The above is the video for rapper/singer Drake’s first single, Best I Ever Had.
A little background: Drake is a Toronto boy (woo hoo!), rapper/singer/actor triple threat. He’s been on the seen in Toronto for a minute, but over the last year has aligned himself with the over-tattooed, gremlin-like Lil Wayne. This has garnered him an incredible amount of buzz. So much so, that the above song ‘Best I Ever Had’ is currently sitting at #3 on the Billboard singles chart. The is unusual because Drake doesn’t even have an album out yet. This single is from his underground mixtape. Pretty amazing achievement.
Drake is poised to be the biggest thing in the rap game - or at least that’s what all signs seem to be pointing to. His hype is out of control and this song has been getting played everywhere you go (I’m sure you can imagine how much Drake we hear in Toronto). So this video, directed by Kanye West was much anticipated.
So, watch the video…..
*sigh*
Was Drake even in that? I can’t tell because I feel like I just got slapped in the face with multiple pairs of oversized titties. How does this video relate to the song? Maybe I’m slow, but I just don’t get it. For once, just ONCE, I would like there to be a hip hop video that wasn’t about hos, tits and ass. For the love of Christ!
This is the worst piece of trash I’ve ever seen. Drake was meant to be better than this!
This video should be a PSA about the dangers of playing sports without supportive undergarments. I can’t even imagine the pain those big breasted video hos were in. They probably had to have ice packs on their boobs after the shoot.
And Kanye West directed this crap. It’s not really surprising that it’s shitty in that sense. He’s been falling off since right after The College Dropout. He’s descended into being an autotune using, video ho dating loser. Originality has been slipping from his grasp for a minute, so not surprisingly, he thought throwing some tits and basketballs into the mix would make a decent video.
For all the hype Drake’s been getting (and all the hard work he’s put in trying to get there), he really needs to be careful. If this video is any indication of things to come, it’ll be a pretty quick fall from grace.
Someone please introduce him to some girls with B cup breasts, STAT!
…it’s your lucky day, because I’m handing out makeovers and bitch slaps - come get yours.
Like so many others, Michael Jackson pretty much defined my childhood.
When the news of his death broke yesterday, I honestly found it hard to choke back tears. For a man who put so much heart into his music, it was very difficult to imagine that heart would ever stop beating.
The Bad Album was the first album I ever bought (well, was bought by my parents for my brother and I to share), on cassette tape, naturally. I think we literally played that thing to death.
I remember the premier of the Black & White video being broadcast on regular TV. Not a music channel, regular prime time TV. That was fucking huge in England. I think everyone in the country was glued to their TV that night and it was all we talked about at school the next day.
I remember the Remember The Time video, pausing it and slow motioning it until I had every dance move down.
I remember being in Dublin, watching him on Oprah. That interview seemed to stop the world for a minute.
I remember seeing the footage of his Motown 25 performance where he did the moonwalk for the first time and feeling just as electrified as I would have been had I been there myself.
I have watched more variations of the Michael Jackson story than I thought were possible. There was a time when I could have quoted the The Jackson Five Story movie word for word.
Yesterday, for an hour or so, there was complete confusion as to whether he had passed or not, with all news outlets seeming to report different things. About twenty minutes after all the major news channels seemed to confirm it, a funny thing happened. Michael Jackson started blaring from the radio. I turned it up. There wasn’t a soul in my office that wasn’t tapping their foot, nodding their head and singing along. And there is his legacy.
So I would like to thank the God that is Michael Jackson for enriching my life and my iPod. Thank you Sir. Heaven is about to have one hell of a party.
So, the past few weeks, I’ve been coming to terms with the ending of what was a pretty decent relationship with a kind of awesome fella. That adjustment from having someone in your life one minute and them being gone the next, obviously has its ups and downs. But I’ve surprised myself with how well I’ve coped. I guess when you’ve been in as many shitty relationships as I, you become a master of the break up.
