The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

live in the lost February 22, 2010

Filed under: Art,Culture & Society,Manifesto — MP*erron @ 1:32 am

77 Yoko Ono Hair Pieces, Corina Kennedy

Emily Shanahan & Corina Kennedy

Liminal, fragmented, disconnected. Live in the lost sandwiches existence between the past and the present, alluding to a cultivated nostalgia that is made intelligent by distance. As a whole, the exhibition questions what it is to be present, complete, missing.

From the classical references in Shanahan’s study, to the avant-garde perdu in Kennedy’s 77 Yoko Ono Hair Pieces, the work moves through a non-linear timeline and carries into each era a notion of the fractured; many of the pieces fail to be complete in the traditional sense, and although selected pieces appear to form clusters in time, there is no overarching progression to define the experience. What then begins to appear is a hint of time – more specifically the “past” – as both here and gone, minus the measurement of how far gone, and how exactly here. The paradoxical imperative, live in the lost, becomes increasingly attainable; as the live (adjective) locates itself within that which has slipped away, it pulls the whole brouhaha within mind’s reach. And yet, the lost here is not exclusively temporal.

As one examines individual pieces, the pattern becomes prominent. Things are missing here. Limbs, faces, life – even Yoko Ono. The art, then, becomes a study of what constitutes a whole; and the question of whether life is carried on in the severed appendages teases the viewer.

Shanahan especially investigates this theme. Many of her classical inspired paintings feature statuesque figures and sculptural renditions from which key parts have been removed. Crumbled and eroded by time; or broken off by the artist? Both possibilities are entertained as one moves through the analogous representation of representation. Within this dialogue, an exploration of horror and darkness begins to emerge. The duo Head of Alexander and Head of Athena flatten and wash out once corporeal sculptures. The result: eerie and vacant glimpses into celebrated mythology. The disembodiment, then, becomes symbolic rather than incidental.

On another level, Nyx, Seer, Cupid #4 and Cupid #5 introduce a philosophical exploration of the void. Rich with dark, glossy strokes, this group of paintings pushes meaning forward from obscurity. Seer mirrors the disfiguring fear of Munch’s The Scream with blurred intentionality. Put into context by the surrounding theme of time, it gains a sickening sense of anxiety in the face of death. Paired together on a single wall, Cupid #4 and Cupid #5 enter into a charged exchange: the limbless #4 appears to emerge from a swirl of black, the headless #5 to retract into one.

Independently of these pieces, the video installation Six Minute Vanitas invites spectators to strap on headphones, turn their backs to the gallery, and meditate on death and the nature of transience. Contrary to the traditional stasis of the genre, Shanahan’s version employs technology, light play, sound and, delightfully, the human breath, to engage with the symbolism of the featured objects. A cow skull is framed by flickering candles – which are later extinguished – and adorned with plastic flowers. The limited life of the candles, imitated life of the flowers, and intimated life of the skull posits a modern eloquence in the execution of the vanitas, which is furthered by the chosen medium. And while the six minute clip suggests brevity and constraints, its cycling ad infinitum captures transience perhaps more accurately than the original model.

If Shanahan is concerned with enabling discourse between the classical and contemporary, Kennedy reconfigures the iconic. An interest in the fragmented is present alongside an investment in the effects of repetition, both acutely addressed in the aforementioned 77 Yoko Ono Hair Pieces. The sprawling arrangement is comprised of 77 black and white paintings on identical blocks of wood, forming a seemingly random pattern, the result of which is a rather arresting checkerboard portrait of that very famous hair. Individually, the pieces vary in texture, ratio, and complexity. Some are simple – nearly entirely black or white, unintriguing in their monotony. Others are complex to the point of creating optical illusions, poetic in their rendition. Together they challenge identity and the absolute, playing with the multiplicity that constitutes the individual and, cleverly, hair.

On a distant wall, AHair APart teases the memory of the hair pieces. Separate from the others, yet similar in style, this one stands a hair apart, so to speak, and yet, without the reference suggested by the previous work, entirely different, unidentifiable, mysterious. Barely resembling hair, upon closer inspection, the painting yields a humorous clue: the sweeping black is separated by what, in the hair world, is known universally as a part.

Kennedy’s paintings often take on a haunting quality that remains like an imprint upon the eye. From the first work encountered – a soft, wallpaper inspired vase whose flowers blur and bleed into the background – to the bizarre The Ambassador Inn – the exhibition literature offers another clue, and the answer it seems, is also in the wallpaper – color is muted, shaded, and layered, often having an otherworldly effect. Often the allusions in her work must be deciphered, at othertimes they seem private.

