Working Out Is For Suckers


To all the ladies who were thinking to themselves “if Sam were just a little more muscular, I would totally be down” I have a few things to say: I am giving up on getting muscular and fuck you. For two years I have had an on again off again, will they won’t they relationship with working out. I was going to work out not to be healthy, but to be hunky. I had a mentality that if I didn’t get my movie star body, I would not be able to get the girl of my dreams(who changes daily and can range from fictional movie character such as Norah form Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist to the blow up doll from Lars and the Real Girl).


Maybe a fleshlight is more practical.

My attempted transformation from lanky and underweight to muscular and photoshopped has been labeled Operation Taylor Lautner, and like the namesake actors career- today, the operation is over. My days of GTL, Gym Tan Laundry, minus tan and laundry, are no more.

It all started two years ago after a gut-wrenching rejection by a female. I said to myself “if only I was muscular, if only my tits exploded from my 3 sizes too small shirt, if only I was big like Tom Hanks- that girl would have been all over me.” So with my defeated state of mind, I began working out. Without any real routine I lifted weights in my dorm room daily. The results didn’t come quick enough, which is unusual for me, so I gave up.

Last year round two began as I thought to myself “girls don’t care about arms they care about toned, rock hard abs.” A friend told me my anorexic frame was perfect to get abs easily and if I did Ab Ripper P90x, I would see results in no time. I began doing the program four times a week for eight months. But again the results I wanted did not come, like all my female partners.

At the end of this past summer I decided this was it. Round three, it was time to join the gym and get on a routine. I committed myself to going 2-3 days a week. For 2 months I kept up this regimen. I would lift weights, drink 3 protein shakes a day, and I even ate egg whites. But again, no one was coming, and I have finally decide I am ok with it. Working out sucks anyways.

Some people get that workout high, they exclaim there is no better feeling than the one you get after a workout.  Well all I felt after working out was nauseous. I am nauseous enough in my life as it is. Unless you are a devoted bulimic, nausea is not euphoric.

Also, food is too good. They say you need to eat right and eat well to get a hot bod. I definitely eat well- but not in a healthy sense. I love eating out! I like to make my way down to a restaurant or fast food joint every day if I can. I just can’t give up the gluten, calories, and my taste buds, to eat Kale and  assorted legumes- all for the sake of massive arms.

At this point, if you are still reading, you are probably thinking “all this sounds great! You were eating better, getting regular exercise, if you keep it up, the results will come and you will be muscular and healthy!” The issue is, I do not care to be healthy. I really enjoy being lazy. I am 5’10, 130 pounds, and 20 years old. I can worry about my health when I’m dead. I was only doing it to get girls and I have decided that I am happy to play the part of the quirky lanky awkward guy. If my belief in “life is a movie” is correct, which my imaginary friend Theodore T. McGuffin assures me it is, according to the classic Hollywood trope  I should get a quirky girl whose out of my league very soon.

Awkward = Lanky = Hot Girls

Awkward + Lanky = Hot Girls. #Math

Read My last blog: The Etiquette of A Drunken Stupor


The Etiquette Of A Drunken Stupor


I know what you are thinking, “Oh Sam, how creative, a blog post about Rob Ford smoking crack. Aren’t you original?” I understand your dry sarcastic tone, and I don’t like it, so cut it out. I am going to write this blog, and you are going to freaking like it.

Let’s begin! For those who have a social life and don’t have time to check their Twits, Foosebooks, Instahollers, SnoopyDoop Chats, and other Medias, I will break some news to you here, right now. The mayor of Toronto, Rob Ford, smoked crack-cocaine*.

*Does no one else find it absolutely hilarious the way the media says “crack-cocaine?” Just say it out loud in a formal tone. Imagine your not so with-it dad saying “crack-cocaine”. Why don’t they just say crack or cocaine? Why is it hyphenated like the last name of a child with divorced parents? I digress.

After many a months of denial the mayor admitted to smoking “crack-cocaine”. He attributed the use of that frosty coco snow to a drunken stupor. The mayor was so inebriated that he was in a state of unconsciousness, or as we kids like to say; he was white girl wasted. In this condition, he somehow managed to stumble into a bad neighborhood, meet up with some thugs, enter their den of fun, and was offered “crack-cocaine.” He responded, by of course, smoking that sweet dome of the rock.



