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I’ve been obsessing slightly over this new kid on the stump (NKOTS). I’ve watched mostly all of his speeches, even his horrible attempts at comedy at the Alfred E. Smith dinner (McCain was much funnier). I’ve read through most of his speeches and transcripts, trying to draw parallels to former presidents. Sure, he says “two hundred and twenty-one” instead of “eleven score and one”. But he still evokes the spirit of those men in his eloquence and rhetoric. In fact, he might even have the ears of Lincoln who was described as, ”a wiry lad with a shock of unruly hair, big ears and highwater pants.”

He is a master at public speaking, reaching near heights of Hallelujah-esque moments. I suppose he has learned his lessons well from the gospel churches of his youth. What Obama really needs, is a travelling choir of women who look remarkably similar to Whoopi Goldberg to follow him around wherever he goes. Some people need an entourage, others need a gospel choir.

It is no great surprise, the level of support McCain is still garnering, nor is it a great surprise the pundits who relentlessly defend his campaign tactics. The great nation of USA boasts a remarkable 29% of people with college-level education. The correlation between this is self-evident by their choice of the incumbent president for the past 8 years. So how can Obama win against the crooks and liars of American political system? I hope you are all just as excited to witness a true miracle take place in the next two weeks. Clouds parting, lightning striking, whatever form it may come in it will need to be a miracle of mass proportions for this unlikely candidate to take over a nation of sheep.

How odd, that we are so obsessed with American politics. Although Canadians aren’t included in that report, I can personally attest to the levels of quiet stalking we have done in waiting for Nov. 4 to come. Canada is just another one of America’s typical Facebook friends, scanning through your photos and monitoring your status updates, waiting for the twitter that reads, “America has a new president.” Hopefully, he’ll be smart enough to wear Kevlar® everywhere he goes.

“That’s what hope is. That’s what hope is, imagining, and then fighting for, and then working for, struggling for what did not seem possible before.” - Feb 19, 2008 Houston, TX

A Less Guarded Barack Obama

Dom has been deported out of the country. He’s had a good run at being Canadian, but to be honest, we just don’t want him here anymore. He had a going away party in Vancouver, and I made a surprise appearance via Skype. Or should I say, Quacho Libre made a surprise appearance.

This is what I had the pleasure of waking up to the next morning:
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Have a safe trip back to England, Dom! Keep those incisors sharpened. I may need you one day.

Spotted: Serena in an Elf suit.

Oh my effing God, what is Serena wearing? She looks like she is missing some pointy ears, suede boots and a bow. I suppose I know nothing of New York “run-a-way” fashion, but seriously, the Elf look is so retro these days.

Of late, I’ve been immersed in Gossip Girl drama, mostly out of respite from Lost, Dexter and quite possibly even Mad Men. I caught up on GG Season One promptly after having had heard about this show from a friend and was hooked. Nearly as good as Laguna Beach circa Season 1, but not as good as The O.C., I was left with the impression that this show could be as trashy and vindictive a show as its California counterparts.

Season 1 was good, up until a point. I knew they could only recycle the already tired story of on-again, off-again lusting of awkward-boy Humphrey and the delicate diva Serena. But they started losing my attention when everyone– and I mean everyone — started having sex on the show. Upper East New York turned into a snooze town of harlots and wanna-bes.

Come on guys, start injecting more of that pseudo-reality TV spunk that LB had. I mean, really. Does anyone even seriously believe The Hills is truly nonfiction?

Season 2 is on its way with its 5th boring episode and still nothing to show for it. What this show could use is more diversity. The token Asian girl is a stereo-typical nerd that listens to Flo Rida. How cliche! Throw a few more Southeast Asians in the mix, and you can guarantee that comedy will ensue. Hey producers! Pony up for a cameo appearance by John Cho! Nothing makes for real entertainment like a few Koreans.

While some may have been able to get by in post-college life with relative ease, I’ve found my recent foray into the corporate world both difficult and punchy. Having myself gone through life without owning any suits or in fact, anything worth more than six dollars, I was faced with a dilemma: where am I going to find a reversible suit? 

