Fashion photographer mistakes G20 for avant-garde fashion show

“Did you go to Gaultier’s 20th anniversary show in Toronto this past weekend?”, photographer asks his friend.

 “What?”, his friend replies.

 “It was transcendent! The anarchist uniform was shocking in its simplicity, and the  shattered glass and burning cop cars were spectacular. It was light years ahead of anything I’ve seen in fashion. They must have had top Hollywood talent working on special effects“

 “That wasn’t special effects”, his friend replies. 

“I know, it seemed almost too real. But, before I gush too much, I have to say – I am really let down by the cops. It’s disgraceful how they paraded around like they did. Horrific, if you want the truth.

 “You mean how they treated peaceful protesters?”, his friend asks.

 “No,- I mean they’re not models! They’re pudgy, pockmarked and waddle around like they’re suffering from haemorrhoids. I would never put these people on the frontline of an urban fashion show. My god! It’s downright irresponsible.

 “What?”, his friend says.

“I’m just being honest. And while I’m on it, the protesters didn’t make a very good frame either. Unkempt facial hair and mismanaged style, trying to blend fashion eras that are meant to be segregated like fighting children.

 I mean, it’s like mating a koala and a kangaroo. Yes, they’re in the same country and cute in their own way– but a koala with a pouch and kangaroo living in a tree? It’s terrifying.

 “What the hell are you talking about”, his friend says.

 “I know I’m rambling. The point is -the show was a revelation. Get ready for a runway assault this coming fall. Revolution is in the air”.

 “You’re a lunatic”

 “Wait ‘till fall and you’ll call me a genius”

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Anarchists rage against the oppression of plate glass

AAG – the unorganized, non-denominational, non-hierarchal, non-gender biased, non-sexual orientation-biased, non-ethnic biased, non-brand biased, non-hair colour biased, non-clothing colour biased, and non-colours of the world biased – Anarchist against glass sported their, inclusive, neutral clothing color – black – to express their rage against their sworn enemy in Toronto this past weekend:

 Plate glass.

 “It’s oppressive – it prevents us from seeing the world through our own eyes. Glass is a capitalist construct that needs to be removed. We vow to shatter this powerful illusion”, one of the anarchists claimed.

As they smashed window after window on storefronts, one anarchist exclaimed:

“Look inside people. We are giving you an unfiltered look at capitalist society. What do you see?”.

When someone replied: “Ummmm..I see the same clothing mannequin with clothes on that was behind the glass before”.

The anarchist responded: “Exactly. Now you see.”.

 “Am I missing something?”, the bystander was overheard saying to her friend:

Once the anarchists reached the end of their path of destruction a reporter commented to one  anarchist:

 “Hang on. You’re also wearing glasses”

The anarchist replied,  “Yes, yes, you notice, I also suffer from this windowed oppression. I too will throw off these plates of misery when the price is right.”

 “You mean, when the time is right in the heat of battle?”, the reporter responded

 “No, when the price is right. LensCrafters is having a sale on contact lenses in the next couple of months.”

G20? G-Unit!

A diehard G-Unit fan mistakes Toronto’s G20 for a G-Unit album release party:

“Yo, this is serious! They’s barricades up and down the streets. In real concrete! Cops in bulletproof vests, riot gear and they got plastic handcuffs like they’re  gonna arrest people.

Fuck Kanye. The Unit’s gonna outsell him and everyone else after this party. They musta busta milli on it– the cop outfits look dope, and the fence don’t look cheap neither.

This party’s  gonna be off tha hook.

When you think 50’ll show up?”

Poseidon and Jesus call bullshit

 

BP oil spill ship hit by lightning, sparks fire shutting down containment effort

6-story Jesus statue in Ohio struck by lightning

When they were reached for comment:

Poseidon replied: “I decide who shits in my house!”

Jesus said: ” Dude made me look like an asshole. I’m not that stiff.”

Kill the air with laughter


I try to make people laugh. But sometimes they choke.

I’m standing in line at a corner store and someone in front of me is sharing a laugh with the cashier. He gets his change back, still laughing and the cashier says a final, funny remark as he leaves.

