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 expos� 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 pass�.� Oh, don�t flay me! I merely jest!)