Glazed Girl is set apart from the other pieces by its ethereal eeriness and penetrating skill. At once zombie and flower child, the subject is rendered in wispy and hazy colors: across her belly stretches a gauziness that is suggestive of a womb into which we may peer, and flowers imprint a halo behind flowing hair that frames a hauntingly vacant face. In a collection of work that shows Kennedy’s skilled hand, Glazed Girl is exciting because it clearly pierces an entirely other level. This is the kind of coveted early work that will one day appear in a retrospective and garner marvel at its concentrated innocence and sophistication. Marianne Perron, 2010.


Warren G. Flowers Art Gallery, Dawson College, 4001 de Maisonneuve Ouest, through February 27.

 

From firings to hirings that should occur merely to fire me July 10, 2009

Filed under: Manifesto,Work — Meagan Burbidge @ 6:03 pm

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing you this particular letter in response to your particular job posting because the futile caliber of my previous cover letters has proved itself to be insuperable and has thusly resulted in the following paragraphs.

I have spent over a year applying to literally thousands of employment opportunities (that never initially articulate the necessity for one to work without their clothing), with the information (concomitant with a positive, outgoing and homogeneous comportment) as follows:

i) I attended courses and was awarded a Bachelor’s Degree from the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor; an institution considered, by some, to be as laudable as various Ivy League institutions, yet about as meritorious as a PhD from the Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in conjunction with my current circumstances.

ii) With over ten years in the workforce, I have the ability to speak clearly and politely to customers and clients, answer telephones and cashier with kindness and enthusiasm, multitask, and alphebetize.

iii) In regards to my technological capabilities, I have the capacity to read, write, type, answer more than one telephone line, use Microsoft Office applications (including Word, Excel, Outlook, Entourage, PowerPoint, Access, and Solitaire), and Adobe Creative Suite (including Photoshop, Illustrator, Premiere, FinalCut Pro, InDesign and GoLive), make a copy, fax a document and file.

iv) I can also take notes, schedule a flight with one airline and arrange a connecting flight with a completely different airline to whichever destination one is so inclined to arrive at, schedule multiple meetings and various appointments in the same day or specified time frame, order lunches, order dinners, make reservations, pick up or send out items requiring laundering, pick up caffeinated or acai-infused beverages, withstand the not-so-sunny disposition of others, refrain from the use of Facebook in the span of a traditional or nontraditional workday, manage a bank account, set up a new bank account, place phone calls to individuals one may desire to speak with and subsequently transfer the line over to an entirely different telephone, decipher semi-legible handwriting, play a mediocre rendition of Chopin’s Prelude in Eb minor on the piano, recite countless lines from a collection of Audrey Hepburn films, and prepare a lovely bed of field greens in sauce vinaigrette with haricots vert and goat cheese timbales.

This is most likely not the most opportune time to apologize for the substance of this letter. However, the prefatory phrase “In this economy…” has grown simply ineffectual in terms of remedial justifications. At the very least, if you have happened to reach this point of such detrital, ill-advised rancor, I have accomplished a brief, yet unexpected juxtaposition to the four hundred or more letters that undoubtedly mirror what I should have sent you, as I vacuously relish in the gratification of having for one day earned your disregard in contrast to merely obtaining it.

Thank you so much for any time you may have spent on this and I will be certain to prepare any fast foods or coffees with the best of care should we ever meet in the future.

Warm Regards and Best Wishes in your search for a truly applicable applicant,
Meagan Burbidge

 

Poison Pen Letter to a Barbecue June 12, 2009

Filed under: Advertising,Etiquette,Manifesto,Signage — Tragically Unhip Staff @ 2:53 pm

 

Picture 3

 

Dear Weber® Q® 140 Outdoor Electric Grill’s advertising agency,

 

Thank you so much for ripping off the logo created for The Tragically Unhip by totally awesome graphic designer Laura F. Cline in August 2008.  Now that your billboards are all over Manhattan and your GIF ads are being e-blasted into the inboxes of all Flavorpill subscribers, you should have been raising our profile as the little blog that could, but instead we seem to have gone as an uncredited source of your design team’s inspiration. I hope that you’ve at least shared our URL around your impossibly sleek and modern SoHo digs so that the account managers and marketing team could read and benefit from our unhip humour. But should ever you require the services of a few brilliant, tongue-in-cheek writers, do inquire within.

