2. Finding a classic Burberry (like, for realz) trench coat, in mint condition, in the depths of a Bloor West used clothing depot for $20 (bargained down from $30 with a bit of strategic leaning forward in a smartly low cut sweater with a slight grin) feels pretty good.
BUT:
Question: is it unethical that I do, in certain circumstances, abuse a bit of overconfidence and a strategic lip-biting “c’monnnn” aesthetic to get what I want? For free cabs, free AGO admission, bargained goodwill finds? Am I no better than the blow-job promotion? (for the record, my office has never seen above my knee or below my collarbone) am I just as bad as the office slut?
3. I like dive bars. Give me $3 pints, crumbling walls and a well-stocked jukebox and I’m your biggest fan. There is something so comforting about the grimy, cozy dives my friends and I love so much. Give me Dundas West and Sir Perry’s in cans. Give bathroom stalls sprawled with incoherent self-deluded ramblings and tags. Give me aged, ragged regulars pouring over free papers sitting at stools they’ve sat on for 20 years.
A friend once told me that when Cat Power comes to town she calls the boys she knows and sets up shop at Jilly’s. She’s light years ahead of us in the dive game, and though I don’t think I’ll get to her level soon, there’s something so intriguing about a critically acclaimed, trendsetting songstress ordering scotch and stuffing g-strings with Canadian fivers at the dirtiest strip club known to the east end. If pushed I’d take Jilly’s over King Street any day.
oh and:
Ingredients for the drunken dinner photo shoot?
I part afternoon vintage shopping with 2 best girls
2 parts exhaustion
3 parts swim gear (on hand in full intent to attend evening lane swim post-shopping. Ha.)
10 million parts Stella
Results:
Kelly demonstrating front crawl at the Lakeview at 6:30 p.m. clad in swim gear and towel.
Oh well, I never liked that place much anyway. 
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