It’s the end of Oct. A time of ghouls and goblins. A time of warmer jackets and pumped up heaters. A time of, you guessed it, television. For as the leaves fall and the suns sets earlier, what’s more inviting than curling up on the couch with your remote?
Trouble is – where have all the good shows gone?
There are the handful of early cancellations, like Smith. And possibly Studio 60 (if it hasn’t happened already). Or the disappearing acts, like Kidnapped. The ones where they show us a marathon, then yank ‘er down. Poof! Gone. Like Prison Break. It disappeared after hooking us in with killing a-plenty, but at least that one’s back. Grey’s Anatomy? Come and gone. Not left-the-building gone – they’re treating us to repeats. Double whammy repeats. As if those who wanted to watch had missed the first couple of eps. Come on! Ditto for House. Why why why? Those who like ‘em, like ‘em a lot.
If you want to hook newbies, do the new/old combo platters. But don’t punish the rest of us. Or go the CSI/Law & Order route – flick and you’ll catch it ‘cuz it’s on all the time. That seems to be working with some new faves - Heroes, The Nine, Six Degrees. They seem to be on different times, or at least different channels, every week.
Will the real Thursday night please stand up?
Y’know, Thursday. It’s always been the best night of the week – for going out, obvo, but also for staying in. PVR or not, Thursday night was line-up night.
How’s a fan s’posed to be loyal? How’s a PVR s’posed to work? I asked you, what’s an addict to do? The only shows that seem consistent are Thursday stalwart Survivor – and who even watches that anymore – and newbie Ugly Betty. Both Thursday nighters to be sure, but hardly worthy of line-up status on their own. Besides, you need 3 shows for Line-Up. Otherwise, it’s just back-to-back. And that’s a Sunday thing.
Once upon a time, Sunday was nearly the new Thursday. It had Arrested Development, Desperate Housewives and Grey’s. But the braniacs ditched smart funny, moved medical and left us with Desperadoes and Studio 60 (which if it stay on, also airs Monday).
So does that make Monday the new Thursday? Prison Break, 24 (as of Jan) and Studio 60 if-you-missed it. Nope, ‘cuz Studio 60 is too clever clever and will be gone soon. Friday Night Lights isn’t bad, but will it stay on Mondays or be moved? It really should be on –duh - Fridays.
Tuesdays are good. And Wednesday too. But no triple-threats. Donnie and Marie used to be Friday specials. And even last year loyal viewers were rewarded with Nip/Tuck. But not this year. Not in Canada. Which leaves us with Saturday. And puh-lease, is anybody watching on Saturday nights anymore? The lineup of yesteryear – Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Saturday Night Live – has gone to TV heaven (or, ahem, should be).
What’s left? TV thumb. The affliction which comes from the constant flipping around to find what you want, when you want (so you can record it and watch when you really want).
Maybe it’s a sign. Time to get off the couch. Time to get out of the house. And hit the Cinemas instead!
Friday, October 27, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
GO CHEAP OR GO HOME
Is cheap the new black?
Sexy, hip, flattering.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. But is cheap the new black?
Erm, not at Zara. Yeah, it's chic 'n cheap but it's also crap. And not in the disposable way Le Crapeau...I mean Le Chateau... is crap. We're talking ripped-while-still-on-the-hanger crap, as opposed to wear, tear, and toss crap. Oddly, their kids' line is not crap. Mind you, it ain't cheap. But it's stunning - especially for boys.
Ditto H &M. Awesome duds for the kids, but for ladies? Duds of a different kind. For this gal at least. Believe me, I've tried. But 'twas not to be. The fit, the fabric, or just the itch factor - there was always something a bit off.
Winners? Dirty. Old Navy? XXXXXL. Fairweather? Puh-lease. And the list goes on.
So I stuck with fancy. The supersoft shirts, yummy sweaters, perfect pants. All mine. For a price. A very hefty price. And y'know what I found? That a lot of the high end stuff was crap too! No sooner had I washed and worn than I'd find a little teeny tiny hole. Or a snag. Or an unravelled cuff or jagged hem. And don't get me started on cotton tees that start to ball. It's the worst.
But what's a fashion victim to do? Shelling out the big bucks didn't work. And the cheap and cheerful left me feeling anything but...
Until now.
There's a new kid in town. Let's call him Joe. For real. 'Cuz the place is called Joe Fresh and basically, it's clothes shopping at Loblaws.
WAIT!
Before you delete and think I must've completely lost my mind, read on. I actually debated sharing this dirty little secret. In fact, some friends kindly suggested I keep my mouth shut (at least until after they'd checked it out themselves). But alas loyal readers, you've earned it. You've shared my blog, you've liked my blog - you've actually read my blog! So here's a little tidbit for you.