 

Yours respectfully,

 

The Tragically Unhip

 

Picture 4

 

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.)

 

Post-Its as Death Threats April 1, 2009

Filed under: Culture & Society,Etiquette,Manifesto,Signage — Laurin McNiff @ 6:20 pm

3383967606_e95c523e6d

 

Some of you may think that I’ve fallen off the grid or that I’ve eloped with a nice girl to an island with blue waters, tiki torches, and neverending alcohol. Unfortunately, that type of vacation will have to come later, because right now I’m basking in the warm and ecstatic comfort of Vicodin and homemade spaghetti that I probably won’t even be able to eat due to a recent trip to the dentist’s chair. I’m at my parents’ place in Maryland’s fabulous Eastern Shore: home of blue crabs, the Chesapeake, restaurants called The Red Roost, and other assorted wonders of half-country/half-beach living.

 

You might be wondering how I’m enjoying my stay thus far. I can happily report that there is still alcohol in the house and enough food to make me create my very own eating disorder. (Although it would seem I already have a drinking disorder, however.) Truth be told, I miss New York. I miss the hedonistic parties I find myself perpetually partaking in and documenting, I miss the Brooklyn bar-hopping, and I miss ingesting such strange and appetizing drinks as Pickle Backs. However, one thing I realized I did miss about Maryland is the incredible clarity of the stars at night. It’s also a welcome change to sit outside with a cigarette and not hear gunshots, incessant horn honking, or the same damn drum beat blaring from some tricked out shitwagon speeding down my residential street. Ah, Brooklyn.

 

But I have readers to entertain and I’m sure you already suspected that there is a whiskey and coke keeping me company as I write this. With that said, I would like to tell you about a site out there on the interwebs that has had me laughing more times than a few. I can’t really remember why I haven’t posted this sooner; could be a number of reasons, blackout being the most likely. So without further ado, I link you to Passive Aggressive Notes, a site declaring itself as “painfully polite and hilariously hostile writings from shared spaces the world over.” This claim doesn’t disappoint, its content comprised of submissions from readers from all over the world, taking photos of public notes (slash tell-offs) like ”Your stairs think you’re fat“ and my personal favorite: ”Any 17 year olds who thinks they are the man of the house needs a psych eval.” These sassy notes are the complete antitheses to the friendly notes that Craig and Chris have been posting around their respective towns (and subsequently warring over, as I reported here).

 

Reading the passive-aggressive notes brings back memories of my own office wars. My last job was at a staffing firm in Midtown, where we shared office space with the famed Beau Deitl and a law firm that will go nameless due to its incredibly immature (even by middle school standards) staff. What I remember most fondly is the Milk War. My co-worker Priscilla and I had a decent working relationship: we freaked out over deadlines and staffing requirements, and had a habit of making fun of everything and anyone (even our COO was fair game). One morning, Priscilla went to the kitchen and used some milk from the communal fridge for her cereal. This milk was obviously for the employees because I can’t imagine any one person buying five cartons each of fat free, skim, whole, and half and half out of their generous, beating little hearts.

 

Priscilla ate her cereal and we went about our day. Later that afternoon, when we went back to the kitchen to refill our water, we stumbled upon a huge, new note pasted onto the refrigerator door: “Milk is for COFFEE ONLY“. Priscilla immediately went to Duane Reade and bought her own carton of 2% milk and labeled it with her name in the fridge.

 

The next day, her milk was frozen solid. I can’t tell you how amazed and shocked we were that someone had spitefully put it in the freezer, but I can tell you that it sparked our office’s Milk War. Every chance we got, we’d go into that kitchen and take milk, sometimes with enormous flair, even if we didn’t drink milk. It got so bad that the kitchen staff began hiding the milk. We never knew where they were hiding it or if they were just taking the milk home, but we knew they were serious. Eventually, the office manager had to create a separate fridge for Beau Dietl and ourselves, because even people who were not involved in our direct assault were getting their hands slapped (literally!) for using milk for other purposes than coffee.

 

The length of this war? Six whole months.

