2004-04-15

I’ve recently adopted an anti-shoe stance when it comes to work. Yeah, that’s right – fuck shoes! You heard me. I spend my mornings shuffling around the office in my stocking feet, all bleary-eyed and makeup-less, brandishing my five-gallon mug of green tea like a ceramic shield against reality. I just don’t care anymore: I’ve got seven weeks left here (!), and it’s far too late to reap any potential benefit from professional decorum. In fact, I’m thinking of adopting an anti-pants stance. Mostly because I want to say “anti-pants stance” as often as possible. The Anti-Pants Stance! It’s the brand new dance! That comes from France!

This morning I discovered, like the slow-witted Cro Magnon throwback that I am, that the flared collar of my favourite new cardigan can be zipped up into a turtleneck. Wonder of wonders! Bell sleeves and a turtleneck collar? I’ve died and gone to stripey-cardigan heaven! My fixation on cardigan sweaters is verging on unhealthy. And that’s the Clothing (or Anti-Clothing) News for April 15, 2004, folks. Tune in tomorrow for an in-depth exposé of the Great ‘Spring Jacket’ Debacle.

Last night I had the misfortune of being out on the streets during the victorious post-sporting-event bar purge. Apparently some local team? Won something? Or something? Such is my knowledge of the world of professional sport. As such, the whole phenomenon of hanging out a car window and bellowing like a rutting walrus after your team wins an important “match” or what-have-you is beyond my kenning. Um, did you win the game, sir? Were you actually on the ice, or carrying a stick of any description during said event? No? Well, perhaps you had placed a financial wager on the game? No again? Well then, please to shut the fuck up. You don’t get anything when the “Sens” win. The “Sens” themselves don’t give a fuck how many twee little flags you have adorning your Dodge Ram. And Toronto, sadly, is not subject to any quantifiable ill effect following the defeat of the “Leafs.” Ergo, screaming “SENS RULE!” at me as I walk down the street is illogical, not to mention annoying. I would have expressed my displeasure at the honking parade of neckless wonders, but I didn’t want to be mistaken for a disgruntled Leafs fan.

Making fun of sports fans is like shooting chimps in lab cages: unchallenging, and not a little redundant. I know this, and I apologize. I promise to find more creative outlets for my epicurean superciliousness in future. (Like, “What’s up with Tom Robbins readers? That self-consciously whimsical ersatz magical realism is so passé.” Oh, don’t flay me! I merely jest!)