Joe Fresh. As in Joe-who-used-to-own-Club-Monaco. As in the guy who got lured away by the kind folks at Loblaws. As in who the hell cares? You won't. Cred be damned! If you can get over the fact that it's, well, grocery shopping for fashion, you'll be glad that you did.
Housed in suburban Superstores and in the Old Caban space beside, yup, Loblaws, you will meet Joe Fresh. Nice, plain, simple. And did I mention, cheap? Tees for a tenner. Jeans under $30. And yoga pants and tops that fit and feel EXACTLY like your Lulus - but without the hefty price tag (pants are $29)(that's right, no type-o: $29)
AND not only are the clothes flattering - the sizes are somewhat generous too. So you can try on stretchy jeans and check out your butt - or thighs, or hips or calves - and marvel at the fact that you're wearing a size smaller than you thought. Who doesn't love that? Especially compared to all the fancy pants around that were definitely not designed for women of childbearing age. Paige Jeans excepted.
I got a bit carried away this morning: jeans, shirt, vest, sweater, and more. What with these prices...And the turnover is crazy fast as the stuff flies off the shelves...'Cuz at these prices... Finally, I do hear you, skeptics. It may all turn out to be more disposable fashion crap. Only time will tell. But again, at these prices...
Sexy, hip, flattering.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. But is cheap the new black?
Erm, not at Zara. Yeah, it's chic 'n cheap but it's also crap. And not in the disposable way Le Crapeau...I mean Le Chateau... is crap. We're talking ripped-while-still-on-the-hanger crap, as opposed to wear, tear, and toss crap. Oddly, their kids' line is not crap. Mind you, it ain't cheap. But it's stunning - especially for boys.
Ditto H &M. Awesome duds for the kids, but for ladies? Duds of a different kind. For this gal at least. Believe me, I've tried. But 'twas not to be. The fit, the fabric, or just the itch factor - there was always something a bit off.
Winners? Dirty. Old Navy? XXXXXL. Fairweather? Puh-lease. And the list goes on.
So I stuck with fancy. The supersoft shirts, yummy sweaters, perfect pants. All mine. For a price. A very hefty price. And y'know what I found? That a lot of the high end stuff was crap too! No sooner had I washed and worn than I'd find a little teeny tiny hole. Or a snag. Or an unravelled cuff or jagged hem. And don't get me started on cotton tees that start to ball. It's the worst.
But what's a fashion victim to do? Shelling out the big bucks didn't work. And the cheap and cheerful left me feeling anything but...
Until now.
There's a new kid in town. Let's call him Joe. For real. 'Cuz the place is called Joe Fresh and basically, it's clothes shopping at Loblaws.
WAIT!
Before you delete and think I must've completely lost my mind, read on. I actually debated sharing this dirty little secret. In fact, some friends kindly suggested I keep my mouth shut (at least until after they'd checked it out themselves). But alas loyal readers, you've earned it. You've shared my blog, you've liked my blog - you've actually read my blog! So here's a little tidbit for you.
Joe Fresh. As in Joe-who-used-to-own-Club-Monaco. As in the guy who got lured away by the kind folks at Loblaws. As in who the hell cares? You won't. Cred be damned! If you can get over the fact that it's, well, grocery shopping for fashion, you'll be glad that you did.
Housed in suburban Superstores and in the Old Caban space beside, yup, Loblaws, you will meet Joe Fresh. Nice, plain, simple. And did I mention, cheap? Tees for a tenner. Jeans under $30. And yoga pants and tops that fit and feel EXACTLY like your Lulus - but without the hefty price tag (pants are $29)(that's right, no type-o: $29)
AND not only are the clothes flattering - the sizes are somewhat generous too. So you can try on stretchy jeans and check out your butt - or thighs, or hips or calves - and marvel at the fact that you're wearing a size smaller than you thought. Who doesn't love that? Especially compared to all the fancy pants around that were definitely not designed for women of childbearing age. Paige Jeans excepted.
I got a bit carried away this morning: jeans, shirt, vest, sweater, and more. What with these prices...And the turnover is crazy fast as the stuff flies off the shelves...'Cuz at these prices... Finally, I do hear you, skeptics. It may all turn out to be more disposable fashion crap. Only time will tell. But again, at these prices...
Monday, October 09, 2006
OPRAH, MOVE OVER
Yes, I have hobbies other than television.
Yes, I am literate. Ahem. Quite, thank you.
Yes, I have taken to giving away my books.
And yes, I've ended up buying books I've read before.