 

25 Random Things About The Tragic Unhipsters March 7, 2009

Filed under: Manifesto — Tragically Unhip Staff @ 1:26 pm

Yeah, don’t lie; you know what this post is about. It’s that totally self-indulgent Facebook note that everybody and their mother is doing these days and tagging their friends in. Our friend the Yuppie Activist went so far as to create a Best Of compilation using some of her Facebook friends’ admissions, inserting her snarky comments underneath them in bold. We, on the other hand, have decided instead to just submit to this guilty pleasure and do the “25 Random Things” list ourselves so that you can get to know us, your favourite prophets of Unhipness, a little better.

 

 

About Brooke (Montreal, QC):

 

1. I abhor celebrity worship, yet am helplessly, shamelessly addicted to reality TV and Perez Hilton.

2. The first thing I do when I get home is take off my pants. I hate pants.

3. I think that to spend too much time mocking, criticizing or hating on a trend or idea is kind of the same as perpetuating/subscribing to it.  It doesn’t make you better than the thing you hate, it just makes you annoying.

4. If I truly value our friendship or find you entertaining enough to be around, I’ll never hold a grudge. Even if you insult my momma, give me a week and we’ll probably still be cool in my book. Life’s too short and I ain’t got time to hate everyone who’s ever done me wrong in some small way.

 

 

About Elli (Toronto, ON):

 

5. I’ve accepted the fact that I will most likely grow up to collect divorces the way other people collect action figures.

6. I don’t match my socks. Ever. I really can’t be bothered. 

7. I hate when my professors use the phrase “in the real world…”. It seems to imply that the last 19 years of my life have been conducted in some alternate world and that my graduation will consist of stepping out of the magic portal inside my wardrobe.

8. I eat curry nine days a week.

 

 

About Genevieve (New York, NY):

 

9. Interesting facts about my mouth: I have no tonsils, I can lick my nose, and I have half a fake front tooth because I chipped it on a beer bottle when I was 15. (Like all good writers-in-training, I spent the majority of ages 14 to 20 completely hammered.)

10. I appeared in a reality TV show that aired all across Canada in 2003 and in a documentary short in 2006. Both performances earned me a grand total of three recognitions by strangers on the streets of Montreal. Contrarily, in New York nobody knows who the heck I am.

11. Celebrities I’ve been told I look like, despite the fact that none of them resemble each other: Stacy London from What Not to Wear, Anne Hathaway, Amélie Poulin, Nelly Furtado, and Tori Spelling (?!).

12. This article really pissed me off and made me glad that I no longer live in Quebec. Conversely, it is commercials like these that make me kind of sad I left.

 

 

 About Meagan (New York, NY):

 

13. I hate stickers.  Loathe them, actually.  Pricetags, star stickers for utilizing the bathroom correctly, smelly cornstarch-coated stickers—all of ‘em.  I just can’t help imagining them on the bottom of my shoes or in my hair or between my teeth.  Bleck.  I justify this by an identical response that a friend of mine had experienced with the nature of cotton balls.  These elements are not to be trusted.

14. I do not comprehend all this Animal Collective business/noise/mayhem.  Really.  Simply can’t retain it at all.  I could hear/read/smell something about it for generations and could neither reiterate nor remember what just occurred.

15. I think that I overdosed on decent films.  I used to be incredibly particular (alright, let’s call a spade pretentious) about this commitment that I had made to watch one film a day and did pretty well.  Example: I have by 4 counts attempted to watch The Dark Knight and Slumdog Millionaire and somehow ended up spending each occasion watching Someone Like You with Ashley Judd, Picture Perfect with Jennifer Aniston and Kevin Bacon, American Psycho 2 with the little broad from That 70′s Show, Wimbledon with Kirsten Dunst, and What a Girl Wants with Amanda Bynes (for at least the 35th time, hands down).  Just as people are certain that you can only have “x” many orgasms or drinks in your life, I can only have “x” so many decent films and I have hit my quota.

 

 

About Laurin (New York, NY):

 

16. I had Scarlet Fever when I was younger.

17. Collectively, I have worked as the following: Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer, Bartender, Suicide Hotline Operator, Office Administrator, and IT Recruiter.

18. I was born in Louisiana close to the gulf. There were days we couldn’t go outside because alligators were sunning on our neighbor’s driveway.

19. I still want to spend the day with someone at the airport arrivals gate so we can watch everyone coming home.

 

 

About Sofia (Montreal, QC):

 

20. I tried raw foodism from January to April 2008. It was a great experience, but I found it really hard to deal with the peer pressure. In the end, food is just as social as alcohol.