Now I approach. The cashier’s got a big smile on her face and is still laughing.

But in that that second where she pulls her gaze from her laughing partner to my face, her smile disappears; her lips curl back to a business-like, unemotional position and her laughter stops with a noise that sounds like a speeding car coming to a sudden stop “HaaHahah, Ahhhhh  Mmmmm.” It says: “Oh. You. You’re a stranger. Great, back to work”.

Now I feel like the Grim Reaper. My presence has blacked out the sun, and sucked the joy from the room.

But rather than accept the new, somber mood, I’ll invariably say something because, I gotta keep the fun going. Partly it’s a challenge – “You think this guy can make you laugh.” “Watch this.” But mostly it’s not to be a killjoy.

The cashier then says: “Your drink comes to $3.00.”

“$3.00?  Does this have alcohol in it?”, I reply

Once I see the look on the cashier’s face, it’s clear awkwardness has clubbed fun to death.

“Uhh. No there are no alcoholic drinks in here”, she says.

“Right”, I say politely and hand her a five dollar bill, and wait for my change, wincing from the shrapnel of my comedic grenade.

World Cup blue balls

I’m Canadian and grew up with hockey and baseball as my two primary sports. While I played soccer as a kid – I’ve never followed it and can only cite Real Madrid and Manchester United as teams I know off the top of my head.

Nevertheless, I like sports – so I planned to watch some World Cup games this past weekend, and not because of some romantic notion for the “old country”. Yes, I have English family and distant, distant ties to France. But I’m Canadian. I’ll cheer more seriously for the Montreal Canadiens or Ottawa Senators than a country from which I’m once removed.

But I still want to watch and see what soccer is all about. (Yes, soccer. Not “football” as much of the North American media now refer to it, in what seems like a contrived attempt to fit in. “Football. See, I respect your sport. I’m cultured and worldly just like you!”)

Firstly, I think the World Cup tournament lives up to its name much better than Major League Baseball’s World Series. According to the World Series, the U.S., Canada, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Korea and Japan are the world, which is maybe also how Disney envisioned things when they wrote “a small world after all”?

The second thing I’ve realized watching some games, goals are as rare as an albino platypus and corner kicks as ineffective as putting a cap on the BP oil leak, leading to failure 9 times out of 10.

In a hockey game, shots generally come at a goalie consistently, creating lots of goal chances. In soccer, it seems just kicking the ball on net is an accomplishment. The majority of the time the ball sails over, around or beside the net or just bobbles around in front of the net without the goalie touching it.

I quickly began to understand how scoring a goal in soccer is more of an engineering feat than scoring a goal in a hockey. It’s the equivalent of launching a space shuttle versus starting a car.

So many things have to go right in succession. A good pass, a good run or ball handle, a good view at the net, and a good kick on goal. Then it’s still no guarantee.

As a fan – you’re constantly disappointed. A good pass – yeah!, A good ball handle – holy fuck, yes!! – And then the ball is stolen. Shit!

The farther each sequence goes, the more brutal it gets without a goal:

A good pass – okay! A good run or ball handle – shit yeah! a good view at the net – Yes, yes, yes!! Oh, but he kicks it 50 feet over the goal.

Jesus Christ!

I felt like I’d developed blue balls, experiencing one failed climax after another.

In response, I began to lose enthusiasm for each good step, the longer the game went on:

A good pass – big deal!, A good run or ball handle – whoop-tee-doo he’s just gonna screw it up! a good view at the net – Whatever!! Sure enough, it would end with another ball rocketed into the crowd.

And then, finally – miracle of all miracles – like a photographer trying to capture a rare species that comes out once every 25 years between 8:12 and 8:13 during a full lunar cycle with an easterly wind and low tide – it happens.

GOOOOAAAALLLLL!

The ultimate release.

I thought, of course, announcers scream it like this. They’re having an incredible orgasm, having been thwarted by 30 minutes of false promises.

Now that I understand pent up frustration is central to being a soccer fan, it makes sense some fans apply twenty pints of beer to the pain.