I am currently summering on Vancouver Island and will therefore be unable to light up your life with my usual assortment of bon mots for the next two weeks or so.
Over on grande.full.body Ryan has been going on about his new pseudonym Roland Desrosiers and twice misspelling – here and here – mine. At his urging, and perhaps against my better judgement, I am dedicating this post to my fantastic alter ego: Didier Flamand.
Like an enigma wrapped in a mystery and then locked in a box at the bottom of the ocean the origins of my pseudonym are mirky at best. Today, however, I will reveal one of the great mysteries of our time: how did I come to be Didier Flamand?
This story starts, as do many, with a seemingly innocuous trip to the cinema with my old friend Melanie P. I had dragged her to see Marguerite Duras’ India Song at Metro Cinema in Edmonton on the advice of a film professor. I should’ve guessed it wasn’t going to be Mean Girls but I needed to see it and didn’t want to go alone. Needless to say Mel wasn’t particularly excited by what is essentially an experiment in film.
Basically it’s two hours of this repeated:
Anyway, as the credits began to roll and this song – which continues to haunt my memories – played for what must have been the twentieth time we noticed that one of the actors, playing le jeune invité, was named Didier Flamand. We also decided this was possibly the gayest named of all time. It instantly and forever became my pseudonym. As matter of fact, Melanie’s pseudonym briefly became India Song – this film clearly had a profound impact on our lives – which I also rather liked but didn’t really stick.
For a time my pseudonym became so all-encompassing it inspired it’s own Myspace profile and a further pseudonym of it’s own – Laddie Findram, itself an anagram of Didier Flamand – who sang “I Hope You Dance and I Hope You Holler” featured on the above mentioned Myspace profile.
And that, friends, is the story of Didier Flamand.
So a couple of weeks ago I was walking home and, as I often do, I pulled the keys out of my pocket early so as to be prepared. On the way out of my pocket, said keys made a little jangle and a rather attractive latin man turned around and looked at me to which I gave him a rather unattractive “WHAAAAAAA?” face and subsequently overtook him on my walk down Davie Street. Then upon heading around the corner onto Broughton Street I heard the familiar sound of keys jangling behind me and as I went to go into my apartment building said individual was waiting at the bottom of my steps giving me sexy eyes.
SUCH IS THE POWER OF MY SEXUAL MAGNETISM THAT I NOW ACCIDENTALLY PICK UP RANDOM MEN ON THE STREET SIMPLY BY JANGLING MY KEYS!
Seriously, this dude wanted a piece but I was so taken aback that I just scurried into my apartment building leaving him frustrated and alone. My friend Jasvir helpfully pointed out upon my retelling of this story that I totally fucked the guy off and may have gone so far as leading him on.
Upon further reflection with another friend (Jo-Ann) we decided that neither of us are relaxed enough as people for hook-ups quite as casual as this – Jo-Ann hypothetically as she is married. Besides the whole complete stranger aspect, I was on my way home from work and had just eaten a rather large plate of Greek food, consisting of little more than a bit of pork souvlaki and what must have been an entire raw onion. Read: not sexy times.
Later that week I went to the library in search of literary pastures new and upon not finding anything specifically that I wanted to read I simply headed to the fiction section for the ever popular point-and-grab approach. After already pocketing a pleasing account of the life a pupil barrister I happened upon a charming gay novel about an architect and contractor.
Or what I thought was a charming gay novel about an architect and a contractor.
TURNS OUT I BORROWED GAY EROTIC FICTION FROM THE LIBRARY!
Ugh. To be fair the signs were totally there and I just didn’t see them – the title, vague cover art, the overly simplistic story description, however in my defence the book is written by a woman. A WOMAN!
Sweat glistened over the dips and swells of the well-defined, heavily muscled body. James longed to reach up and lick the moisture from the man’s bronzed chest and taste the ripe tawny nipple buds beckoning to him just inches away.
So, to conclude, in the space of a week I picked up a random man on the street and borrowed erotic fiction from the library, all without my knowledge. Well done me.