As a young adult, I must say when I speak as the voice of my generation, that I’m a professional at drunken stupors. I have filled 2-3 days a week for the last 2 years of my life with them. But, I have yet to stumble my way into smoking “crack-cocaine.” My problem with the mayor of Toronto smoking “crack-cocaine” isn’t that of politics. It is that he has single-handedly ruined the ability for us funyons (fun young people) to continue to use the excuse of being in a drunken stupor. He has completely discredited the trump card we use to rationalize our behavior.

We should not be able to just write anything off as a drunken stupor. We have to be accountable at some point, and that point probably starts around doing “crack-cocaine.” Mayor Ford, I do not accept your excuse, you went over the line, and your actions have hurt my ability to get drunk and make poor decisions.

Stuporing about as a Youth.

Stuporing about as a Youth.

I have forged a list of activities that are acceptable to be written off as amicable while in a drunken stupor that may or may not resemble my Saturday night.

1. Urinate in Public. When you’ve got to tinkle, let it sprinkle. We all know the doomed breaking of the seal, the stream never ends! When you are drunk, it is perfectly fine to urinate wherever you want. According to Freud, your Id needs to be satisfied, and it wants you to pee, so pee.

2. Text girls. There is nothing wrong with texting a girl sentences that seem coherent at the time. They don’t call alcohol liquid confidence for nothing. Everything you do when drunk seems like the right thing to do, and it probably is. Get the 3 D’s across while dickered. Be sure to slur your desires, dreams, and devotions over a text to any girl. You won’t regret it.

3. Vomit nonchalantly. Vomiting is a spiritual act. It literally cleanses your body of bad omens. I recommend vomiting often for health and religious purposes. But, we can’t always be fortunate enough to have the flu! Vomiting is tough to initiate, which is why drunken stupors are the perfect time to throw up. Go for it! Binge and purge wherever and whenever you want! On a sidewalk, your friends sink, David Memling’s snack bowl. Heave your night away!

4. Eat cheap Chinese Food. Never in your sober life should you say “this $3 Chinese food seems like the best idea!” But you are in a drunken stupor, that swine-infected chow mein is just what the doctor ordered! Fill your face with hot and spicy soup that has the consistency of freshly donated semen, you deserve it!

5. Throw Knives. You love ninjas! This is the perfect time to begin your training. Grab any household knife: bread knife, carving knife, kitchen knife- whatever your heart desires. Take said knife and throw it anywhere! Aim for your parents’ vase that dates back to Paris, 1867 or the assorted fruit above your friends head. You are in a drunken stupor, and you are a ninja, IT’S FINE!



Alcohol unlocks the door to weird. It takes us on journeys we wish we could remember. As fun as alcohol can be, we must be sure that when participating in a drunken stupor we limit our extremes to menial things like a break dance fight, taking shirtless photos with your bros, and casual discussions about Ryan Gosling. We can’t push the limits of what is acceptable while stuporing around, or else we will lose the ability to use it as a legitimate excuse. Getting off on that “crack-cocaine” is beyond the boundaries. This is why I call upon all young-adults who are part of the intoxication-nation to demand an apology from Mayor Rob Ford, for wasting OUR legitimate excuse on something so absurd. He has tarnished our excuse, and who knows if it will ever be acceptable again.

The next time you show up at work hung-over, and your work suffers, prompting your boss to ask for an explanation, and she no longer accepts “I was in a drunken stupor last night” as a valid response- you know there is only one person to blame for your misfortune: Rob Ford.

Read my last blog on Movember!


Mo Moustache Mo Celibacy


Since the dawn of time, man has yearned to embellish his face with a stylized patch of hair. That growth of hair upon a man’s upper lip has become legend in the mythos of Manhood. Yet due to fear of female disapproval, today only the bold, brave and hipster adorn these whiskers year-round. But once a year, men are encouraged to step out from the 5 o’clock shadow and embrace their ancestors.