To those who have never bought a suit, your first plan should always involve research. Walking into Holt Renfrew, for example, and admitting that you have never bought a suit, but need 5, is a bad start. Luckily, I only ended up with 2, each costing me more than a plane ticket to Italy. I could’ve fed a small village for months with the amount of money I spent. That’s what I should’ve done. Flown to Sicily, given the entire village what I spent at HR and lived in a villa for a month while they sewed a dozen reversible suits for me.

The irony of my million dollar purchases was that I would not last that long in corporate Canadia and I still have a wonderful, unused, grey, pin-striped, D&G suit sitting my closet (tags still attached) where my friend so helpfully pointed out that it was getting wrinkled because of the humidity in my condo. I never realized suits were as high-maintenance as cigars.

I had always heard that incorporating yourself is the best way to stick it to the man. Capitalism was this rumoured Eden of tax shelters and there were words like “bonuses”, “dividends” and “hookers” thrown around.

Though my ambition has no bounds, my energy and youth nearly always drag their feet. I am not that doe-eyed, 21 y.o. tramp I once was anymore. I have expenses now and I need to put away for my retirement when I’m 65 and need an emergency colonoscopy.

With my thirtieth birthday looming ahead like the center of Ike, I knew I needed to take a shot at this self-employment game before rolling over to the less glamourous side of middle-age and calling it a night. Get married, get a mortgage, get TiVo, get a dog, get fat. I want to go into that inevitable death march with arms wide open and welcome it, like I would welcome a warm vasectomy.

Once upon a time, I thought this world was mine for the taking. I was bright, energetic, young and fearless. I once looked derisively at my elders as obstacles and frustrating barriers to me and my riches. I sneered, I glared, I disdainfully dismissed their warnings and apathy. I told these thirty year olds, their time was over and I was going to bring about change. It was going to be me and Obama. We were going to make things happen.

These days, as I frequent the local bars, I notice a new crowd in town. The younger, more energetic, and if possible, even less fearless crowd of 20-somethings doing things I wish I thought of first. They storm out of the gates of college and stake their claim. Marking their territory like dogs: nearly always missing the mark, but peeing over everything else. Its their world now, and my generation is what people refer to as ‘retro’. 

When you watch television, and you see your favorite music videos being played on MuchMoreMusic, then you know you’ve lost your youth. Seeing this, your only solace is a half-eaten bucket of fudge brownie Häagen Dazs®. The contestants on Don’t Forget the Lyrics know exactly as many songs as their iPod can hold. Their only defense is that they were born in 1987. 

It probably didn’t dawn on me that I was old until I overheard someone referring to retro style as the 90’s look. I nearly wanted to yell out, Retro?! Those were my teenage years, Junior! but then quickly realizing that admitting that, would probably have had various undesirable generalizations about me. Notably, ones of cowering in shadows and murmuring to oneself about the difficulty of opening child-proof vitamin bottles. 

If this whole new venture into capitalism doesn’t work out for me, I’ll need to work out my next plan. What is the next plan? Whatever it is, it’ll probably involve living in the Upper East Side of New York City, and working at Butter. Maybe I’ll run into some of NYC’s high-society socialites like Tinsley Mortimer. Even better, maybe I can become one!

Axe released a new scent called “Dark Temptation”. Yes, I was a bit surprised too. Somehow, they managed to capture the scent of Denzel Washington into a spray can. I suppose there is nothing more masculine than smelling like darkness.

My only gripe is that they did not even consider me; certainly not for lack of musk, but more because they couldn’t use an appropriate name that was marketable. How could “Jaundice Flava” ever compete with “Dark Temptation”? And they must have already discounted “Yellow Fever” or “Banana Boy” for the running.

I sometimes wonder what my scent might actually be compared to. Does it truly harbour that lingering smell of a bustling fish market as many have already kindly pointed out?

Ironically, with the amount of butter chicken I eat, I would undoubtedly smell a lot more like curry. Or at least, bay leaves.