There’s a podcast that completely fascinates me, the same way that Planet Earth might fascinate you when you’re on mushrooms. It’s called The Champs – I’m certain I’ve mentioned it before— and it’s hosted by two intriguingly fucked-up comedians and features a black guest. I guess the reason I’m so taken by this particular podcast is the way they speak so honestly about women and getting laid. Like, when I die and go to heaven and finally get a chance to listen in on all the conversations that had ever been had about me by guys I’ve hooked up with, particularly comedians, I imagine they will take a similar tone to the banter on this podcast. In that, it’s a tiny bit degrading, explicit and completely entertaining. I really suggest you listen.

Anyhow, on the latest episode, they talk at length about how to get sex on the road as a touring comedian. Tactics range from going to a local mall and inviting the girl at the makeup counter to your show, to chatting up the young lady who’s come with one other (female) friend. Their stories reminded me of an off-handed comment my mother made recently about the time a comedian hit on her in the 80s. It goes to show that as long as comedians have been making people laugh, they have also wanted to sleep with pretty strangers who come to see them perform. I decided to ask my mother some question to get the female perspective on this “phenomenon.”

Me: So a comedian tried to pick you up after one of his shows a few decades ago. Which one was it?

Rosa Lev: Jackie Mason.

Me: I know the name. Who is he?

RL: He’s a Jewish comedian who was very popular in the 60s, I think, I’ll have to look it up. He was trying to do a comeback so he was playing a small show in Toronto. I had never heard of him but my friends, who were much older than me, knew him from their youth. It’s very Jewish humour. So they took me.

Me: Was he funny?

RL: Yeah, it was really funny. I think he was rehearsing material for a show he was doing on Broadway, and then turned it into a CD or something. He did really well with that material. But there was no one at the club when we went to see him. It was me, the older couple I went with, and maybe two other people. It was really empty and I felt embarrassed for him. But he was really funny, we laughed our heads off, which is hard when you’re in a small, almost empty venue. He was basically talking right to us.

Me: So he was engaging with you?

RL: He did his material and when he was finished he asked if he could join our table. He asked my friends if I was their daughter, since he was around their age. They said no, that I was their friend. He asked if I was from Toronto. I said yeah. Then he asked what I was doing later that night.

Me: And?

RL: My friends said “We’re going to take her right home.” Then he moved on.

Me: How did you feel?

RL: We laughed about it.

Me: Were you flattered?

RL: Not really. How many people were there in the audience? And I was the youngest one by far. He was only interested in me because I was the youngest?

Me: Mom, you’re being modest, you were a power babe. I mean, you still are, but come on, you were a hot piece of ass. (Eds note: I’ve attached a photo below of my mom, a former model, when she was younger to hammer home this point.)

RL: Well, there wasn’t a lot of variety at the club that night. He didn’t have a lot to choose from.

Me:  It’s probably a good idea you didn’t go home with a comedian. Not only because you were happily married with two children but because you probably would have ended up as fodder. Instead, it ended up being the other way around. He ended up as your fodder. Or at the very least, he gave me fodder to blog about this week. I’d be skimped otherwise. Thanks Mom!

Hi reader. You know what I’m about to say right? Show me love by clicking one of the buttons below, leaving me a love note in the comments below or emailing me at write@eliannalev.com, oh oh oh and don’t forget to click here to Like this blog on Facebook. Hugs and kissyfaces!

Let’s talk about dreams.

Not the kind we have when we’re sleeping that, when recounting to our friends and family the next day, makes them tune us out.

No, let’s talk about the dreams that keep us alive by taking us somewhere far away from where we really are. The ones that permeate our head when we’re trying not to fall asleep during Sociology 101 in university. The dreams that fill our hearts and help us aspire to something bigger.

The focus of my dreams has varied from the whimsical to the not so out of reach. I’ve dreamed about what it would be like to have a pet lion and a pet eagle at the same time. I’ve also dreamed about what would happen if my current crush and I were the only two people to inhabit the earth. (Answer: We’d have a lot of sex everywhere.)

For the sake of this blog, I’m going to focus on the one dream that I’ve had since I was a teenager: For as long as I could write relatively well, I have dreamed of being a columnist. And recently, that dream came true.