No Lay November, or Movember as it is officially called in the calendar is the one month a year where I am useful to society. If you have kept up with the Kardashians (the blog) you surely know that I am Sasquatch reincarnate. For the next few weeks my abundance of hair comes in handy, as I am able to grow a moustache to raise funds for prostate cancer awareness and to keep girls away from my face.

For 30 days I have pledged my face to charity and myself to an unwanted celibacy. Although my social life seemed grim anyways, I am going to blame my misfortune for the course of the month on my puke-inducing “moustache.”

You Would Not Kiss me With This Facial hair...Would You?

Day 4: You Would Not Kiss me With This Facial hair…Would You?

You say, Sam, that’s nice of you, but what do you care about prostate Cancer and why should I? The answer is simple, I may be young…but one day in my future I will have a lubricated finger shoved up my rectum, and I assure you, it will not be for my personal pleasure. Some symptoms of prostate cancer include:  pain, difficulty in urinating, problems during sexual intercourse, or erectile dysfunction. None of these are something I or anyone else should desire to be ailed by in their lifetime.

So donate to my campaign, so we can help find a cure for prostate cancer, before I ever have to deal with it.

Donate to my campaign: https://www.movember.com/ca/donate/payment/member_id/1609052/

My Mo Space for updates on my growth:  http://MoBro.co/samberns


Me in 20 Years


Say Hello To My Little Scarf


Tomorrow is the scariest day of the year- Halloween. Like New years, I think Halloween is a time for us to sit back, reflect, and look forward. On New Year’s we contemplate our year past and set goals for the new one. On Halloween we think of our deepest fears, the old and new ones that will creep up on us between now and a year’s time.

Many people fear death, spiders, clowns- to name a few. I, like everyone, have fears that are akin to the masses. But for the last few weeks I have had a larger, warmer, fashionable fear: scarves.

Scary Scarf

I don’t know if it is the scarf itself, or the idea of becoming a guy that wears a scarf that scares me. Possibly both. But the fear is becoming more prevalent in my mind, and I may be going down a path there is no returning from.

Whether we like it or not, the cold weather is upon us. I know this not because I am a meteorologist, but because I can feel it in my bones. As I walk down the street every morning the coldness seeps into my nipples, tickles my neck, and intrudes my nostrils. An idea has been rolling around in my head for a while. The idea that I could…maybe should…even need to get a scarf.
I’m not speaking one of those flimsy scarves you wear indoors. I can’t cross that line. Although I have begun to embrace some hipster tendencies, I need to stop at a certain point, and I think an indoor scarf is pushing boundaries I am not prepared to go beyond…yet. I am speaking of a purely outdoor, heat inducing scarf.

This seems useful

The issue is scarves are also for style and speak a lot to the wearer. In my eyes it takes confidence to pull off a scarf. Confidence I am afraid I may not possess. Yesterday I went to H&M and attempted to put on some scarves. My scarf shopping companions picked some out for me, even wrapped them around my neck in different shapes and knots. Despite being told it looked good, which I obviously knew it did, it didn’t feel good. So many thoughts entered my head. Besides the style factor, there are many other issues. How many would I need? Do all scarves go with all outfits? What do I do with it once I am inside?

Gosling in a Scarf

As I looked in the mirror I saw a version of myself I was scared to embrace. Scarf Sam. Who is this Scarf Sam? What does he enjoy? What does he stand for? I don’t know. All I knew was that Scarf Sam scared me. I decided to hold off on the purchase of a scarf…for now.

As Halloween dawns on us, I reflect back on my shop scarfing experience. Fear surges down my spine at the thought of my neck wrapped with a fashionable winter accessory. I was told “once scarf is worn, prepare for the scorn.” These words haunt my every thought. The weather grows cold, my neck yearns for warmth. Yet, I am unable to take the leap from regular Sam to scarf Sam. Outdoor scarves are the gateway scarf to indoor scarves. People always say a scarf is not addictive or habit-forming, but that’s what they always say about apparel.