21. My family lives in Morocco.

22. I love DJ-ing at my friends’ parties, but am very self-conscious about what I’m playing and what image it gives of me to others.

 

 

About Kimberly (Montreal, QC):

 

23. As a child, I had horrible insomnia and nightmares about heavy sticks falling on white pillows that would cause me to stay up, watching 20/20 and other television shows that just gave me more nightmares.

24. I went to Rome and actually forgot to go to the Sistine Chapel. 

25. I am a malapropism and mispronunciation queen (but I’ll roll my eyes at your bad grammar).

26. (Bonus!) I am a compulsive crier. Everything and anything makes me cry: from my elementary school graduation to So You Think You Can Dance finalists.

 

Strictly Forbidden: Kijiji HATES Fun February 14, 2009

Filed under: Advertising,Manifesto,Shopping — Brooke D. @ 3:54 pm

Phew! Wow….I sure have been busy writing lately!! What with all the food, art, and music reviews; travelogues; memoirs; photo essays; clever daily observations; snarky social commentary; and assertions of unhipness, I feel like I’ve been contributing to society on a pretty consistent basis, all while being a great team player for this very blog!

 

PSYCHE. Just kidding.

 

I’ve been holed up in my dark apartment writing and posting Craigslist and Kijiji ads 24 hours a day for the past three weeks.  Mostly because I am broke and also because Craigslist and Kijiji are like the poor man’s (or Tragically Unhip) Facebook.  I stalk, I flag, I’m obsessed.

 

I have also perfected the art of the repost.  As you may or may not know, Craigslist and Kijiji will kill your mother for reposting the same thing over and over to “top” your ad.  Jerks.  Therefore, I have been forced to finely tune my writing tactics in order to evade their stupid restrictions and  completely flood both sites with desperate advertisements for useless crap.  I see this as an exercise in Creative Writing for Commercial Appeal. (Yes, I just made that up. No, you cannot use it unless you pay me mad royalties.) A thesaurus, if I had one, would have also come in handy, but in times like these who the hell would spend money on a dumb book? Anyway, what is posted once as “Vintage” in Montreal is reposted as “Retro” in Parc Extension, etc.  Also, listing one thing in the title and including keywords for other stuff in the body works too… tricky.

 

Example:

Search for a Drink Mixer and you will find exactly 10 completely unrelated ads all by me!! Mwaaahahahahhha…Victory!!!

 

world domination

 

Easy, right? WRONG! This is actually quite exhausting and labor intensive when you factor in the time it takes to photograph each item (taking into consideration appropriate lighting and backdrops); edit photos; upload photos; write ads; edit ads; enter titles, photos, emails, phone numbers; skillfully solve the often poetic “Captcha” puzzles; agree to terms; confirm email addresses, and finally publish each ad.

 

I managed to post 90 (yes, NINETY; I told you I was obsessed) different ads between the two sites, in categories ranging from clothes and furniture to DVDs and appliances for basically all the same crap, before actually getting busted for attempting to repost.

 

Kijiji red alerted (not a real phrase) one ad and sent me this List of Restricted Items, telling me that I had violated their terms by posting ads for one or more of the following Restricted Items, but not specifying which:

(I’ve highlighted the really good ones so you can just kind of skim them; we’re almost done, I promise.)

 

* Alcoholic Beverages

* Baby Walkers

* Blood, Bodily Fluids and Body Parts (What. The. FUCK. Why not? I mean, if I don’t need my kidney and am asking a fair price/O.B.O.)

* Burglary Tools (Which would be totally sweet.)

* Counterfeit Currency, Stamps or Coins

* Counterfeit Products

* Electronic Surveillance Equipment deigned or used primarily to illegally intercept/record the private actions or interactions of others without their knowledge or permission

* Embargoed Goods

* Escort or Accompanying Services

* Government and Transit Uniforms, IDs and Licenses

* Illegal Drugs & Drug Paraphernalia (You mean I can’t buy crack rocks on Kijiji? WTF?!)

* Illegal Services

* Hazardous Materials

* Fireworks, Destructive Devices and Explosives (So I can’t list my red faux alligator shoulder bag as EXPLOSIVEly awesome?)

* Identity Documents, Personal Financial Records & Personal Information in any form, including mailing lists

* Items which encourage or facilitate Illegal Activity (Hmmm…a little help here?)

* Lottery Tickets, Sweepstakes Entries and Slot Machines

* Massage Services (Heh heh. “Massage”.)

