queens actor Kevin James named his daughter Shea after Shea Stadium, home of the Mets, and it’s only a matter of time before the hipsters start naming their kids after their favourite streets in Billyburg. (I’ve got dibs on Bedford Wythe, so don’t even think about it.)

 

Celebrities Have Idols Too!

Nick Cage already proved that he has poor taste in name selection when he dropped his Coppola surname back at the start of his career. (Right, because being associated with cinema’s Royal Family is a bad thing.) But when he named his son Kal-El—yes, after Superman—the world watched in even greater horror. Ginger Spice showed her love for the Material Girl by naming her firstborn Bluebell Madonna, while Gwen Stefani just christened her son Zuma Nesta Rock, Nesta being Bob Marley’s middle name. So add celebrity homage-paying to the stars’ predilection for terrible baby names in the first place—Rumer, Scout and Tallulah spring to mind, as do Apple and Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily—and we, the gossip blog-reading public, are being subjected to even more disasters in baby-naming than ever before.

 

As for me, I figure I should sort out my love life before I start daydreaming about baby names. While I’m tempted to combine two of the aforementioned trends and give my future son both a literary name and a last name first by naming him after my favourite poet, I know that that would just be asking for trouble. Little Cummings would be no better off against the schoolyard bullies than poor Bodhi, I’m afraid.

 

How Not To Eat Persimmons November 19, 2008

Filed under: Food, Health, How-To — Marianne Perron @ 11:30 pm

 

Courtesy of Wikipedia

Courtesy of Wikipedia

 

 

 

 

I was delighted when I found the funky orange fruit for 99 cents down at the neighborhood PA. It seemed so novel and exotic, even to my jaded eyes. So I picked one up, brought it home, and left it atop the microwave to ripen.

 

When at last the fruit was soft, I realized I had no idea how to eat it. So I Wikied it. Peel and eat like an apple. Seemed easy enough. Persimmons are yummy. They don’t have much flavor, but they’re a juicy plump consistency, and super sweet.

 

I gobbled mine up in about 30 seconds. Once I was done I paused long enough to notice a strange, tingling sensation in my mouth. I waited for it to subside, but it only increased. Before long my entire mouth was prickly, sandy, and swollen. I could feel my throat starting to tingle as it does when I’m having an allergy.

 

Freaked, I dashed to my roommate (a training nurse) for assistance. Her cure? One Benadryl and lights out for kitty. I mean, goodnight.

 

How To Cure The Common Cold November 10, 2008

Filed under: Food, Health, How-To — Kimberly Senf @ 11:14 pm

Now I’m not even sure if I have the common cold, but I do know that I have something scratching away at the back of my throat—and I would like to evict my uninvited guest. I trust that I’m not alone in my miserable state, so I thought I’d share my bacteria-fighting beverage with everyone.

 

As trusty as Canadian-made NeoCitran is, nothing beats a runny nose and itchy throat like some good old-fashioned kitchen remedies. My personal favourite is a concoction that consists of: half a grapefruit, a clove of garlic, a pinch of cayenne pepper and a teaspoon of olive oil. Give it all a whirl with your trusty hand-blender and chug away. Please don’t sip it daintily like I tried to, or you might not be able to stomach more than a few sips. Not only will the garlic pave the way to better health, but it will also allow you some alone time to get some rest!

 

(Repeat twice daily and don’t be cheap on the garlic for maximized results.)

 

Roman Holiday November 1, 2008

Filed under: Fashion, How-To, Video — Kimberly Senf @ 9:59 pm

I made the decision to be a toga-clad Roman for Hallowe’en, thinking that it would be the simplest costume to pull off. Little did I know that the weight of the material of your toga, as well as your ability to grow a third arm for tying purposes, are both very important factors to consider when choosing to drape yourself in this costume of the ancients.

 

In order to figure out exactly how much white cloth I’d be needing, I did what I always do when faced with such a pickle: I Googled it. I found what I thought to be a very informative (if not dated and mildly annoying) video of a British woman telling me how exactly I should be affixing the toga to my person. Little did I know that she was instructing me to buy 3 yards of fabric too many, thus doubling the price of my costume. I don’t know who she thinks needs 6 yards of fabric, but it ain’t me. Oh yes, and she topped off her how-to with the instructions for all of us toga-clad ladies to go party like it’s 1999. But please don’t take my word for it; watch for yourself.