Similar to Al Pacino in the movie SCARFACE I seem to be quickly changing from an everyman to a monster. Guided by my rise to power and fame, my style and character have been quickly changing. I am close to becoming the unimaginable- a man in a scarf. I see my future now. I am in my hipster paradise playing an indie-rock bands Vinyl on my record player as I eat prosciutto and thickly sliced cheese. I sit there in my indoor scarf. Soon I am surrounded by intruders, looking to take me down for my elegant scarf wearing ways. I prepare for the attack. I run to my scarf closet and once my enemies enter the small metro area apartment I yell “say hello to my little scarf!” As SCARFFACE I shower them with scarves of all sizes and colours, strangling them until their necks are warm with silk, wool, and cotton.

Once you wear a scarf, you always wear a scarf, even when you’re not wearing a scarf.


Read my last blog Ping Me Baby One More Time


Ping Me Baby One More Time


For a guy that has virtually no one to talk to, I seem to have more ways to communicate than Chipotle Mexican Grill has menu combinations. Yesterday, for the first time in my life I had a PIN. I finally was part of the BBM community where I could chat with Jewish girls, business associates, and my mom.  The problem is, I wish we could just stick to texting, Facebook chat, e-mails, Skype, Snapchat, Google Hangouts, and phone calls. It appears as if I have as many unneeded communication tools as Dexter does seasons.

In high school I didn’t have BBM- which was the only way 15-18 year olds communicated at the time. With BBM unpopular for the last few years, Gosling only knows how kids have been communicating and sexing with friends. I never got pinged. But I was happy to not belong to the crackberry addiction club. I have always enjoyed conversing by phone call much more anyway. But now that BBM is available to iPhone and Android users, I’m scared.



I lay awake last night, dreading the possibility that BBM would catch on again. Here’s why:

  1. Pins. This has got to be the most painful process to add a contact ever. For starters, what are these, Captcha codes? Adding contacts is as grueling a task as shaving my back. Why can’t we just use our names like on for example, Facebook.  Which brings us to…
  2. Facebook messenger. EVERYONE HAS FACEBOOK! Seriously my grandparents are on Facebook. And you know what’s crazy? They have a messenger. Yeah I know your mind is blown, but that’s not all. The messenger has a mobile application! I know I know, I must be insane, no way that’s a thing.  But it is! You can literally talk to anyone in the world already….and it has features so you can R-Bomb like BBM, so why are we going through the hassle of BBM?
  3. Not knowing how to communicate. If I want to talk to someone, how should I talk to them? Do I call them? Do I text them? Facebook chat? BBM? If I meet someone new, do I ask for their phone number or pin? There are so many contact addresses, everyone needs to be carrying around business cards.

As of now, I’m taking the stance of “when in Rome…” I will indulge the phenomenon. Not that it really matters seeing as I only talk to myself.


Read my last blog: How I became a Psychic and Spiritual healer


How I Became a Psychic and Spiritual Healer


Two months ago, the stars aligned. The cosmos decided it was my time for greatness. Two shooting stars collided and the embers of their spiritual wealth sprinkled down on my face. Like Hal Jordan, one of earth’s Green Lanterns, the mystical beings of the universe chose me to be a savior. Two months ago I became a psychic and spiritual healer.

It was mid-August. I was switching cell phone providers and therefore, changing phone numbers. At the time, I thought nothing of this simple action. But now I realize the greatness of the moment. By accepting the terms of my new mobile contract, I also signed the intergalactic oath and gained the powers of a higher being- I just didn’t know it yet.

Soon after changing my number, I received a phone call, asking for Farah, the psychic. I turned down the call, claiming wrong number. But as I said, I had already accepted the responsibility, the burden, and the universe was not going to let me give up that easy. The phone rang again with another caller asking for Farah; again I turned down the call. This is when the magic began. Like Harry Potter’s Hogwarts acceptance letters, there was no turning them down. Phone calls continued to pour in. My voicemail filled to its limits. There was no escaping the calls- my destiny. I had to accept my fate, in brightest day, in blackest night….


Hesitantly I answered, “Hello”.  The man on the other end asked for a reading from Farah, the psychic and spiritual healer. I told him I would graciously help him over the phone. He was thankful, and we began.

