Before I left Toronto to return to Halifax for my second to last academic semester, I made sure to do three things: have at least one more order of beef fried rice noodles from Swatow, hug our cat, Romeo and scour Queen Street West for the elusive leather jacket.

I think this time I really did it. On my last stop, a place appropriately called House of Vintage, I found this size small motojacket. To think now that I passed it by without a second glance the first time I saw it, hanging on the racks amongst worn Harley Davidson’s fit for a man so broad I can only dream of having shoulders as wide, feels like I came dangerously close to missing out on possibly the best relationship I’ll ever have.

Granted I had to pay for it, but if I’ve learned anything in my 23 years of life it’s that true love will cost ya.

What’s the first choice you remember making?

I was eight. After much negotiation, my mother and I came to an understanding that if I stop sucking the index and middle fingers of my right hand-my version of the thumb-I’d be given permission to take my bike the three minutes to Josh’s house without her. I’d spent the several months prior begging to do just that, but like any good tyrant parent, the opportunity to rid their child of a bad habit wasn’t lost on my mother. ‘Such a great teaching moment,’ she’d say. Although, as far as the dime-sized gap in my front teeth was concerned, the damage was done.

Choosing not to suck my fingers was the first time my life changed because of a choice that was completely my own. It’s up for debate whether being free to ride your bike void of parental supervision qualifies as a life changing event, but back then it was everything.

To me-even when you’re eight-choices are about perspective and mine changed completely for the first time in 1998. I wasn’t just taking the same trip I had a dozen times before. It was new. I was new. Most importantly, I was doing it alone and when you’re eight, doing things alone meant you were independent, you were grown-up. Until then being alone was something I spent my days dreaming about: watching t.v. alone, playing Super Mario alone, navigating the perils of the street alone. I wasn’t just riding my bike to Josh’s house, I was riding to my future.

Nowadays, being alone is something you’re told to never wish for; today it’s synonymic with being lonely. When you’re 23 and alone, it means you’ve somehow failed. Take a walk by yourself and you’re depressed. Eating lunch alone in a crowded restaurant is as much a declaration of your loneliness as it is your hunger. Our perspective on what it is to be alone has changed since all of us twenty-somethings were kids and stumbling through life content with just our thoughts to keep us company. In your twenties if you aren’t constantly surrounded by friends or have a rolodex of lovers, you’re coming up short.

When I was twenty-one and moving into my first apartment where I would live alone, I thought being lonely was a skill you had to acquire and then and only then would you be welcomed into adulthood. I was lonely not because it was my choice but because it was something I thought I had to do; like a rite of passage. I imagined it as this trait you learned to live with and if you’re lucky, never resent, like an mole or nervous tick.

David Foster Wallace’s commencement address, This Is Water, from the video below isn’t about being alone. It’s about making choices. It’s about being aware, deciding to consider others and deciding to be okay with yourself. After I listened to Wallace’s speech, I decided that I’m going to be okay with being alone and if life calls for it, even being lonely. Not because it’s a rite of passage or prerequisite for adulthood but because it’s my choice and somewhere between eight and twenty-three, I forgot that choosing was an option. Granted, it might not be as life changing this time around but I don’t need life to change anymore, I just need it to be mine–again.

The growing trend for the world-at-large: not leaving your house to do anything. You can buy a condo, puppy and partner online. You can chat with family and reconnect with friends. Send a message to a old crush or hunt down a new one. The ease of which is enticing but one might wonder if there’s something lost in the modern world’s avoidance of human interaction-like, say, sanity. You can only get so much from a 6 second loop of your grandma waving from her kitchen in Main.

Take Grindr, for instance, an app which allows gay men to find other ‘willing’ gay me in their general vicinity; Tinder is an app that does the same for our hetero counterparts. If it wasn’t for sex’s inherent need for physical contact, I’d bet my bottom dollar that humans everywhere would have a far different relationship with their iPhones.

On that same vein, while standing in the line to have David Sedaris sign my growing stack of his novels, my conversation with Mulu somehow diverged to Ashley Madison, a site and service wholly devoted to finding married individuals someone to have sex with, someone who isn’t their partner. He told me that the service had ads running during regular daytime television and I envisioned a married couple, watching the ad, sharing a couch and imaging what it’d be like to be with ‘Tom: a successful contractor from Tennessee.’

Granted buying clothing online, or in the case of Krush, an app that allows men to curate a profile of things they’d like to buy, isn’t comparable to breaking the sanctity of marriage – I do think it is but another step in the recluse direction. Women have been shopping online for quite sometime – so have men, but definitely not to extent we see today. Like many trends in fashion, the guys are playing catch-up. An infograph from Swril, claims that 50 percent of men between ages 18-35 are shopping online nowadays. It’s quick, it’s easy, it might not always fit, but with e-tailers growing relaxation toward returning, that’s become less and less of an issue.

