I’m terrible at walking in Toronto.

This post has nothing to do with its title. *Listen to this*: Piano Man, by Ghostland Observatory

Seven p.m. and I am procrastinating. Putting off stepping into the shower to cleanse and decompress before my anti-valentine’s day date. The air around here makes my skin so dry, you’d swear I was a raisin masquerading as my dead great-grandmother Viv.

Thought I saw Andrew walking down King street today. My skin turned to asphalt momentarily before I decided it was unlikely he’d be in town and walking down King street. It was only terrifying because those are the moments you’d like to be ready for. You never are, according to Murphy’s law. But still, you’d like to be.

I was talking to a friend the other night and, invariably, the topic of “Gee, what will sending a crack head singer whose big hit is titled ‘Rehab’ to rehab?” I told him that I don’t talk about people like that.

And, normally, I’d relegate the latest ‘victim’ -of- substance -abuse- in- the- spotlight- to- a- foundering- inflatable- lifeboat – punctured- with- a-coke-straw -inhabited -by- not- only- other- starlets -and-pop-princesses- but- fake- Survivormen -as -well (I’m aware those hyphens are not evenly spaced but, since I am not evenly published, y’all can fuck off), however, I’m forced to admit that it is a valid comment. Will going to rehabilitation, eating a sandwich, talking about how tough it is to be a Jew with big tits and somehow stay anorexic is, and all that, affect Amy Winehouse’s out of nowhere (well, up until recently) blessing of the blues? PHEW. That was a long sentence, and I checked it 4 times so, apologies if I ought to have played a semi somewheres. What do you think?

Is the purity of an artist whose offerings are unapologetically peppered with pain and painkillers compromised when the sanctity of their health is instead considered? Or, are musicians and other manufactured artists of their ilk a commodity for us Johns to wash inside and out, paint in gold paint and clamp collars on so that they may better do our bidding?

On the one hand, humanity. On the other, pleasure at watching enviable pain.

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