“What can you tell me about my life?” he asked. I told him we needed to connect on a spiritual level. I told him to start rubbing his knees and humming. He obliged. I was skeptical about my skills. I had yet to prove to myself that I was Farah. I asked “Are you by chance a Taurus?” he said he was. 1/1. I asked him to choose his favorite number between 4 and 32. He chose 30. I asked him to close his eyes and tell me what he saw, he said “black”. I asked if he had recently lost his job. He said yes. 2/2. He asked how I knew. I said Taurus were in the milky way cycle of xerxes, and as all psychics know, this is the time of the season when powerful figures, like an employer, in someone’s life would exert unnecessary use of power. His choice of 30 attributes to his rigidity, hence the loss of a job. He asked if he was cursed. I assured him he was only hexed. He recited four tribal chants for me to remove the hex. He asked if there was anything else he could do to improve his luck at finding a new career. I told him to follow the newly finished yellow brick road…at Ryerson University. To look within himself on this walk down the University street. He thanked me dearly, and said he was on his way. I’d like to think I helped this man immensely, and helped the University of Ryerson with a possible new student. You’re welcome.

Yellow Brick Road

I have received 2-3 phone calls daily since that call. I have offered many people free sessions, some that go for over 10 minutes. I have navigated people through heartbreak, life decisions, and other miscellaneous psychic tasks.

I called Fido, by communications provider explaining the situation where Terry from customer support said “with great power, comes great responsibility.” I continue to help people free of charge. Why do I keep taking strangers phone calls and offering them spiritual healing and psychic advice you ask? The answer is simple. I am Farah and I was given a gift by Fido, subsidiary of Rogers Communications.

You can find me on Yelp here:  http://www.yelp.ca/biz/psychic-farah-spiritual-healer-and-advisor-life-center-toronto

 Read my last post about overusing twitter


Live Tweeting a Death


Let’s face it. Social media is no longer just a phase in our lives. Like HBO Girls, it’s an essential everyday part of our existence, and whether we like it or not, it is not going anywhere. Social media is a part of us. When I go eat some cool cuisine, or cook up a fancy dish, you know I’m thinking in my head “what filter is this going to look best with, mayfair or amaro?” #chefsam. Hashtags are EVERYWHERE. Literally you walk down the street and every billboard, window pane, homeless man has a hashtag on it. Constantly, we are sharing what we eat on Instagram, our anger at Justin Bieber’s latest shenanigans on Twitter, selfies on snapchat, and nothing is left to the imagination on Facebook. There are always jokes about how people share when they go to the washroom, but I am almost positive there is an app that is just for following your friends bowel movements, and if there isn’t, it is coming.

Social media is a part of us.

I ask this question though: At what point are we over sharing?

A little while ago while strolling through my medias, a post caught my eye. I am going to paraphrase the message, but let me be clear, this is almost exact.

RIP Grandpa. I will always love you. #PawPaw #RIP #WillAlwaysLoveYou

This girl hashtagged her grandfather in the post sharing to her friends that he had passed away. I decided to check out more of her posts and what I saw shocked me. Somehow I had missed that for the few weeks prior to the previous post, she had been updating everyone of her grandfathers condition through the hashtag #PawPaw. What. The. Fuck? While scrolling through the past updates I came across postings like:

Stay Strong Paw Paw. We all love you and are here for you #PawPaw #LoveYou #Hospital
You mean everything to me. I love you forever #PawPaw #Sick

Let me be clear, I am not bashing or trying to shame the sharing of your emotions over your ailing grandparent on Facebook. But hashtags!? Am I the only one that thinks this is crazy? The death of a person is not a Katy Perry Concert! Ever since the passing of this girls grandfather, she will share a post every once in a while such as:

I will never forget you. Always in my heart #PawPaw


This scares me. I can admit, I overly use social media, it definitely has a stranglehold on my life, as I am sure it does most. But is it not crazy that we are getting to a point in society where we are blurring the lines of social media and everyday life to this extent? We are live-tweeting tragic events in our lives, and making sure people can follow the dialogue through a hashtag.


What do you think? Am I being an asshole, or is this really as crazy as I think?