I know a friend of a friend who met their significant other in a chatroom as a prepubescent. They stayed in contact throughout their teenage years, Skyping and occasionally making the inter-country trek to see one another. They just set the date for their wedding and have spent the last several years living together, happily. It’s success stories like this that sway me to believe in investing my money, time and heart into online endeavors. That give me the courage to start a OkCupid account in the event I needed it or buy $400 loafers before I know how they make my toes feel.

But yet this idea of living completely online still leaves a sour-and lonely-taste in my mouth. I like going to the store, touching what I’m about to put my hard-earned dolla dolla bills toward. I (sometimes) enjoy chatting with an eager sales associate, getting a third party opinion on my 22nd plaid shirt, or hearing about my friend’s new job over coffee, with the ability to touch them if I want, hug them even. Shopping online, specifically, my seem harmless enough, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s a gateway to something more, maybe not adultery, but something.

You probably know Tim Blanks if you’ve read any prominent fashion publication, ever. Or if you saw Garage magazine’s video, Take My Picture, which he narrated. Turns out, SHOWstuido did an interview with the fashion journalist and filmed the thing in black and white, which, well, paired with the British accents of both Blank and the interviewer make for an ear-pleasing 16 minutes.

It was a gloomy December night and the cusp of a new year when Jonathan sent me a text that said, “We’re going vegan in 2013.” “I’m down.” I sent back. Putting aside our extensive and loving conversation, one might wonder why he left no option for refusal. Well, it’s this thing we do where we exert our dominance over one another through a relentless onslaught of ultimatums but regardless, in the 3 minutes between his request and my response I convinced myself I was up for the challenge.

Six months prior I had experimented with vegetarianism and if it wasn’t for thanksgiving I’d still be eating rice for every meal, but at least I’d have my dignity. So, this felt like the perfect opportunity for redemption.

——-

It’s January 1, 2013 and I’m sitting in a Subway with my parents before boarding my flight to Toronto, it’s also my first official day of veganism. Feeling devoted, I order a veggie sub on whole wheat. Lettuce, tomato, red onion, cucumber-I made sure to ask for extra everything. If I wasn’t getting meat, I at least wanted enough vegetables to have it weigh like a chicken breast. Being new to this whole no meat, no dairy or no happiness diet, I had no idea you had to ask if your bread had prior relations with eggs, so I didn’t. For the same reason, condiments were exempted.

“Extra mayo, please.” I like Subway because when you ask for extra something they really give it to you. Not like Quizno’s or Pita Pit, where ‘Extra lettuce, please. I’m a vegetarian.” also means What did you say? You’re a hedonistic, pretentious f^*k? I once shared my concern with Jonathan over a foot-long ham and he said not to worry, “The employees at Pita Pit definitely aren’t familiar with the term hedonistic.” Turns out though, mayo is riddled with eggs-the kittens of the poultry industry as far as vegans are concerned. Who knew?

“You’re doing what?” my father asked after I unwrapped what essentially was salad on a bun and briefly mentioned my new endeavour.

“Going vegan. It means I can’t eat any meat or animal by-products, like dairy and stuff,” I explained.

“It sounds like voodoo and I think you’re going to starve to death.”

When it comes to my physique, my father never misses a beat. Two days, three weeks or six months without seeing me and it’s always the same “My God, eat something, would ya.”

“Maybe,” I said with a slight laugh. The kind you give your parents when you want to entertain their concern but know they could never understand because it’s a generational thing. I agreed with him, though. It had been 5 hours of being vegan and I had already imagined how my sandwich wrapper might taste roasted with a little garlic.

My parents were less than keen on the idea of my 140 pound-self eating less types of food, not-to-mention meat, the be-all, end-all of dietary options in my father’s mind.

“You’re 22 years-old, 140 pounds and I didn’t want to tell you this but your Christmas presents are from Gap Kids,” my mom said with equal parts compassion and wit. Dad nodded in agreement, adding “You look decrepit.”

“I hate you both and you have no one but yourselves to blame for my crack addict metabolism.”

“You’re on drugs?”

“Besides, I’ll be eating the same amount of food, just different kinds,” I assured them.

My parents didn’t say anything. They just looked at one another the way they do when I talk about ideas they call ‘big city’.

I was half-way through my sandwich when my mom pointed out my lack of condiment due diligence, her voice underlined with pride.

“You know there’s egg in mayo, right?”

“Great.”

Since it only makes sense to claim veganism once you eat something on your first day, technically it had only been 15 minutes of an attempted animal-free meal. But in that 15 minutes I had managed to put myself back in the shoes of a washed-up vegetarian circa October 2012. I was feeling defeated, but I had to make quick decisions. I pushed the memory of a turkey long ago to the back of my mind and addressed my parents’ staring, as if to say ‘are you a failure or not?’