But it was just a few days ago when it dawned on me: I’m now officially single again. I’m ‘out there.’ I’m on the scene, in the circuit. Christ. That’s the last fucking thing I wanted. Oh, the being single part doesn’t bother me. In case you hadn’t realised, I’m pretty frikkin’ awesome, so I don’t mind spending time with myself. What bothers me is trying to navigate the murky waters of relations with a new member of the male tribe.
I’m getting too tired to dance the dance. The smiling, the flirting, the pretending to give a shit, the endless stroking of the male ego, the low cut tops, the constant pedicures, the deciding what kind of bikini wax to get, the resentment of having to get a bikini wax at all, the ‘who pays’ debate, the ‘who calls who’ debate, the ‘where are we going’ talk - Give me strength! I just cannot be arsed to dip my toe in those waters.
Let me give you a little insight into my relationships of yore:
The Crackhead
Pretty self explanatory. He was a crackhead. Our delightful journey can be found here.
The Kickboxer
A rather annoying fellow a couple of years my junior. He was into mixed martial arts, but didn’t know how to keep it inside the ring and one day, beat up some kid so badly the kid ended up in a coma. He went to court for that and was sent to jail. But he neglected to tell me any of this, so he basically just disappeared for three months and then reappeared like nothing had happened, telling me he’d been on holiday. Yeah, seriously.
The Short Dude
Nice enough guy, but had a severe case of Napoleon Syndrome. He pretty much solidified what I’d known all along: never date a short dude.
The Thief
Cheated on me (or I should say with me, as I was unknowingly the ‘other woman’) our whole relationship. When I found out the truth, he came to my house, assaulted me, stole my computer and my watch and spent 48 hours attempting to blackmail me to drop the charges.
So, can you see why I might be a bit jaded? All of the above assholes seemed like perfectly normal chaps when I first met them. But you know, for the first month or so, you’re really just meeting that person’s representative. The real guy makes an appearance a few months down the line and before you know it, you’re with a crackhead or filing police reports or about to whoop some short guy’s ass.
Sigh.
Clearly, I need to make better choices (ironically, the most recent break up? That guy was my better choice), I know this.
Right now, I would like a nice, lighthearted summer fling. That’s it. Nothing more. Leave your police record, drug habits, kickboxing choke holds and whatever else at home. Please just bring your sanity. And stunning good looks. And 6′4″ height. And baby oil.
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Yesterday, I took advantage of the nice weather and went shopping.
This particular shopping experience led me to a meltdown, which I documented on Twitter. After two hours of trailing the streets, going in every damn boutique I saw and being beyond disappointed every time, I have finally admitted what I have wanted to admit since I got to this city: I frikkin’ hate shopping in Toronto!
It sucks balls. Big, giant donkey balls. There is no originality in this city at all. Believe it or not, some of us actually want to wear things other than leggings and loose, flowing tops. How are you not over this shit yet Toronto? Seriously.
I went into several ‘independent boutiques’ (all of which are on the same street, I might add) only to find at least four of the exact same dress styles in each one. I would think, before you go through the trouble of opening a store, you would do a little research on what lines other stores are carrying. Apparently, that’s not how people roll in the TDot.
I have often been left speechless, baffled and befuddled at the fashion choices of people here. The abundance of Crocs, the leggings, the being seen in public in your pajamas, the working out at the gym in motherbitching Crocs - and after yesterday’s shiteous shopping experience, I now understand: these poor bastards don’t know any better.
Let me ask you, when were clunky Camper shoes for women in fashion? Apparently they’re all the rage here in Toronto, because every second shoe shop I went in had an extensive collection of clodhoppers. The only people who wear Campers are white people with dreadlocks - that says it all really.
So no wonder people think it’s acceptable to walk around in sweatpants and sports jerseys. They have lost all hope. And I can’t say I blame them. If I owned sweatpants, I would probably be ready to start wearing them myself right about now (with heels though, of course).
The irony of Toronto’s shitty shopping though, is that Toronto has a fashion week. No, really, it does. It likes to put its shitty style on display and try to convince itself that the world gives a shit about it’s poor sense of design abilities.
If you work in the fashion industry in Toronto, I urge you, in the nicest way I know how, to pull your fucking finger out and sort this mess out!