I’m Bringing Hairy Back


I’ve always been hot. No I don’t mean sexually attractive (although I have been informed on Twitter that that is also the case). I mean warm, temperaturically speaking I am hot- and yes I said tempuraturically. This heat can be attributed to my abundance of body hair.

For as long as I can remember, I have been covered in hair head to toe. As an adolescent, I was known as the hairy kid. True story, when I was in grade six, at recess one day I was hanging out in the schoolyard. These three guys a few years older approached me. They said “hey, we hear you’re the hairy kid.” I nodded in agreement, owning my title. “We heard you’ve got armpit hair” said the leader of the pack. I said “yeah what’s it to ya?” I was a bad ass mouthing off to the older kids. “I don’t believe you, let’s see it” he exclaimed. Clearly armpit hair was scarce among these kids or a major sexual turn-on that or I was like the lochness monster- a mythical creature of the school yard. I had no choice but to flash them. I seductively pulled off my shirt in the middle of the playground and showed off my armpit hair like a female French model. In that moment, I was infinite.

For a long time I have owned my hairiness, embracing my inner man, flaunting my chest hair like a guy in the 60’s going to a club. It has been the topic of many creative outputs of mine. But recently, I have been under attack. Society does not want me to be hairy.
I went to a bar last year, and was wearing a normal button down shirt which exposed some chest hair (as all my shirts do, not by choice). A girl approached me and said “you need to shave that.” Taken aback by the wretched witch’s comments I said to her “real women like real men.” She did not take to that too well. As she began cussing at me, her noticeably hairless beefcake boyfriend appeared and asked if there was a problem here. I walked away, but for another time in my life I was vulnerable. Soon after this incident, while watching TV, a Gillette commercial came on. It was for the Gillette Fusion Pro Glide Styler. The ad featured 3 models, Kate Upton, Hannah Simone (New Girl’s Cece) and Giselle (not to be confused with gazelle, an animal of the antelope species in the genus Gazella). A handsome man asks the viewer “What does a woman want?” Kate likes a man with, “a little” hair on his chest, but “definitely not his back.” Fuck. I have a lot of hair on my chest and a fair amount on my back. But that’s ok, Kate Upton may be attractive, but she’s not really my type. Hannah likes a man with a smooth stomach to show off a six pack. Fuck. Again, I have tons of chest hair, but I do have some solid abdomen definition…it’s just covered by the hair, I swear. Then we get to Giselle, she likes men completely hairless and no, she doesn’t think that’s weird. Fuck you Giselle. I’m 0/3.

The marketing worked. I felt self-conscious about my hair, and I bought the damn Fusion Pro Glide Styler. I trimmed my chest, had a friend shave my back(yeah it was weird), and gave into the pressure of society. For the last while I have continued to maintain the manscaping of my chest and back. But I think it’s time to fight back. Despite the hilarity of having random people shave and/or wax my back, enough is enough; it’s time to own it. If a girl doesn’t think I’m hot like the girl on Twitter said, then she doesn’t deserve my manliness and should date a naked mole rat. It’s time to change the meaning of bringing sexy back. A hairy back is a sexy back!

Why should ladies reconsider their stance on hairy men?

1. Cuddling. Close your eyes and imagine cuddling with someone. Now imagine they have a nice, conditioned, patch of hair for you to run your hand through and play with as you cuddle. Not only is it hot, it feels good for all parties involved.

2. Superman and Wolverine have chest hair. Yeah Bitch! Two of the coolest dudes in the world are rocking chest hair, and still effectively show off their bods! Suck on that CeCe!

Man of Steel Hair

3. No suction. Imagine you are underneath a dude.Your movements cause suction on your skin which can create uncomfortable fart noises.

There are infinite reasons of why hair is care. We as men need not be ashamed of what evolution has deemed necessary growth on our bodies. We are man, we are hairy, we are perfect. If any girl ever says to you “hey your body hair is sickening” ignore her and remember “You is kind. You is smart. You is important”

Side note: I guess I really enjoy talking about hair. As they say, the more the hairier.