What does all this mean? Why should you give a rat's ass? I'll tell you why. Because, at long last, I am giving the people what they want: the eagerly awaited, long anticipated, not imitated: MOAM BOOK CLUB.
I don't know why I wrote "not imitated". Book clubs are a dime a dozen. And many of you may have even read some of these winners. But not all of 'em. Besides, this is my answer to the oft asked "read any good books lately?".
The answer, a resounding YES.
So here, in no particular order, are my top picks for the past year. Give or take a couple of months. Most have been out for a while, 'cuz I like to wait for paperback. Not just because I'm cheap, but also, who wants to lug a hardcover book around? They're heavy, they're not great in bed, and they only look good on your bookshelves if you give a shit. And, as someone who's taken to giving my books away, I don't. So....
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. We need to talk about this book. We need to talk about Lionel Shriver (aside: she's a woman. Lionel. That's right.). She's also a genius. This is a chilling, twisted book about a high-school shooter. Told by the kid's mother. Those who are parents will be looking for signs of sociopathic tendencies in their own children. Those who are not will wonder if they should dare procreate. Kids these days...
A WOMAN IN BERLIN. An anonymous writer shares her memoirs from the fall of Berlin after the 2nd World War. It was, essentially, a rape-fest. This book was banned in Germany and only republished after the writer died. It's brutal. And it's excellent.
MAPS FOR LOST LOVERS. Nadeem Aslam. Set in a community of immigrants from the subcontinent who have moved to England in search of a better life. Culture clashes. East meets West. Old vs. new. Commnities on fire. Oh, and loves lost too. Not as melodramatic as I'm making it sound.
A BLADE OF GRASS. Lewis de Soto. Ditto. But this time it's White woman+ Black woman + unnamed Southern African country. Don't worry, it's NOT Cold Mountain. Way better. Way smarter. Way sadder.
CROSSING CALIFORNIA. I haven't forgotten you, boys. Adam Langer's spot on and hilarious coming-of-age novel set in the Chicago of the 70's. Especially funny if you lived it. And even funnier if if you had older sibs (or friends with older sibs) who did. You'll laugh out loud. You will.
Books on Film:
LITTLE CHLDREN. Tom Perrotta. Bored suburban mom takes up with bored suburban dad. And that's just the start. Movie version is coming soon. Very very soon. read it first so yu can discuss which is better.
RUNNING WITH SCISSORS. Augusten Bourrough's hilarious account of his wild 'n crazy childhood. One of those truth-is-stranger-fiction books. Way stranger. And way better.
Finally, my two faves of the past year:
EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE by Jonathan Safran Foer.
THE HISTORY OF LOVE by Nicole Krauss.
Where to begin? I don't want to ruin them in any way. STUNNING. I read them back to back, GENIUS x 2, and they've become more or less one un-f&cking-believable book in my head. AWESOME in every sense of the word. Even better, I just learned that these two extremely young and incredibly briliant writers are a couple. A COUPLE!!! Is it an urban myth? A simple rumour? Does it matter? Read these two babies and imagine that the authors are in love. How could either find anyone better?!
So there you go. I haven't bothered with the ones that didn't come close to the hype. Or the real duds. Nor shall I. Between the life, the kids and the TV, who has time for a bad book? And yeah, I don't doubt that for every book I've listed, someone has many more I've missed. Sorry, kids. My blog, my books. That said, I'm always looking for the next best thing and of course all suggestions are most welcome....
Yes, I am literate. Ahem. Quite, thank you.
Yes, I have taken to giving away my books.
And yes, I've ended up buying books I've read before.
What does all this mean? Why should you give a rat's ass? I'll tell you why. Because, at long last, I am giving the people what they want: the eagerly awaited, long anticipated, not imitated: MOAM BOOK CLUB.
I don't know why I wrote "not imitated". Book clubs are a dime a dozen. And many of you may have even read some of these winners. But not all of 'em. Besides, this is my answer to the oft asked "read any good books lately?".
The answer, a resounding YES.
So here, in no particular order, are my top picks for the past year. Give or take a couple of months. Most have been out for a while, 'cuz I like to wait for paperback. Not just because I'm cheap, but also, who wants to lug a hardcover book around? They're heavy, they're not great in bed, and they only look good on your bookshelves if you give a shit. And, as someone who's taken to giving my books away, I don't. So....
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. We need to talk about this book. We need to talk about Lionel Shriver (aside: she's a woman. Lionel. That's right.). She's also a genius. This is a chilling, twisted book about a high-school shooter. Told by the kid's mother. Those who are parents will be looking for signs of sociopathic tendencies in their own children. Those who are not will wonder if they should dare procreate. Kids these days...