A diva like me needs more than leggings and frikkin’ Camper shoes to make it through! Fix up!
So yesterday the interweb was just one big drama filled school playground.
Perez Hilton, the infamous gossip blogger, was up here in Toronto at the Much Music Video Awards. He ran into the Black Eyed Peas, who apparently, aren’t too impressed with Mr Hilton constantly talking shit about them on his site. Will.I.Am told Perez not to write about them anymore and Perez decided to go off on one telling Mr Am he has no respect for him and calling him a ‘fucking f****t.’
Outside the club where this happened, Perez allegedly got knocked the hell out by Will.I.Am’s manager. He took to Twitter, putting out cries for help, asking people to alert the police and saying he’d just been assaulted by Will.I.Am. I know we live in a hyper-internet driven society, but correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t the correct way to contact the police to dial 911? Or do the police actually sit around checking their Twitter every 20 seconds for emergencies?
Come Monday morning, Perez had put this video on his site giving his ’statement’ of what happened. If you have a spare 11 minutes, feel free to watch it. There are some Oscar-worthy tears at the end, if you can stomach the 10 other minutes of whining.
Here’s my thing: while I do honestly think there is no excuse for violence, I feel that if you make the conscious decision to call someone a ‘fucking f****t,’ you pretty much deserve to be knocked the fuck out. Furthermore, as a gay man, how can Perez honestly justify the use of a hate term that has dogged the gay community for years? This is a man who is trying to put himself at the forefront of the No H8 campaign. Good on ya for setting the whole movement back 50 years there Perez. Nice job.
So while yes, being punched in the eye a few times is a little extreme, on the other hand, it seems like fairly sweet karma for a man who makes his living shitting on other people on a daily basis. He can’t honestly have felt that it would never come back to bite him in the ass (or cold clock him in the eye) at some point. It’s fine to say ‘it’s all in good fun’ when you’re sitting behind your computer screen, but once you step out, life gets real.
And I guess we all now know that Will.I.Am is willing to open up a can of whoop ass when necessary (or, you know, get his manager to do it).
Moral of the story: Karma is a motherbitch.
I have been working my gym membership pretty hardcore recently. My trainer is trying to kill me, I’ve sweat more water than the River Thames and learned the hard way that tripping on a treadmill is not a good look.
I’ve started to notice some subtle changes (arms are looking a little more toned) and some not so subtle changes (um, basically, baby got back. All these frikkin’ lunges have given me quite the rear end).
I’m doing my work outs at 6am. Why? Because I am one crazy bitch, that’s why. I’m determined to make progress and shed this bit of ‘North America Weight’ that I’ve gained since living on this fat continent.
So, I was biking home a few nights ago from work. It was late and it was raining pretty hard. It’s never particularly fun to bike in those conditions. I get home, soaking wet and peeled myself out of my clothes. It was then that I noticed, my jeans had ripped right at the top of the inner right thigh. Sure, I could blame it on the fact that the jeans were two years old and they were soaking and chafing against my bike seat, or I could call it what it really is - *sigh* my thighs are just bigger than they used to be. That’s difficult enough to come to terms with. What’s harder to come to terms with is the loss of a $300 pair of jeans to a ‘biking incident.’
Then, the following day, I went to put on another pair of jeans and noticed that the zipper broke. What the frik?! I’m like the incredible hulk over here! I’m really not fat! How the hell am I busting out of my clothes all of a sudden? Jesus take the wheel - that’s $600 worth of jeans gone in a couple of days. *single tear*
I guess there’s an upside - if Sir Mix-A-Lot decides to make a comeback, I could definitely be in a video. My muscular ass is so powerful it rips through denim and breaks zips.
One of my most prized possessions is my lovely bike, Clooney. My ride to work in the morning is bliss. I lock him up outside my workplace and to my dismay, when my 12 hour work day is done, someone has always taken it upon themselves to fuck with my Clooney!
No cool amigos, not cool at all.
See, I have put a couple of baskets on my bike (one on the front, one on the back), to make life easier for myself (because I end up with mucho bags when I finish a shopping trip). Apparently, dumb ass pedestrians seem to mistake these baskets for trash cans on a daily basis. Every day, after work when I go to unlock my bike for the ride home, there is quite the assortment of shit in those baskets.