 

 

After watching a few more instructional videos on YouTube and trying to make sense of all the extra fabric I’d purchased, I finally decided to do things the old-fashioned way. Out came the safety pins and scissors. A couple of snips and my supply of fabric was down to half of its original size and much more manageable. Then my roommate—whom I’d already flashed while running around the house half-naked and who had seen (and heard) me struggling for a half hour—poked her head in. Between the two of us, my toga was on and tied in minutes.

 

A couple of points to remember are to make sure that you save the eye-catching underwear for every other day of the year and that you wrap the material around your body at least once before you start in with the toga tying, securing the material with a safety pin in order to hold everything in place. Don’t let anyone tell you that this a one person job, because unless you have superhuman toga-tying abilities, it takes two to tie the toga.

 

The Starving Artist Diet November 1, 2008

Filed under: Body, Food, Health, How-To, Money — Genevieve D. Markle @ 9:00 pm

Disclaimer: The Tragically Unhip does not endorse starvation. If you have money, please eat. Preferably in a high-end Italian restaurant with a hot date.


All this talk about potatoes and booze and chubsters has got me thinking about food—or lack thereof. As a writer and part-time ESL instructor, I am not exactly rolling in the dough (literally or figuratively), and as a result, I cannot afford to eat as well as I’d like to. The only good thing to come out of my starving artist status is that I have managed to more or less maintain the same body weight I’ve had since my early 20’s, permitting me to still fit into the overpriced designer jeans I’d purchased back when I actually had money. Here are my tips for staying in shape with as little financial expenditure as possible.

 

 

Underused, dented, rusted bicycle.

1) DO: Exercise.

 

What broke artist can afford a gym membership? Or car insurance and gas? Or even a monthly transit pass, for that matter? The key to getting free exercise can be found right outside your front door, in the form of a sidewalk. Bide your time correctly, and you can walk to and from your destination, or at least to the closest subway station. Try and take a different route every time so that you can truly discover your city and appreciate its architecture and parks. Dress sensibly, in warm outerwear and smart kicks, and don your iPod, pre-loaded with the energizing tunes of one of our very own, custom-made Tragically Unhip hipster playlists. Biking or kick-scooting is also highly recommended, but make sure you wear a fashionable helmet to protect your noggin, as Unhipster Celeste Parr recommends in this post.

 

 

2) DON’T: Cook.

 

As a starving artist, I do not always have the means with which to purchase all the ingredients necessary to make most my favourite dishes. But if you look hard enough, you will find that there are many affordable and healthy pre-made meals in your local supermarket that aren’t frozen or preservative-laden. I’m a big fan of Fontaine Santé’s line of rice, bean, and pasta salads, and I love buying various fresh-cooked dishes from Whole Foods’ pay-by-weight, self-serve buffet. Eating straight from the container—ideally standing up beside the fridge or leaning against your counter—will also help you eat less because you will be so uncomfortable that you won’t want to do it for long.

 

 

Photos by Genevieve D. Markle

3) DON’T: Eat out.

Eating in restaurants is usually a pleasant experience (especially if accompanied by the aforementioned hot date), but can prove to be a very costly and weight gain-inducing habit if done too frequently. Most restaurants serve dishes that are heaping with much more food than is necessary or that you would be likely to consume if you were eating at home. Many of us, since childhood, were taught by our parents to eat everything on our plate, so the restaurants’ generous serving sizes always pose a bit of a problem. Plus, most of us are tempted to eat the starter bread in order to feel like we’re getting our money’s worth, so once you add up the tax, tip, and any extras like wine or dessert, you’ll realize that you’ve just spent a lot of money on more food than you need, likely causing you to waddle out of the restaurant with a noticeably heavier belly and a significantly lighter wallet. If you must eat out, however, might I recommend one of these affordable Montreal dining establishments? (Shameless plug: I wrote the article.)