A WOMAN IN BERLIN. An anonymous writer shares her memoirs from the fall of Berlin after the 2nd World War. It was, essentially, a rape-fest. This book was banned in Germany and only republished after the writer died. It's brutal. And it's excellent.
MAPS FOR LOST LOVERS. Nadeem Aslam. Set in a community of immigrants from the subcontinent who have moved to England in search of a better life. Culture clashes. East meets West. Old vs. new. Commnities on fire. Oh, and loves lost too. Not as melodramatic as I'm making it sound.
A BLADE OF GRASS. Lewis de Soto. Ditto. But this time it's White woman+ Black woman + unnamed Southern African country. Don't worry, it's NOT Cold Mountain. Way better. Way smarter. Way sadder.
CROSSING CALIFORNIA. I haven't forgotten you, boys. Adam Langer's spot on and hilarious coming-of-age novel set in the Chicago of the 70's. Especially funny if you lived it. And even funnier if if you had older sibs (or friends with older sibs) who did. You'll laugh out loud. You will.
Books on Film:
LITTLE CHLDREN. Tom Perrotta. Bored suburban mom takes up with bored suburban dad. And that's just the start. Movie version is coming soon. Very very soon. read it first so yu can discuss which is better.
RUNNING WITH SCISSORS. Augusten Bourrough's hilarious account of his wild 'n crazy childhood. One of those truth-is-stranger-fiction books. Way stranger. And way better.
Finally, my two faves of the past year:
EXTREMELY LOUD AND INCREDIBLY CLOSE by Jonathan Safran Foer.
THE HISTORY OF LOVE by Nicole Krauss.
Where to begin? I don't want to ruin them in any way. STUNNING. I read them back to back, GENIUS x 2, and they've become more or less one un-f&cking-believable book in my head. AWESOME in every sense of the word. Even better, I just learned that these two extremely young and incredibly briliant writers are a couple. A COUPLE!!! Is it an urban myth? A simple rumour? Does it matter? Read these two babies and imagine that the authors are in love. How could either find anyone better?!
So there you go. I haven't bothered with the ones that didn't come close to the hype. Or the real duds. Nor shall I. Between the life, the kids and the TV, who has time for a bad book? And yeah, I don't doubt that for every book I've listed, someone has many more I've missed. Sorry, kids. My blog, my books. That said, I'm always looking for the next best thing and of course all suggestions are most welcome....
Monday, October 02, 2006
THE HAPPY HOOKAH
Doing dinner.
Sounds great, right? Except for the dreaded question: where to go. French? I don't get the fuss - the fussy food or the big deal. Southeast Asian? Done done done. Tapas? Some slabs of piggy and olives? Can be tasty, but naah. Chinois? Soooo not Saturday night fare.
And the list goes on. And on. And on. The hipster spots are too busy. The neighbourhood spots too, well, neighbourhoody. You go through the city, street by street, trying to think of somewhere new and different and then it hits.
Banu.
Ba-who?
There's a new kid in town. Our town. Sorry foreign readers, you may want to stop now. But locals, keep readng. It's down on Queen Street. Past the throngs of Queen West, but not too far deep into the newly-minted trendoids of Queen West West West. Look closely and you'll find it, Banu: an unpretentious, delicious and totally unique vodka-and-kebab experience.
That's right, experience.
If you find it. Banu has no sign, only Farsi writing overtop a blue-tinged sepia photo on the glass door. Once inside, you may be a bit confused - the place feels more spa than supper. Actually, it feels like a Hammam. I know I'm mixing my cultures here, but it feels like whatever the Iranian equivalent of a Turkish bath is. But go with it.
Pick your vodka - you've got about 14 to choose from. Pretend you're an afficianado and try try try. Or just go for one of their delicious martinis: sour cherry, pomegranate or (yawn) plain. Then open your menu. You'll find 3 starters, 3 salads, 3 yoghurts. That's right, yoghurts. And a whole slew of kebabs.
Aaaaah, the humble kebab. It's not just a late-night drink absorber anymore. Banu takes these humble meat sticks and turns them into an art form. We skipped the lamb balls and heart (I swear!), opting for more traditional fare of ground beef, marinated beef tenderloin, lamb chops and saffron chicken. Yum, yum, and yum. (Note only 3 out of four 'yums'. Skip the chicken.)
Food arrived family-style, on a plate lined with traditional bread - I haven't a clue what it's called. It's thinner than pita but it could be just that. Also on the platter were green onions, radishes, and a handful of greens. Herbs, that is: mint, basil and tarragon leaves.