The most popular thing people like to put in there is food wrappers. Empty McDonalds bags with half a nugget and limp cold fries with ketchup seeping out, Starbucks mocca -chocca- mini- skinny- soy- latte- voulez- vous- couchez- avec- moi- ce- soir-acinno cups, those nasty ass street kebab polystyrene packages - they’ve all somehow found their way to rest in my baskets. What is more annoying than people’s nasty trash is that less than 10 steps away from where I park my bike is a MOTHERBITCHING TRASH CAN!
But I can tell by the trash they leave behind that they are fat, lazy bastards. Probably the last thing they need in life is that McDonalds. And to waddle their fat asses 10 more steps to the trash can, will clearly leave them in need of a paramedic.
I hate people.
The other day when I went to the gym, I came out to find the back basket on Clooney was stuffed with a plastic bag full of old, dirty, smelly clothes. Um, what the fuck?! I took it and flung it on the sidewalk. A homeless woman nearby, broke from a crowd of her homeless homies and came running over apologising. Apparently, those clothes were hers. Does my bike look like your closet? Bitch, please!
And to top off the random ‘crap in a basket’ phenomena, of course, the Jehovah’s Witnesses had to get involved. I found a big ass leaflet from them in my basket, because apparently my choice of bike indicates that I live a life of sin.
I would like to encourage anyone who passes by my bike, to find religion. And people better pray to Peter, Paul and Mary that I don’t catch putting anything in those baskets.
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This is one of the first stories I ever posted on this here blog and I was speaking to some friends the other day who had never heard it, so, I thought I’d post it again so you can laugh heartily and take the piss out of me. I’m a giver.
As a broke, starving student, I was always on the look out for quick money earners, so when one of the top hair salons in London said they were looking for hair models, I jumped at the chance.
I went to the salon and they took some head shots of me while hairdressers stood around oohing and ahhing over my waist-length locks.
We flew to Dublin for a big hair show. The hairdressers set up and I made myself comfortable in the salon chair. Three of them came and stood behind me, ruffling my hair and conferring with each other on style and cut. It was decided I would lose a good deal of the length (which I didn’t mind too much. Hair grows back) and get a perm. Wait. Did they just say ‘perm’? I thought that word was last used sometime around 1994. I ask them and they verified that they did, in fact, say perm. This would be their first demonstration, intended to bring the perm back. I sighed, closed my eyes, thought of the money and heard the first few snips.
Inch after inch came off until it was just past my shoulders. Then they doused my head in chemicals and rollers and left the perm to work it’s magic. When the time was up they took the rollers out. With my hair still wet and the curls bouncing up, all I needed was a Kappa tracksuit and a pair of Reebok Classics and I’d have Chav chic down. But the hairdressers all seemed very pleased with the outcome. When they finished drying it, they were beside themselves with excitement. They hadn’t permed the top of my hair so it was flat on the top and got gradually bigger as it worked its way down to the ends. Basically, I had a triangle head. While the hairdressers all high-fived each other on this latest innovation in perming, I was wondering how much sense this hairstyle would make when I was grocery shopping in Hammersmith. I looked like the lost Irish member of the Jackson Five.
That night, the models (all looking slightly odd with our new ‘fashion forward’ hairstyles) and hairdressers all went out for dinner. I was coming down with a cold and with the big hair show the next day, there was just no time for illness. As I don’t like to take anything other than natural medicine, the hairdressers recommended I have a Hot Toddy. Before I could ask what a Hot Toddy was, the waiter had set it down in front of me. I took a couple of sips. The cold had affected my senses and I couldn’t really taste much, so I downed the mug full quickly. Unbeknownst to me, Hot Toddies contain alcohol. Irish Hot Toddy’s contain a lot of alcohol and as I don’t drink, the effects were fast and furious. Within a couple of minutes I was three sheets to the wind and was apparently entertaining the whole restaurant with some kind of one-woman show.