*To be fair, and very clear, I feel the need to point out that neither of the above described activities – rooting strangers or reading erotic fiction – are actually perverted in the slightest and I do not judge those who partake in them. Rather, it is the accidental nature of engaging in these activities that I wish to highlight here and I think we can all agree that “The Accidental Erotic Fiction Reader and Street Picker-Upper” is a far less catchy title.
In case you aren’t already aware Naomi Campbell recently testified at the war crimes trial of former Liberian President Charles Taylor. Click here for more info and insight from dlisted, including how people just throw gifts at her “at all hours of the night.” Anyway, the trial has somehow turned into this nexus of amazing with Naomi Campbell coming out with the following:
I didn’t really want to be here. I just want to get this over with and get on with my life, this is a big inconvenience for me.
WHO DOES THIS BITCH THINK SHE IS?
This all got me thinking though. After you’ve thrown a phone at someone, verbally attacked numerous “little people,” and called a war crimes trial an “inconvenience,” how do you get any further into the realm out and out c*ntery?
How do you out-ridiculous yourself?
YOU – as you can see above – BECOME FRIENDS WITH NORTH KOREAN DICTATOR KIM JONG-IL!
AH. MAY. ZING.
I was shopping for swim trunks the other day [sidenote: I got made fun of at work for using the word “swimmers”] and was struck by the seismic shift that has gone seemingly unnoticed in men’s bathing attire. I first noticed this trend a few years back but it has seemingly only accelerated from there.
It seems that as board shorts overshadow regular trunks in popularity so disappears the mesh pouch that I’m used to keeping my tackle in order.
It’s actually a struggle now trying to find attractive trunks that still have the mesh. I’m not sure if I’m hopelessly old-fashioned but I like to know where everything is when I’m swimming, and therefore continue to be a fan of the lining. I’m rather worried there will be day in the not too distant future when I can no longer find bemeshed trunks and will be forced to flop idly about as I frolic on the beach.
Or perhaps I will have to conform to the square leg swim suits worn by all the popular gays (and Daniel Craig, below). I’m not sure I have quite the figure for that style of suit – modesty being ever our watch word in editorial – but it would undoubtedly keep everything in place.
Until that day I will continue to scour various swimwear establishments in search of the perfect pair of trunks with mesh still intact.
DAMN YOU SURFERS AND YOUR FREE-WHEELIN, FREEBALLIN, ATTITUDE TOWARDS LIFE AND SWIMWEAR.
Working in the service industry the good nature of the human race is often called into question. To be fair, in my job, the scales tip in the right direction more often than not but sometimes you are forced to deal with people that are probably besties with the child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or Paris Hilton.
My favourite line uttered by a customer today was “I’m kinda in a hurry.” Followed by that bitchy look.
In the interest of clarity I would like to point out here that I would never expect a customer to wait unduly for any product or service. I do everything in my power to ensure that everyone I serve on a daily basis is dealt with promptly and politely.
That being said, this bitch was just out of line, and not alone in her ridiculous expectation.
The scene: There is a moderate queue of about 5-7 patrons which said bitchy customer duly joins and upon reaching the counter she orders a grande non-fat, extra hot, no foam latte.
STRIKE ONE: Extra hot, no foam beverages implicitly take more time to handcraft as you have to wait for the milk to settle before pouring it.
STRIKE TWO: If you observe a line-up of 5-7 people you cannot magically expect that your beverage will be completed ahead of those requested by the polite and patient people with whom you are in competition for my barista-ing skills.
Anyway, no sooner had Patience paid for her beverage than she uttered those immortal words to me: “I’m kinda in a hurry.”
IF YOU’RE “KINDA IN A HURRY” WHY DID YOU STOP FOR A COFFEE? AND WHY DID YOU SUBSEQUENTLY WAIT IN LINE TO ORDER THAT COFFEE?
No. Not only are you an idiot, you’re also now getting a decaf latte.