 

How To Get Wasted For Ten Dollars or Less September 7, 2008

Filed under: Booze, How-To, Money, Neighbourhood, Shopping — Ryan Marlboro @ 11:34 pm

I don’t want the fact that I was born and raised in Verdun to define me, but when Gen called and asked me to write this article, I think we both knew that my borough-folk and I are real experts when it comes to getting completely annihilated for as little financial expenditure as possible. Verduners like to drink a lot—usually outside on the balcony or, if you’re from neighbouring Pointe Ste. Charles, out on the front stoop with your legs stretching into the sidewalk. Regardless of neighbourhood, however, there are numerous ways for you to get wasted for ten dollars or less, but it’s quite obvious when I say this that hard liquor and bars are pretty much out of the question.

 

One great way to get your buzz going is to find a non-franchised dépanneur that advertises selling beer for the “lowest price permissible by law.” I’ve seen a few joints on Wellington doing this. Most stores will carry brands like Pabst Blue Ribbon or Old Milwaukee (not to be confused with Milwaukee’s Best or Milwaukee’s Best Dry), and these beers go for about a dollar a can. A bottle of beer contains 341ml of liquid while a can contains 355ml, so you do the math. With ten dollars, you should be able to pick up eight of either, providing you with a good buzz for the night. A 355ml can of beer with a 6.1% alcohol content for a dollar sounds like a real steal, doesn’t it? Oh yeah, except the beer tastes like crap.

 

This one worked well a few years ago, but I haven’t tried it recently. While Colt .45 is cheaper, a 40oz bottle of Big 10 (Black Label 10%) has a higher alcohol content and less social stigma attached to it. Big 10 tastes even worse than the Pabst and Old Milwaukee beers, but sometimes sacrifices must be made in order to drown your sorrows and/or escape reality. This stuff is bottom of the barrel, but it’s cheap! A forty of Big 10 goes for about $4.50 a pop, so why not go all out for the evening and buy two? You could even leave the dep owner a one dollar tip. Expect a night of blurred vision, horrible-tasting mouth, and probably vomiting.

 

If you live in Montreal, Foufounes Électriques has $5 pitchers on Tuesday nights, but tips for your bartender and the 3$ cover charge must be factored in to your night’s total spending. Throw in a few games of pool and maybe a drink for the hottie you want to take home with you, and already you’ve gone over budget. But unless you are an alcoholic, most people want to get hammered in the company of other people anyway, so you can always rally up a group of your friends to go to the dive bar of your choice on Cheap Beer Night and have everyone chip in to a communal pool to help fund the intoxication. If you’re money-savvy enough, you and your friends should be able to spend a drunken evening in an enjoyable social setting, which sure as hell beats drinking on the sidewalk.

 

Vaffan’ Cool: How to Cuss Like a Mobster August 30, 2008

Filed under: How-To, Language — Genevieve D. Markle @ 4:29 pm

Nothing communicates hipness better than being worldly enough to speak a foreign language. Not only can an exotic tongue help you get your seduction on, it can also make uttering profanities a lot more fun and less X-rated, particularly if there are priests or small children around. Below, please find a few helpful Italian swear words that can be injected into everyday conversation to spice up your monologues. I have also included some sample sentences to demonstrate how they are best used. Please note that these phrases are universal enough to be potentially uttered by both hipsters and unhipsters alike—depending, of course, on context and irony quotient.

 

Stronzo: a turd

“Stop being such a stronzo and give me back my knitting needles!”

 

Minghia: a penis

“Minghia! I just stubbed my toe on the Rock Band drum set.”

 

Finocchio: a gay man

“That guy in the tight pink cigarette jeans is way cute, but he might be a finocchio.”

 

Fica: a piece of ass

“Damn! That girl by the bar wearing the Mary Janes and librarian glasses is one hot fica.”

 

Porca Madonna: Madonna (the singer, of course) is a pig*; Disgraziata: a despicable person

“Porca Madonna, that cashier at the downtown Old Navy is a total disgraziata. I’m never shopping there again.”

 

Managgia: damn; Vaffanculo: up yours*

Neighbour bangs on ceiling with broom: “Hey, can you keep it down up there? Managgia!”

You: “Vaffanculo! I’m practicing my new dance routine!”