And that's it. A lovely restaurant. Looked pretty. Tasty food. The end.
Or so we thought. Boy we were wrong. 'Cuz with the dessert menu came something else. A little thing some people like to call a Hookah.
HOOKAH HOOKAH HOOKAH
Water pipe, bong, call it what you want. We had a choice of around 10 flavours and went for the blackberry. And for those of you who are thinking we sat around getting high - maybe we did. But it was on blackberry molasses.
Huh?
I know, I know. I didn't get it then, and I don't get it now. I'ma hookah virgin. All's I know is we sat around the table, inside the restaurant, smoking! Yes, smoking. But nary an evil eye in sight. 'Cuz with no nicotine, tar, or nasty bi-products, this was a totally natural, delicious way to lounge. And for those of you with an aversion to other people's, erm, spit, fret not - every one is treated to their own hermetically sealed, totally non-gross plastic pipe.
The hookah went for an hour (insert porny jokes here). We smoked. We watched it bubble and burn. We marvelled. We smoked some more. Look at us! We're so rad! Check us out! Tourists in our own town!
HOOKAH!
We topped it all off with Iranian desserts and tea and marvelled at how, well, different it was from your average night out for dinner. It was, as they say, an experience.
HOOKAH!
Are you experienced?
Sounds great, right? Except for the dreaded question: where to go. French? I don't get the fuss - the fussy food or the big deal. Southeast Asian? Done done done. Tapas? Some slabs of piggy and olives? Can be tasty, but naah. Chinois? Soooo not Saturday night fare.
And the list goes on. And on. And on. The hipster spots are too busy. The neighbourhood spots too, well, neighbourhoody. You go through the city, street by street, trying to think of somewhere new and different and then it hits.
Banu.
Ba-who?
There's a new kid in town. Our town. Sorry foreign readers, you may want to stop now. But locals, keep readng. It's down on Queen Street. Past the throngs of Queen West, but not too far deep into the newly-minted trendoids of Queen West West West. Look closely and you'll find it, Banu: an unpretentious, delicious and totally unique vodka-and-kebab experience.
That's right, experience.
If you find it. Banu has no sign, only Farsi writing overtop a blue-tinged sepia photo on the glass door. Once inside, you may be a bit confused - the place feels more spa than supper. Actually, it feels like a Hammam. I know I'm mixing my cultures here, but it feels like whatever the Iranian equivalent of a Turkish bath is. But go with it.
Pick your vodka - you've got about 14 to choose from. Pretend you're an afficianado and try try try. Or just go for one of their delicious martinis: sour cherry, pomegranate or (yawn) plain. Then open your menu. You'll find 3 starters, 3 salads, 3 yoghurts. That's right, yoghurts. And a whole slew of kebabs.
Aaaaah, the humble kebab. It's not just a late-night drink absorber anymore. Banu takes these humble meat sticks and turns them into an art form. We skipped the lamb balls and heart (I swear!), opting for more traditional fare of ground beef, marinated beef tenderloin, lamb chops and saffron chicken. Yum, yum, and yum. (Note only 3 out of four 'yums'. Skip the chicken.)
Food arrived family-style, on a plate lined with traditional bread - I haven't a clue what it's called. It's thinner than pita but it could be just that. Also on the platter were green onions, radishes, and a handful of greens. Herbs, that is: mint, basil and tarragon leaves.
And that's it. A lovely restaurant. Looked pretty. Tasty food. The end.
Or so we thought. Boy we were wrong. 'Cuz with the dessert menu came something else. A little thing some people like to call a Hookah.
HOOKAH HOOKAH HOOKAH
Water pipe, bong, call it what you want. We had a choice of around 10 flavours and went for the blackberry. And for those of you who are thinking we sat around getting high - maybe we did. But it was on blackberry molasses.
Huh?
I know, I know. I didn't get it then, and I don't get it now. I'ma hookah virgin. All's I know is we sat around the table, inside the restaurant, smoking! Yes, smoking. But nary an evil eye in sight. 'Cuz with no nicotine, tar, or nasty bi-products, this was a totally natural, delicious way to lounge. And for those of you with an aversion to other people's, erm, spit, fret not - every one is treated to their own hermetically sealed, totally non-gross plastic pipe.
The hookah went for an hour (insert porny jokes here). We smoked. We watched it bubble and burn. We marvelled. We smoked some more. Look at us! We're so rad! Check us out! Tourists in our own town!
HOOKAH!
We topped it all off with Iranian desserts and tea and marvelled at how, well, different it was from your average night out for dinner. It was, as they say, an experience.
HOOKAH!
Are you experienced?
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