The next morning I awoke a little worse for wear and only being able to breathe through one nostril. We were getting ready in a room of the swanky Dublin hotel where the hair show was being held. Coming in the room, seeing models with bizarre angular cuts, all kinds of crazy colors, you felt as though you’d stepped into the future – until you saw me, who looked like I was on line for a Flashdance audition.
I sat quietly, reading a magazine, while a hairdresser faffed with my hair behind me. As I watched her diffuse my hair, it grew bigger every second. My cold was already making it hard to breathe and I wondered if anyone had ever been suffocated by their own hair.
The show was fast approaching. Just when I thought my hair had been finished, the stylist did the unthinkable, the one thing you never do to a perm – she brushed it. She gave me a harsh centre parting and kept brushing it out. If I thought my hair was big before, that was nothing on what was happening now. She was brushing frantically and had a hairspray can dispersing ‘strong hold’ lacquer on my head non-stop. By the time she’d finished, my hair stuck out at right angles, like my head had wings.
I was so caught up with the hair, I’d barely noticed what the make-up lady had done to my face. When I looked in the mirror, I scared the crap out of myself. My already super-pale skin had been dusted powder white and my mouth was covered in numerous layers of black lipstick. If they were predicting that this was a look of the future, I doubted very seriously that anyone would buy into this Goth Hippie debacle.
The show had now started. I was the grand-finale so had just enough time to change into my costume. I hadn’t seen it before someone shoved the hanger into me and said ‘put this on’. I slipped on the a-line dress. The left half was black, the right half was red. I dug into the bag and found thick cream stockings. After much yanking, I managed to hoist them up my legs. One last dig in the bag turned up some black winkle picker shoes that were a couple of sizes too big. I gingerly approached a mirror to take a look at the finished result. Complete with the hair, I looked like an electrocuted clown on crack. But there was no time to protest this monstrosity. The show must go on.
One of the stylists led me down to the main event. As I walked through the hotel lobby, people parted like the red sea. Complete bewilderment riddled their faces. A young child took one look at me, cried and ran to his mother.
I waited outside the show room. As they announced me, the doors flung open and I waited a moment as the room full of hairdressers turned in their seats to watch me walk down the centre isle. I had been told to keep my arms tight by my sides, stick my hands out at right angles and walk in ‘fairy steps’ (heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe). I took a deep breath (through my one functioning nostril) and started my walk. A few seconds passed and the wry smiles on the hairdressers’ faces turned to outright laughter. Big laughter. They were practically rolling in the isles. I continued my fairy steps, trying not to trip over the winkle pickers. What had seemed like a rather short walk to the stage, now felt like a marathon. All eyes were on me and it felt like I was walking under water. I was convinced that my face, despite being doused in white powder, probably matched the right hand side of the hideous dress I was wearing.
Finally I made it to the stage and the stylist leading the show waited for the laughs to die down. He put his arm around me and said into his mic ‘isn’t she beautiful?’ I think he was expecting a round of applause, but it was greeted with a ripple of giggles. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ he asked again and one person clapped twice (out of sympathy, not agreement) before stopping themselves. I scanned the crowd to see if my mother had snuck into the audience somehow. I had been told not to smile and it wasn’t a tall order.
The stylist talked the crowd through my haircut. Thankfully he stopped short of throwing the floor open to questions. I sensed the only one anybody had was ‘why on earth would you do this to someone’s hair?’
When he had finished the presentation, he invited the audience up on stage to take a closer look at the haircuts. The rest of the models all had sexy dresses on and I stood in the middle in my clown get-up. When the hairdressers got to me, they’d touch the huge mess on my head and just ask ‘is that your real hair?’ I nodded, choking back tears.
When the show was over, we prepared ourselves for our flight back to London. I attempted to tie my hair back so it wouldn’t need it’s own seat on the plane. My first stop upon landing was directly back to the salon to get my bird’s nest straightened.
With my bone straight (significantly damaged) hair and money in my pocket, the bad perm seemed like a distant memory. Rather than going down as the great perm comeback they were hoping for, the Goth Hippie look most likely just demonstrated why perms had gone out in the first place. And for that, I’m happy to have done the public a service.