I tried Jugo Juice’s “Mint Mojito” today and it was actually AMAZING! Damn it.
The mint is perfection and the blend of fruit is properly brilliant. The name annoys me even more now as it’s a great product laden with a ridiculous name.
Also, I ended up telling my Mum about it, against my better judgement, and she clarified that she originally thought it was “Jug o’ Juice,” which to be fair is less ridiculous than I’d remembered. Although she did confess that she only continues to use it because she knows it annoys me. Then my Dad piped in – we were on Skype – that he actually thought it was “Jugga Juice” because my Mum says it like that all the time. (Not unlike the time, nary two summers ago, that we discovered he thought it was “Cool Summer” by Banarama FULLY TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER THAT SONG WAS A HIT.)
So this all got me thinking about how annoying seasonal menu variations can be when you really love them – as I expect the “mint mojito” will disappear from Jugo come Autumn – and my brief but illustrious experience with Subway’s Orchard Chicken Salad.
I visit Subway from work about once a fortnight and I’m rarely swayed from my old standby – the pizza sub – but after months of media saturation I was finally cajoled into trying the glory that is the Orchard Chicken Salad sub. Actually, I should say was. No sooner had I experienced and told everyone at work how amazing it was the Orchard Chicken Salad was cruelly snatched off the menu.
To clarify, I had ONE. And after banging on about it for a week or two I went back for another only to be told that it was a seasonal item that was no longer available.
DAMN YOU SUBWAY!
There’s this huge billboard on the Kitsilano side of the Burrard Street bridge and it currently displays – on a rotating basis – an ad for Jugo Juice’s new “Mint Mojito” smoothie.
This drives me crazy.
Quick sidenote, for some reason my Mum pronounces Jugo Juice “Jugga Juice.” At first I think she, for some reason, thought that was it’s name. Now, however, I think she just does it to annoy me. Not that Jugo Juice comes up a lot in conversation – I will not be sharing this particular annoyance with my mother – but when it does come up I can tell she relishes the chance to annoy me.
Back to the “Mint Mojito” though.
Do you know what comes in a mojito? [Hint: it’s listed above.]
Of all the things that usually come in a mojito, the only one of them actually included in this smoothie is the mint.
MINT IS THE ONLY THING THAT MAKES IT A MOJITO SO MENTIONING IT IS REDUNDANT.
It’s like saying an orange mimosa, or bread toast, or a self-entitled Lohan.
To be fair, this drink is probably delicious, just incorrectly named. So incorrectly named that it drives me crazy every time I see it, which seems to be rather frequently these days.
DAMN YOU JUGGA JUICE!
I was at work thisafternoon and this slightly sketchy guy came in and asked if we had an exact-o-knife.
We do have an exacto-knife.
I asked if scissors would work and he said no. I told him that was all we had.
I wasn’t intentionally trying to be a jerk but I couldn’t help but imagine the newspaper headline had the dude attacked me/robbed us utilising said exactoknife.
LOCAL IDIOT HANDS THIEF WEAPON USED IN SUBSEQUENT ATTACK
Not I, sir. Not I.
Sad news friends: After two singles that didn’t exactly set the charts alight, Girls Can’t Catch have been chucked on the pop scrap heap.
You may remember Girls Can’t Catch as the group behind the 31st best single of 2009 or the brilliant “Echo” and “Keep Your Head Up” videos. You may also remember that this blog was mentioned on the girls’ official website in reference to said Echo video.
Girls Can’t Catch gave us at least five solid pop songs during their brief time in the spotlight – which to be fair is four and half more than Kesha has ever given us – and yet for some reason they never quite caught on. Perhaps it was the name, or their lack of “authenticity” – a post on this most modern of preoccupations to follow shortly – or maybe playing croquet in a rubbish dump is just too nouveau for the subtle pop tastes of 2010? Who knows? But I can tell you this, I WILL NOT FORGET.
Girls Can’t Catch, we hardly knew ye.