Read my last blog: I Cheated on My Hair Stylist


I Cheated On My Hair Stylist


Relationships always start the same way. Two people meet, and they feel a spark, a connection. The feeling of happiness and satisfaction fills you like a total euphoria. You make each other better. You can’t imagine life without them; they can’t imagine life without you.
But after a while, sometimes, the spark can fade. The happiness evolves into a state of being content. You walk around the streets and someone else may catch your eye. The excitement of something new tempts you, to shake you from the rut of what is now habitual, customary. Yesterday, I did the unthinkable. I was desperate, and I was tempted. After a healthy, committed relationship of two years, I cheated. I went to a different hair stylist.

Two years ago, I decided it was important to start grooming myself after seeing the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love (shout out to David Lindhagen). My mom set me up with Fernando. He was the hair stylist at the salon she went to, and I decided to give it a shot. Fernando cut my hair, and made me a new man. People always ask “how do you know when it’s the one?” I knew from the minute his hands massaged my scalp with dandruff treating shampoo, that he was the one. If this were a movie the song “Fernando” by Abba would be playing to a montage of shots of Fernando cutting my hair, us laughing together, swapping stories. Magic.

I was happy with Fernando. He made me feel good about myself. He always styled my hair the way I liked it. I liked Fernando, maybe loved. Things got serious- I introduced him to a few of my friends. When you introduce someone to your friends, you know it’s serious.

I continued to visit Fernando. It’s not that I was bored with Fernando. He was safe; a nice guy, reliable and consistent. Last Saturday I called Fernando to see if I could swing by for a quick visit. It had been 7 weeks since my last cut and I was feeling not so fresh. My hair was long, it couldn’t be styled properly, and I was feeling like a non-groomed dog (cute, but too shaggy). He told me he was all booked up; I asked if he could see me the next day, he responded a quick no.  He said he could squeeze me in in a week’s time and I agreed. But it didn’t feel right.

Monday rolled around and as I sat at work, snapchatting selfies- it hit me. I needed a haircut, and I needed it now. My date with Fernando was a week away, I was tempted, could I wait a week? Thoughts of adultery ran through my mind. But I repressed them, until I was washing my hands in the washroom. I looked up to my reflection. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the hair standing up at the back of my head. But at that moment I realized, I was going to cheat on Fernando, and I was going to cheat today.

After work I walked around the Fashion District of Toronto, seeking my mistress. I walked into “The Original Grooming Experts” I asked how much a hair cut was. They told me hair styling comes in part of a package called “The Alpha Male” which involved a Shampoo and Conditioning, Paraffin Hand wax, Hot Towel Treatment, and then a Haircut and Style. All of this would cost me $55. If I was going to cheat on Fernando it wasn’t going to be with an expensive whore. I didn’t want all this glitz and glamour. I wanted a respectable partner who knew the situation, no questions asked, in and out. I walked out and saw a barber shop. I walked in and an elderly man greeted me and said take a seat. I silently obliged. It was an S&M scenario, I was a naughty boy who was about to be DOMINATED!

He blanketed me with a fancy apron. He draped a towlette around my neck. He said “nice day isn’t it. Nice and hot.” I knew it was the heat of the fiery hell I was about to be damned too. “How do you want it?” “Tender, loving, and quick” I thought. I was nervous, not only was I cheating on Fernando I was letting an unknown touch my hair. My neuroses kicked in. I explained the cut “tapered around the back and sides fading from short too long. Leave it so I could side part it.” I didn’t have my picture of Ryan Gosling to show him. All I could think about was Fernando’s smile as this man was let loose to possibly butcher my hair. I was vulnerable.

The Gosling Cut

He began to cut. I trembled like I had just come out from a cold lake.  As hair dropped from my head on to my lap, the nausea kicked in. The all too familiar feeling I have every time I drink alcohol or eat a large meal. I closed my eyes and breathed in and out. He could sense my unease. “First time?” he asked. I was too ashamed to respond. Every hour every minute seemed to last an eternity.

I was so afraid Fernando.

