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I gotta be honest with you, I don’t follow it too closely. I mean, I may not be that stereotypical sport-watching (unless you count Formula 1), beer-drinking (not averse though), guy who communicates through bodily noises (though I’m guilty of relaxing, certainly), but fashion is lost on me entirely. I firmly believe that heterosexual male genes do not allow one to comprehend fashion. The mind simply does not connect with it. Sure, it looks good on the girl, but in what way is it practical?

Will it keep my hands warm in the winter? Is it coloured neon orange so that in the event of an emergency I can wave it aloft to signal airborne emergency crews? Is it worth the money? Because I don’t need any tassels or doohickeys, and sure as hell no fluffy balls; I just want my money’s worth (and an extra pair of shoelaces). Since fashion is simply a word, a subjective concept like God or banana bread, it doesn’t affect the decision-making process.

And then there’s this:

I don’t know how the women put up with this. When I sit down for a haircut, I’m expecting to be out in fifteen minutes. Chatter to a minimum – cutting of the hair is priority. These girls probably sit in those chairs for hours having crap smeared on their faces and chemicals tossed on their hair. I’d have a powder brush to someone’s throat in about thirty seconds.

I doubt there will be a repeat of last year’s humorously inebriated speech by Robin Kay, the president of the Fashion Design Council of Canada (and major Fashion Week organizer).  “[That] kind of bad behaviour is the equivalent of wearing a bad accessory”, said one of the event’s vice-presidents afterwards.

I really only have a gestural response to this one: *palm up, shrug, and “I have no idea” smirk*

I might also add: *gentle side-to-side head shake*; for emphasis.

The same could be said of the following item:

You may have noticed that this doesn’t look much like Fashion Week anymore, but it is somewhat related. They’re trying to get me to call this “yarnbombing” after the graffiti word “bomb” (to paint), but I refuse to do it. It’s a bunch of knitted yarn tied a utility pole in a park for the purpose of beautifying it. I read about it in a Star article today which tried to equate the activity of affixing a knitted square to a fence, to spray-painting a wall in a dank, dark alley.

Don’t get me wrong, putting cozies on everything isn’t such a bad thing. But as many people (mostly ladies) who put their knitting and stitching up last year discovered, a little rain or snow will quickly give their good intentions the middle finger.

Just not practical.

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It didn’t pan out.

First off, I wouldn’t know fashion if it ran up to me, tugged at my sleeve, and called me dad. So most of the clothing stores and their slight, jaded attendants with aborted personalities, were out of the question. And any haircut I would plunk down three digits for (as if!), would be experimental. I don’t wear experimental well. I have a utilitarian, European head. It’s made for thinking, imbibing spirits, and spectacular love-making. Not for unusual hair styles.

But that’s okay. If I can’t spend my money on anything else, I can always buy a new MIDI controller of some kind that I’ll use, like, three times and then forget about.

I used to flip through the comics at Silver Snail regularly as a teen, but they don’t carry much of what I enjoy anymore. I keep tellin’ em there’s a market for it. They keep tellin’ me that what I want is “illegal” and “sick” and that they “never carried it” and “please stop masturbating”.  Hey, their loss.

I’ll happily take my business elsewhere.

I enjoy a genital piercing as much as the next guy, but I was pretty intent on getting that haircut. That’s the problem with Queen West though, isn’t it? There’s always something to distract you. If it’s not a novelty condom store or the exciting fall 2009 line of designer bongs and smoking accessories,  it’s street voodoo:

So, naturally, by the time I got to the old Citytv building, the first thing and the other thing (there were two, right?), had broken free of my skull and fled. Something about a hat and a vest?

Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. Wish I could say the same for  poor Moses Znaimer.

Oh yeah, now I remember. Yeah. No way I’m getting a haircut now.

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