* Obscene Material and Child Pornography (SHIT! I have so much of that stuff to get rid of!)

* Offensive Material (Not at all subjective.)

* Pesticides

* Pictures or Images that Contain Nudity

* Police Badges and Uniforms

* Prescription Drugs and Devices

* Prostitution or Ads that Offer Sex, Sexual Favours or Sexual Actions in Exchange for Money

* Recalled Items

* Satellite Products that Violate the Radiocommunication Act

* Sexual Services, including camming

* Solicitation of other users except by placing an Ad

* Stocks and Other Securities

* Stolen Property

* Tobacco Products

* Used Cosmetics (Darn…I ‘ve been looking for lipstick that perfect hue of Herpes for FOREVER!)

* Weapons and Related Items, such as firearms, firearm parts and magazines, ammunition, BB and pellet guns, tear gas, stun guns, switchblade knives, and martial arts weapons (What if it’s a “Vintage” or “Retro” I.E.D., hand grenade, rapier, etc.?)

 

This is really disappointing, I mean how can they hate FUN so much? Plus, I have a huge collection of films made with illegal surveillance equipment of massage therapists with fake identity documents violating the Radiocommunication Act and scratching off lotto tickets. It’s pretty hot stuff; I guess I’ll have to set up shop elsewhere.

 

Thanks for nothing Kijiji.

 

Auto-Obituary No. 3 December 17, 2008

Filed under: Manifesto — Meagan Burbidge @ 1:51 pm

SEPTEMBER 3rd 2008 – West Bloomfield, MI – Of Michigan, Meagan: known to [contractually] close friends as ‘Meagan’; Stunt double for various television personalities and characters (typically anything with interesting dancing—in her kitchen mostly); Consumer of cheese products; Reader of Television Guide and the Williams-Sonoma Catalogue, died September 2nd, 2008 from complications due to long-term displacement in Brooklyn, New York.

 

Meagan of Michigan is survived by her mother, Elizabeth, her brother, Hermano, her beagle, Orwell, her friend, Mme. Lindsey K. Yeo, her neighbor Mike, her shoe racks, an unnecessary and rarely-used compost heap contraption in the backyard, and the West Bloomfield Board of Zoning Appeals Chairman (’til 2010!) Corinne Khederian.

 

Meagan of Michigan’s childhood was a simple one, but happy. Most days were spent applying rhinestones and sequins to her badminton racquets, while sharpening the ends for more aggressive tournaments. Summers were spent superimposing the top-halves of Electric Light Orchestra members onto automobile sketches to look like futuristic Robot-Centaurs. Holidays were spent microwaving marshmallows and mailing Snoopy valentines to registered sex offenders in her neighborhood.

 

Meagan of Michigan would later attend Harvard, Yale, and Brown for brief periods in her life, each enrollment hastily revoked when faculty came to understand that she was not, in fact, Black. To every naysayer’s surprise, she got into Lansing Community College and showed ‘em all.

 

The family of the Deceased has requested that, despite the incapacitating woe and in between the unrelenting despair, the thoroughly-distraught Bereaved be sure to observe Better Breakfast Month and donate substantially to the National Pediculosis Prevention Society, in lieu of flowers.  Meagan of Michigan’s final request was to please remember to forward all her mail to her new address in Brooklyn, lest she have to log into every account and make individual changes to every one of her credit cards.

 

Meagan of Michigan’s memory lives on in our hearts and on the tips of our tongues. Also in wildly impressive articles in world-renowned publications, several of G-Unit’s rap lyrics, and the “Celebrities: They’re Just Like Us!” pages of US Weekly.

 

Michigan will never be the same. September was officially a Month of Loss. Bed-Stuy, meanwhile, just got a whole lot Whiter.

 

Dear Bar St. Laurent (An Open Love Letter) December 16, 2008

Filed under: Booze,Hipster Culture,Manifesto,Music,Nightlife — Brooke D. @ 6:16 pm

Dear Bar St. Laurent,

 

I know we just met and haven’t known each other long, but I wanted to discuss something really important with you (out of pure love and sincere concern for your well-being). We have some mutual friends and I plan on visiting from time to time, but you guys gotta step up your game. Seriously.

 

Last Sunday I stopped by to check out Cresting and Postcards. I was instantly charmed by your impossibly large bottles of beer (the fastest way to this girl’s heart), free pool, super-friendly sound guy, and the amazing lineup. (OK, one guy is my roommate and the others I’d never heard of, but still.) And, of course, zero cover at the door is always a good way to start any long-term, committed relationship.