“You know, they say 7 out of 10 people accidentally eat meat within the first 3 weeks of trying veganism,” I said, swallowing a mouth full of egg-mayo.

“Really?” my mom questioned.

“Yeah. It’s a fact.”

It wasn’t. But I decided that given the unforgiving restrictions of veganism and my beginner status I was entitled to at least one ‘get out of meat free card’-and I took it.

——-

Once I landed in Toronto and Jonathan and I were finally reunited, that night he began questioning me as to the contents of my meals that day.

“So what did you eat? And don’t lie.” I hated him for adding that second part because 1. I was appalled that he thought I would even consider lying and 2. It’s exactly what I had planned to do.

“Well, it’s only been one meal. And I had a veggie sub from Subway.” Everything about this was the truth, the sub I had was, in fact, vegetarian-it was just coated in a thick layer of mayo, too.

“Mmhmm.” He seemed less than convinced so I quickly pointed the conversation toward what we’d eat next.

“So have you given any thought as to what we’re going to eat, you know, long term? I don’t know if you realize but literally everything has animal something or other. I was reading the description on my thermos while on the plane here and it said ‘May contain traces of dairy.’ Does that mean I can’t drink from my thermos anymore? I paid a lot of money for this thermos. It has a little net on the inside that holds loose tea.”

“Okay, first of all, I find it very difficult to believe your thermos was made using any sort of dairy product. Secondly, you’re allowed to keep anything you already have that isn’t vegan, you just can’t buy anything new,” he stated matter-of-factly. My father was right, this is voodoo.

“So I can’t buy anything leather? This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. What about wool?”

“I discussed wool with Sam and she and I agreed that because sheep shed it for health reasons during the summer, it’s okay.”

“Right,” I said apathetically as my mind lingered on the issue of no leather. Anyone who knows me knows I’ve been on a journey to find the perfect leather jacket since I slid from my mother 22 years ago and to give up on that dream is to give up on myself.

“What about finding the perfect leather jacket?”

“You’ll just have to put it on hold.” He said this with little-to-no effort to console me, so I decided not to justify his solution with a response and went back to unpacking my suitcase, broken-hearted.

The next day was the first of my new job, and like the one before, I started it hungry for meat. I thought it a bad sign to wake up craving jerk chicken and an even worse idea to fulfill it, so I settled for coffee, hold the cream.

Thankfully my office is pretty conducive to living an animal-free lifestyle. The kitchen is relatively small with a single fridge and doesn’t hold anything to eat besides another person’s lunch. Since I’ve yet to resort to criminal activity to subdue my need for roast beef, this worked in my favour. The food court downstairs, however, will throw any vegan-baby for a loop.

I didn’t notice it before-likely because I was one of them-but the people that eat in food courts are merciless, meat-eating savages. If they’re not ripping KFC from the bone they’re swallowing chunks of teriyaki beef whole. I watched this one elderly lady suck on a bone for so long that when her lengthy, rather questionable relationship with the chicken leg finally ended, it came out it with a glossy, reflective sheen; much like me at 21. She eventually tossed it in the garbage but not before using it to check her makeup.

Walking through the crowds of people looking for a suitable lunch was like meandering through a butcher shop but instead of using knives to tear through their prey, everyone was using their teeth. How was I-a meagre 2-day old vegan-supposed to ignore the savagery happening all around me? And more importantly, what the f^*k was I going to eat?

After a near dietary crisis, I ended up settling for some sort of noodle, vegetable concoction that on a day when I wouldn’t have traded my soul for a pork chop, might have tasted okay. But today it just tasted like defeat.

It wasn’t until I got back to my desk that I noticed the invite to a late lunch. It was to celebrate my joining the team and the invitation said we’d be dining at The Keg. Why is this happening to me? I thought. To anyone who isn’t familiar with The Keg, let’s just say that if veganism is born in local farmers markets, The Keg is where it goes to die.

The restaurant was across the street from our building, so I had little time to devise a plan. As I sat with my manager and two other colleagues, thoughts were racing as to how I would find anything vegan in this meat haven. The menu was blanketed with animal: Tenderloin this and leg of lamb that. It didn’t take long to realize I had two options: either ask the server for something specially made, confess to my superiors that I’m vegan and forever be known as ‘Oh, f^*k. That guy.’ or order the California Club, purposely break my promise to Jonathan (for which I would feel horribly and is entirely different than the mayo fiasco because that was an accident) and forever leave veganism in the dust of my sandwich. Both were enticing options and it wasn’t until the server approached our table that I made my decision.

“Are we ready to order?” he said.

“Yes! I’ll take the club. Extra mayo, please.”

This article was originally published on HelloGiggles.