This isn’t a unique dream for a writer. Everyone I know who puts words on page for a living wants to be a columnist. It’s the most prime gig you can get. On a regularly basis, an allotted spot on a blank page is devoted to YOU and YOUR voice. A column is basically the kingdom for your ego to reside.

Last fall, a friend who writes a column for the Metro asked if I’d like to take over while she took a few months off. Holy shit! Talk about a dream coming true! I eagerly agreed and got in touch with the editor. They asked me to do a mock entry, which the editor liked and I was told to file my first story within a week, along with a headshot.

Oh! A photo! My (admittedly pretty attractive) face would be accompanying my words in a publication that gets 500,000 eyeballs a day. What a thrill.

The week leading up to my first column entry was a busy one. I’d just returned from New York and had a pile of deadlines that needed taking care of. By the time I was to file my first entry, I’d completely forgotten about the photo I was suppose to submit alongside it, which I’d planned on getting a professional photographer friend to take. So, in a stressed and somewhat depressed state, I submitted this one, taken on my Mac’s photo booth:

So, my eyebrows could benefit from a plunk and my hair could use a comb, though I kind of like the ruffled, day-the-beach-look. But messy hair aside, I thought the photo was neutral enough to pass as my first column photo. I submitted it without much more thought. Here’s how it looked in the paper:

When I started posting links to my column on Facebook, I got a lot of great feedback. Then, people started commenting on the photo that accompanied my words.

“You’re a lot more photogenic than that photo.”

“That photo doesn’t do your pretty face justice”

“Do you want me to retake that photo for you? Really, I insist.”

I was starting to realize that my ego’s kingdom was slowly being destroyed by what I had failed to see as an undoubtedly ugly photo of myself.

The comments continued.

“You look like a crackhead! A pretty one though.”

“The only thing missing is a big hairy wart.”

OK! I GET IT! My column photo is ugly.

My dream of having my voice heard by probably the largest amount of people it’s ever been able to reach was largely overshadowed by the fact that I look like a varmint that lives in a humid sewer. When I used to dream about having a column, this wasn’t how it played out in my head.

My friend is now back from her extended vacation and I’m handing back the column to her, so grateful for the experience and exposure. I’ll miss walking on the subway, looking around and seeing at least a dozen strangers of different races, ages and backgrounds, reading a paper that I’ve contributed to.

Too bad the majority of them probably looked at my picture and thought, “Dude, that girl’s a dog.”

Here’s to dreams coming true.

Hi reader. I want to hear all about your dreams coming true. Email me as usual at write@eliannalev.com, or leave a message below or on Facebook or wherever you like to catch me. Oh, and while we’re at it, please click here  to LIKE the shit out of I’m a Good Story on Facebook. 

You know that clichéd question “If you could have dinner with someone alive or dead, who would it be?” I recently got to live that out with one of my heroes. Envious? Don’t be. I’ll tell you off the top, it was an uncomfortable experience that left me feeling like a big old dumb-dumb head.

The hero in question is a respected and adored Canadian broadcast legend. (I’m going to refrain from naming who she is, because I don’t want to be in bad standing with her by blogging about our dinner on the Internet. So you if need someone to imagine, how about picture Paula Deen’s glowing face, since she’s been in the news lately, and is a legend in her own right.)

When it was announced years ago that my hero was retiring, I cried, or at least clenched my heart, because the thought of not listening to her on a regular basis was heartbreaking. On-air, her presence was warm, thoughtful, astoundingly smart and personable. I wanted to be related to her. She made me listen, think and feel. I miss hearing the warmth of her voice.

Last week, my dad told me he was having dinner with a few broadcasting veterans he used to work with, including said hero, and asked if I wanted to join. I (obviously) said yes.

I had met my hero briefly at a Christmas party back in December. I’ve heard way too many stories of people having terrible experiences upon meeting their idols (the Bea Arthur/Rufus Wainwright one is pretty sweet) – this was not one of them.