 

Granted, the sun seems to set around noon these days and everyone has started hunkering down for the long winter ahead, but you’ve got the capacity to accommodate the population of a small country—yet virtually every barstool and chair was conspicuously empty. The entrepreneur in me immediately began brainstorming grand PR schemes I would have employed to promote the show because I’m a capitalist and it’s fun. If you need me to stand on the street wearing a sandwich board and ringing bells, I’ll do it. For a dollar.

 

Another thing: You kind of smell like lemon Lysol. I’m all for personal hygiene, but it’s a little overwhelming. Like the kid in 8th grade who doused himself in Cool Water,  leaving distinct trails of cheap cologne in the hallways. It’s a bit much.

 

Lastly, and most importantly, who are you kidding by charging a whole dollar for Galaga!? C’mon. That’s just plain extortion. And a little insulting. Considering I suck royally and it’s humiliating enough to announce to your friends at the bar that you’re off to Conquer The Universe only to return 45 seconds later, I really don’t need to pay a dollar to lose my dignity. A quarter, maybe.

 

That said, the show was great (the sound crisp and clear even in the vacuously empty space) and I’ll be back, lured if only by your delicious grosses bières. I haven’t given up on you yet; what self-respecting hipster would turn her back on a decidedly unhip bar to hang out in? Isn’t it our job to foresake other crowded, more popular, mainstream venues?

 

The era of legit dive bars is fast coming to an end, with every hole in the wall quickly becoming popularized for its cheap beer, rude bartenders, adolescent bathroom graffiti, and tragically (un)hip patrons. It happened to Little Joy and Mars Bar. It could happen here. So just don’t go getting too cool on me, Bar St. Laurent.

 

Love, ME.

 

First Things First December 14, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Hipster Culture,Manifesto — Brooke D. @ 8:24 am

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 think I’m a hipster.

 

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.

 

Hearts, Brooke

 

Pterodactyls = Not Dinosaurs November 24, 2008

Filed under: Etiquette,Language,Manifesto — Poppa John @ 11:24 pm

I’m tired of people calling pterodactyls “dinosaurs.” They are simply a flying, prehistoric reptile. There is a large model of a pteranodon hanging in the middle of my living room. My absent-minded friend (whose name I shall spare from ridicule) falsely and loudly proclaimed “nice ‘saur, dude” when he first visited my domicile.

 

After choking back my own bile, I questioned him: Did he see FEET on this particular reptile? Did the pteranodon have access to a regenerative chiropractor that could grant it the specific upright stance needed to be considered a dinosaur?

 

No, I scoff, it did not.  Heck, while we’re at it, why not call turtles, Martha Stewart, and plesiosaurs dinosaurs, too. They are all cold-blooded and old.

 

All I ask is that my friends do a little research before making such offhanded comments. Dumbasses.

 

Cheap Beer Showdown – PBR vs. 50 November 14, 2008

Filed under: Booze,Hipster Culture,Manifesto — Poppa John @ 1:38 pm

 

picture-22I totally thought that Pabst Blue Ribbon got its name by winning a blue ribbon in some sort of beer contest. The beer company claims that this contest took place in 1893, possibly because they thought we would be too young and drunk to bother looking up beer contest records dating that far back. This urban legend, however, is not true. The beer was named “Blue Ribbon” because the bottle used to be adorned with an actual blue ribbon, tied around its bottleneck, at one point in its production—or at least that’s how the story goes on PBR’s Wiki. Before my educational visit to Wikipedia, and under false assumptions, drinking PBR would allow me to launch one of my favorite wisecracks: “It didn’t win a blue ribbon for nothing!” That quip was gold! It was one of the reasons I drank PBR, even though it’s nasty beer.

 

 

picture-12As a result, Labatt 50 has taken the lead in my personal cheap beer showdown because of the combination of colours on its label. It’s also quite a palatable beer, but that’s besides the point. When I bring up my fondness for 50′s color scheme, someone usually retorts “it’s too Christmas-y.” I have no response to this observation, and I find this very annoying. With its clear, bold flavour and blue-collar history, I could really care less about its similarities to the colours of Christmas. Besides, there’s nothing particularly Christmas-y about green, gold and red anyway. Granted, trees may be green and tinsel may be gold, but red? Is it supposed to represent Rudolph’s nose? Blood?