 

È cazzo basta: that’s frickin’ enough

“I am sick and tired of lending people my Golden Girls DVD’s and never getting them back.  È cazzo basta.”

 

Puttana: a whore

“Our guide on that Sex and the City location tour looked like a real puttana, eh?”

 

 

* Denotes a tamer and not quite literal translation.

 

satriale's

Okay, fine. I went on the Sopranos on-location bus tour last year. So? (Photo by Genevieve D. Markle)

 

How Not To Go Green August 15, 2008

Filed under: How-To, Manifesto, Transit — Genevieve D. Markle @ 5:35 pm

My Buddhist, hippie parents were recycling long before the city began curbside collection. I was the only teenager who pocketed her cigarette pack’s plastic wrap while looking for a garbage can instead of just letting it flutter to the ground like a dejected cellophane leaf. And I actually cried in elementary school when I learned about the hole in the ozone layer. So how, then, could it be that I am writing an article about how un-green I am?

 

Like many of the things I’ve been doing since adolescence that got me picked on à l’époque but are now being adopted by the very same teasers (boycotting fast food restaurants, not eating red meat, etc.), “going green” seems to be the newest cause to be adopted by the hipster elite. Ever since it caught on a few years ago—likely as a result of the popularity of Al Gore’s Oscar-winning documentary An Inconvenient Truth—I’ve noticed that all of the little green things I’ve been doing since childhood have been completely eclipsed by bigger and badder examples of environmental fundamentalism. Now don’t get me wrong: I’m happy that environmentalism is the new trend (as opposed to being pro-war or something), but bandwagons are easy to jump on and philosophies are easy to tout. But what were you doing for the environment before it became hip to try and save it? Unfortunately, I, ever the non-conformist, tend to shy away from trends like they’re the plague. So instead of writing about all the wonderful green things I do, I will give examples of how not to go green by sharing all the terrible, earth-killing habits I have.

 

 

Thanks for the tip, ConEd!

Thanks for the tip, ConEd!

1. DO: Take short showers.

 

I was on the 1 train the other day and I saw that New York electricity company ConEdison had purchased advertising space in the subway cars upon which to post their green suggestions for New Yorkers. One tip that caught my eye was called “Shower Power,” which recommended taking showers over baths as well as using a low-flow showerhead. I thought to myself, “Check and check.” Looks like I’m on the right track here with my bathing habits.

 

But wait a minute. What happens if you take 45-minute showers? What if you have so many bath products and rituals that it takes you much longer than the average person just to get clean? What if hot water is included in your rent so taking long showers seems like an indirect way of getting back at your landlord who doesn’t care that he’s forcing you to live in a mouse-infested tenement as a result of his absenteeism? And what happens if the only thing that will warm you up after you’ve been chilled to the bone by a cold, Canadian winter day is a steaming-hot shower? Or taking a shower in the dark is the only thing that is quiet and calming enough to help you get your thoughts and feelings in order after a particularly stressful week? And finally, what if you’re a lady who finds, er, alternate uses for her showerhead? Something tells me that maybe taking a bath would in fact be less wasteful under these circumstances.

 

 

 

2. DON’T: Let cute boys drive you around in their Hummer.

 

One thing I’ve been doing since I got back to New York is reconnecting with old friends. This week, I have plans to hang out with an old acquaintance of mine who’s been affectionately nicknamed Hummer Guy. Yes, Hummer Guy drives a Hummer, and if you’ve never been in one, let me tell you: those things are ginormous.

 

Now, I’m too lazy to bother researching emissions statistics for these vehicles, but the word on the street is that they’re pretty bad for the environment. Hummer Guy defends his Hummer by saying that his commute is a lot shorter than people’s who drive into the city from much farther away but in less gas-guzzling cars. Touché. But frankly, I couldn’t give hide nor hair.

 

See, I walk everywhere I go. I even have a kick scooter back home in Montreal, which my mother forbade me from purchasing when I lived in New York for fear that I would die at the hands (or wheels) of a crazy New York driver. Sometimes I even take the metro. But I never drive. So for me, getting chauffeured around in a giant, car-crushing clunker is a real treat. I know I look ridiculous—this tiny little girl in a truck that’s bigger than her apartment—but I don’t care. Give me a ride in a Hummer every now and then and I’ll be happy.