A couple of weeks ago, I hunkered down at the Sony Entertainment Center in downtown Toronto with a 1,000 or so other people to listen to essayist, David Sedaris read from his new collection of essays, Let”s Explore Diabetes With Owls. Upon arrival, I joined a growing line that would end with David signing the three books I had brought. But after 40 minutes of waiting, his manager informed us that in order to start the show on time, we would have to take our seats and David would finish the line post-read.

As I sat patiently awaiting his arrival to the stage and sipping on a miniature glass of seven dollar red wine, the crowd around me chatted anxiously about how hilarious they thought David was and would be tonight. The lady next to me told her friend that her favorite book is When You Are Engulfed In Flames, a novel that highlights David’s trials and tribulations with trying to quit smoking and death and I nodded agreeingly in their direction. After several minutes and a red stain on my sweater, David took to the stage and following a quick introduction re: his book tour and staying in Toronto, read the first of several new pieces, Understanding Owls.

The whole reading lasted about hour. Immediately after I saw the last glimpse of David exit stage left, I bolted for the lobby to ensure I snagged a favorable place in the book signing line, preferably no where near the back or entrance to the mens restroom that loomed nearby. Another two hours or so of waiting and I finally got to meet David. He chatted with Mulu and I about what we wore to bed at night and the man that inserted an eel into his asshole just a few weeks ago in China. The whole interaction lasted only a couple minutes and we were sent on our way, making room for the next person in line.

Let’s Explore Diabetes With Owls is set to be released April 23, chances are at any and every book store near you.

Illustration courtesy of Toronto Star.

A couple of weeks ago I was meandering around a place called Bungalow in Toronto’s Kensington Market where I came across an adhesive cover for the iPhone 4.

‘It’s made entirely from real wood,’ the lady said from behind the service counter.

‘No way!’ I said. ‘I’ll take it.’

Never one for cases of any sort, I’ve since ripped the thing off using a butter knife I found in my office kitchen. This story has little to nothing to do with these sunglasses other than the fact that they’re made from wood. Through varying circumstances (several friends turning vegan, my own failure at doing the same) I’ve come to be more vigilant of what I’m purchasing and the impact my buying habits are having on the world-at-large. So words like ‘recycled’ are becoming more prevalent as days go by.

I’ve made it a mission to only buy used unless necessary and purchase more scarcely as a general rule of thumb. Enter these recycled sunglasses via Medwind. They’re apparently handcrafted from recused driftwood courtesy of various Mediterranean beaches and come with the embodied satisfaction that your eyewear has probably been more places than you.

Saint Laurent continues to roll out their new campaign, welcoming their most recent collaboration, Daft Punk. Seen wearing Laurent’s Glitter ‘Le Smoking’ jacket, the electronic music duo aren’t the first musicians to pair with the brand: Marilyn Manson and Beck are amongst the ranks as well.

Brands partnering with pop culture front runners of a certain aesthetic happens all the time; take Beyonce’s new ad for Pepsi, an endeavor obviously meant to signify Pepsi’s role in making you bootylicious. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize that Saint Laurent is working to create a certain edge with their newest campaign, both Marilyn and Daft Punk bring an angst rivaled only by the most hormonal of teens.

I’m a fan. You?

A clean segue from recent posts surrounding floral print and multipurpose footwear, Thorocraft’s SS 13 brings us an combined version of both.

While I’ve never actually owned shoes that have carried a full-blown pattern per se and to be frank I’ve never really found a pair that I’ve liked enough to take the leap (in), these oxfords are coming mighty close. The floral print is large enough that a passerby can identify it without bending down, nose to shoe and the double sole acts as the perfect break for pattern and ground.

And while I’m a growing fan of the print, I’m even more so of the Vachetta leather heel, despite knowing what that actually means. Another day, another floral print.

This morning when I rolled over to turn off my alarm, the last thing I expected to see was a mixture of hail and snow beating against my window. The several weeks prior have, if nothing else, felt like a gateway to Spring: temperatures nearing 10 degrees, birds chirping in nearby trees, the still scarce but growing number of stark white legs courtesy of a winter past.

But that’s the way of Canada, right when you truly believe we’ve made headway as a country, Stephen Harper purchases 10 million dollar Giant Pandas, or it snows in April. The point being, these shoedals from Paul Smith were created with the arrival of Spring in mind and until this morning I thought it was here, I’m writing about them regardless.

The above shoedals are from a post and Summer of the past, nor are they Paul Smith, no less, I do feel they respectfully uphold the name. I think the most important qualities defining a shoedal is that there exist some amount of cut-out and a working strap. These are from a vintage shop in Toronto and while they lack some attributes that make the Paul Smith version so great: a softer leather and the presence of a kiltie, in the face of Spring calling psych, they’re holding up quite fine.