30 minutes later I opened my eyes. What I saw in the mirror scared me. I liked it. I wanted to hate the cut so badly, to prove to myself that Fernando was my one and only. But I loved it. I looked dapper. “A new man!” he exclaimed. The elderly barber was a professional, a natural; he’d been cutting hair since a time that pre-dated electricity. He knew to take his time, be gentle, and help me through this- a professional adulterer. I thanked him, paid, and left.

I still haven’t called Fernando to cancel my Saturday appointment. I’m not sure if this is the end of our relationship, if he would even have me back. Do I even want him back? I don’t know yet. My infidelity is something I am going to have to live with for the rest of my life.

Though we never thought that we could lose, there’s no regret.If I had to do the same again. I would, my friend, Fernando.

 Read My previous Blog: Nuit Blogched.


Nuit Blogched

This past Saturday I decided to have a social life and attend Nuit Blanche. For those unaware, Nuit Blanche is a street art festival in Toronto where the city basically shuts down for a night so that high school kids can get drunk and look at art. I have never attended Nuit Blanche before, so I was going in a street art festival virgin. I decided to dress the part, collared shirt, sweater, I even wore boots-it was heterosexual.

You could not tell where the sidewalks ended and the streets began. The smell of weed, alcohol, and cigarettes filled the dirty Toronto streets like potpourri fills a smelly washroom. As expected, I felt like I was in the casting call for an indie movie about angsty young adults trying to find the meaning to their life. So many artsy couples walking around, sharing cigarettes, and explaining how they felt about the randomly placed objects by A Wei Wei (pronounced a wee wee, like a child urinating) to each other. Half of me wanted to be in that movie, the other half was thoroughly convinced most of these people were full of shit.

So I began prowling for art. The first piece I saw was a performance piece, it was called “Barfing Bus” it was a youth vomiting at the bus stop. I enjoyed the message of this piece: the Toronto transit system is puke-worthy and we the people won’t stand for it anymore.

Barfing Bus

Barfing Bus

The next piece I saw was titled “The Thigh Gap”. The piece was about the allure of “what is under the gown?” At Jewish weddings it is customary that the bride’s hymen be inspected, to make sure it is intact. To do this, her large gown must be lifted. I interpreted this piece as such. The lady had a large skirt representing the big question. She towered over us viewers like the bride towers over her groom, she has the vagina, she has the power.

The Thigh Gap

The Thigh Gap

Next I saw a man who claimed to be an Adviceologist, and he also claimed to be offering free advice. I asked him general questions about dating and relationships, “how do you get a girl to like you?” he said “all girls like you, keep doing what you’re doing” I agreed. Here was the kicker, he asked me for money! He wanted a donation, after claiming this advice was free on his sign! Fucking artists. I paid him.



Another piece I saw was “Blue Balls.” 4 blue balls were placed among two pink balls. This piece represented the transformation from typical testicles to blue balls. I learned that blue balls is the medical term for the pain a man feels when he is overly stimulated and not offered sexual release. This art installation spoke to me. It reminded me of my primal self, and the struggle between my id and ego. It also reminded me of an unfortunate event in grade 8- but that’s for another time.

Blue Balls

Blue Balls

The highlights of my night were the impromptu rave and the wine tasting circus. I followed the sounds of loud beats to find a rave happening in the streets.


I then entered the #YellowTailWine(I can win $2000 for hashtagging) circus tent. There, I received plenty of wine including but not limited to merlot, Pinot Grigio, and Sauvignon Blanc. I felt like Paul Giamatti in the movie Sideways. As I sampled my wine and the wine of many strangers around me, I enjoyed the performance of a lady spinning in a suspended hula-hoop to Rihanna’s “Diamonds.”


In the end, I learned a lot about performance and street art- especially, that I don’t understand it. It was a fun experience though and I would definitely soak it in again. Gents, this is a great date idea if you can get someone to go out with you (I got a man friend to go with me, we didn’t kiss). I have a year to find a girl to go with me for next year; you can leave your name, number, and favorite movie in the comments below to be considered.

You just got Nuit Blogched.

Pickup line of the day: I don’t need to pick my nose to find gold, I already struck gold by seeing you.

Other Art:

Tree Of Life

Tree Of Life

Dragon man

Dragon man