 

 

M by MJ (Photos by GDM)

3. DO: Use a reusable shopping bag.

 

There is a Whole Foods on the corner of the street I used to live on in Chelsea. One morning, I exited the building to find a lineup extending from the Whole Foods to past my front door and around the corner. It was 8 in the morning and it was teeming rain, but the faithful were standing in line under their umbrellas as though waiting for Madonna tickets to go on sale. I then realized what was going on: It was the day that Whole Foods would begin selling their limited-edition Anya Hindmarch “I’m NOT a Plastic Bag” bags. They sold out in record time and later fetched up to $400 on eBay.

 

Personally, I liked Whole Foods’ plastic bags. (And don’t even get me started on the abundance of individually-wrapped plastic utensils I used to steal from there.) The cashiers used to double-bag everything, so I always came home with more plastic bags than I needed. I used them for everything, but especially to line my trash can, as they were sturdy and strong and never got holes in them, so I never had to worry about garbage juice leaking onto my pants whenever I took down the trash.

 

But even the most devout plastic bag-user wants to save the planet every now and then, so I took my bad self to the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker and bought a $20 reusable canvas shopping bag. One of my girlfriends saw it and decided she wanted one too. So maybe I do lead by example after all.

 

The Burlesque Dancer’s Guide to Peacocks and High Heels August 12, 2008

Filed under: Fashion, How-To — Marianne Perron @ 11:32 pm

 

Daydream nation

Daydream nation.

Once upon a time, a friend and I went for dinner at a restaurant. I enjoyed the fried calamari, and she found the waiter to her liking. While she worked on reeling him in, I was banished to the badly-tiled bathroom in the joint’s basement. That’s where I met Sherri. She was a curvaceous burlesque dancer who was dressed the part. She had just finished a show two floors up, and was cleaning up before her next act. I was sweating and wearing brand new heels that I could barely walk in when she sashayed into the john like she owned it. Having hobbled shamefully to the restaurant, and now facing the humiliation of being the girl the waiter didn’t think was hot, I was driven by a bout of hysteria to holler my appreciation. Then the desperation kicked in.  “How,” I pleaded, “does a lady own her shoes, and make her strut sexy?” Honey, I asked the right girl.

 

 

1) Posture

Pilates, ladies! Powerhouse tucked in and strong. Back straight. Chin up.

 

2) Step with your foot, but thrust with your hip

Yeah, you gotta get the heel on the ground, but it’s the hip and thigh that do all the legwork. Sherri taught me to roll my hip forward and not be afraid to swing my butt (but not too much, or baby looks like a hooker).

 

3) Left foot forward

Actually, it doesn’t matter who leads, as long as it’s the heel that precedes, and not the toe, as some would have you believe. Plant it firmly on the ground, but don’t slam all your weight down. Instead, tread lightly and roll forward onto the balls of your feet before lifting for another step.

 

4) Legs!

Keep your ankles stiff and your legs relaxed. Sounds tough, I know. Basically you want to avoid that thing hootchies do with their ankles when they’re teetering in really, really high ones. Also, if you let your knees bend too much to compensate, you’ll look like a jack-in-the-box. Extend those legs, keeping the muscles firm but not tense.

 

5) No ducks

Many of us turn our feet out slightly when we walk. In flats this slight waddle is barely noticeable, but with heels it will seem exaggerated and masculine. Keep your feet straight and closer together than you usually would. There’s no need to criss-cross (unless, of course, you’re on a catwalk). Just turn your leg slightly so that your foot and leg follow the same line.

 

6) Arms

Remember that episode of Seinfeld? Raquel Welch? Catfight. Keep your arms at your sides, relaxed and swinging naturally. Do not clench your fists. Or your ass, for that matter.

 

7) Shoes

Dream about the day you can afford Manolo’s. Then take your fine ass down to the store and make sure you score a sexy, sturdy heel that will support your weight. The more money you can drop, the better. Same goes for the softness of leather. Sale season is gold. And if you must, sneak down to Holt Renfrew and slide your un-pedicured feet into a $700 pair of MBs for a treat.