 

 

At any rate, Labatt 50: 1, Pabst Blue Ribbon: 0.
I don’t like being misled, Pabst! Win a blue ribbon sometime and we’ll talk.

 

For The Love of Garbage October 5, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Etiquette,Manifesto — Kimberly Senf @ 1:45 am
Very feng shui (Photo by Kimberlily)

Very feng shui. (Photo by Kimberlily)

 

On my way to the metro this afternoon I happened upon a sight I’ve seen one too many times and done nothing about: garbage sitting on the curb when there ain’t no truck coming. Well, I won’t be silent about my discontent anymore. Who can possibly think that it’s acceptable to leave any sort of trash (and today it was a toilet) sitting in their front yard to wait days for the garbage men to haul it away? There’s no reason why toilets, soiled carpets and mattresses need to be put on display for the whole neighbourhood to see.

 

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve left my fair share of discarded possessions outside my apartment come moving day, but they have always been in decent condition and they’ve never lasted more than a couple of hours on the street. From tea sets to school books, people have taken everything I’ve left up for grabs. But no one has any interest in the toilet from 1987 that’s seen better days—unless it’s to take a picture of it in order to complain about how your neighbours treat your street like a rubbish bin, which is exactly what I decided to do. This girl likes her streets sunny, green, and without a toilet on display, thank you very much.

 

Taking a Stand for Secondhand September 5, 2008

Filed under: Fashion,Manifesto,Shopping — Meghan Best @ 5:09 pm

Here in the U.K. we have high streets. These are mostly made up of chain stores like Topshop and such, various £1 emporiums, and a decent sprinkling of charity shops. Now, while you over there in America have your Goodwills, Value Villages and Salvation Army’s, we, on the other hand, have an endless spate of sad-looking, dusty-windowed shops supporting every uncomfortable situation known to man and the animal world.

 

These shops used to be littered with bargains made up of pretty, pleated old lady dresses, jewel-coloured wool winter coats and fantastic leather bags (often with a free clean handkerchief!). I used to feel bad that these beautiful garments had survived for decades when I could ruin them in two weekends with fag burns and lip gloss stains.

 

But this guilty feeling hasn’t arisen in the past few years, as U.K charity shops are not quite cutting the mustard anymore. I recently went to a village in Derbyshire to try and find some thrifty gems. Going out of town is often more fruitful because London shop owners tend to be more eBay-savvy/giddy than their village counterparts. However, I was severely disappointed on my weekend trip to Derbyshire; the chazzies were saturated with last season’s Primark clothing.

 

Primark has shops on nearly every major high street, selling similar stuff to H&M, but at half the price and across 10 colourways. Primark used to be good. In 2000, whilst it was undergoing its tranformation, you could have a mooch around and find gems costing one-sixth of a Topshop equivalent. Then, gradually, Vogue started featuring Primark’s items here and there, and by 2004 it was the pièce de résistance of the British high street, peaking in 2007 with its Oxford Street store opening.

 

Nowadays on a Saturday, young girls stride the high streets laden with brown paper Primark bags brimming with £20 worth of cheap dross. They proceed to wear these items once—maybe never at all—and then fill their heart with that warm, gooey feeling by donating their cast-offs to their charity shop of choice.

 

This is insane! I do not want to buy a shrunken secondhand top with half its sequins missing for £4, especially when Primark was selling it three months ago for £5. Alas, I am worried about the future of our charity shops. Good quality vintage goods are much harder to find these days, and charity shops have difficulty selling these garments, which will ultimately end up in landfill. The U.K population needs to go back to investing in well-made garments, using quality fabrics, rather than spending the same amount on cheap, fickle trends.

 

why nick cave rocks my socks August 30, 2008

Filed under: Manifesto,Music — MP*erron @ 5:42 pm

Have you seen him dance? Who else can keep a needle in the arm and a finger on the zeitgeist while grooving his skinny white booty like Mr. Cave?  Add a delightful duet (not to mention torrid love affair) with the sensually tortured PJ Harvey, a slew of murder ballads, and the fact that he’s the only white man to portray Stagger Lee as a bad motherfucker who’ll “crawl over fifty good pussies just to get to one fat boy’s asshole” and get away with it. Clean or dirty, the man is a lyrical genius. Read his rants about the muse, god, and love; watch this video; and weep for love lost, Lady Lazarus.