Upon introduction, my hero was personable and sweet and later in the evening when she caught me staring at her wide-eyed from across a small group, she gently touched my shoulder and included me into the circle’s conversation. When my friends asked me what she was like, I described her as a Queen Angel. And I wasn’t exaggerating.

On the night of the dinner, I arrived at the restaurant early and nervously checked my iPhone as I waited. I didn’t want to be sitting there, upright with my hands folded, looking like I’d been eagerly waiting there, staring at the door, for too long.

When all the broadcasting vets and my dad finally arrived, the Queen Angel took a seat across from me. The moment had finally arrived! I was having dinner with one of the women I most admire!

Quickly the group of oldies launched into talk about what they’d been doing. Most of the table was retired, so there was a lot of travel stories and documentary recommendations.

I sat, listened and smiled widely. I didn’t exactly fit in.

Soon talk turned to the pros and cons of windmill power, the Plains of Abraham, The Ogaden War of 1977 and the bristling works of Christopher Hitchens.

I sat, listened and smiled widely – because was nothing else I could do. There was nothing I could contribute to any of these topics because I knew nothing about them.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years as a journalist is that if you don’t know something, admit it. You’ll only look stupider if you pretend you do. But at this dinner, there was no way I was going to divulge how little I knew about the following (broad) subjects: history, literature, geography and science. I’d prefer to come across as a wide-eyed mute than show how ignorant I am in front of someone who I admired so much.

After the meal, my dad drove the Queen Angel home. She asked about what I’ve been up to, if I’d found a place to live since moving back to Toronto. I spent the next five minutes, babbling nervously non-stop about everything that’s been going on: My challenges hustling and networking, how I want to be based in two places, preferably Toronto and Vancouver, and how I’m currently really single. She sat, listened and smiled, until we dropped her off at her front door.

“Hold your cards close to your chest and reveal them slowly,” my dad said as we pulled away from my hero’s driveway. “You give too much away about yourself.”

He was right. But I wondered if, while in the presence of my most admired hero, it would have been better to stay mum on the boring details of my personal life or admit the fact that I’m completely unfamiliar with a lot of common knowledge.

I’m still not sure I know the answer.

 Alicia Tobin is a Vancouver-based comedian who likes to talk to nice people and nice animals.  She has a lot of questions that go unanswered because she is polite. She used to live near me but then that changed when I moved from Vancouver. When talking about heavy petting recently, Alicia wanted to know more about, well, a lot of things. Take it away Alicia.

Hi. This is Alicia. Is now the time to apologize to Elianna for thinking she was some sort of make-out bandit? Elianna mentioned having made out with someone— and feeling pretty close to my pen pal (Ed’s note…pen pals are technically people who write BACK AND FORTH, which Alicia has yet to cotton on to) I asked— what does making out mean to you because it seems like it means something different to everybody else right? Or is that just I? When people say— oh I made out with that person, my mind kind of goes blank – what do you think they mean?

Alicia Tobin: First question. Is it always clothes on?

Elianna Lev: Making out means the clothes are on. They can shift around a bit, up and down and perhaps to the side, but making out involves being mostly fully clothed.

AT: Hmmm, I think I am getting a clearer picture. Yup, unhunh. Is it not cool to take your pants off if you want to because you are hot? Pants are hot sometimes.

EL: Once the pants are off, it is hard to not go further. For me, pants off means taking things to the next chapter in the book of intimacy.

AT: Is it necking or Frenching? Also, I thought necking was Frenching.  Explain.

EL: When I hear “necking” I think about that game kids play on Fun Sports Activity Day where you have to pass the apple along with your neck. That said, Frenching DEFINITELY involves a lot of, if not all, tongue. When I was 12, I learnt FIRST HAND that the traditional way to French is to move your tongue in a clockwise or counterclockwise motion around your boyfriend’s tongue. I once made out with a guy who stuck his tongue out into my mouth and just sort of let it chill out there, without moving, like if I’d had pulled away, he’s just be standing there with his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a slug. It was confusing and not what I would describe as Frenching. I also dated a guy whose tongue mimicked a hissing serpent when we kissed. That thoroughly disgusted me.

AT: So I don’t need to bring an apple to the make out? That’s a relief because I already ate it. Can making out be everything except sex? I know that oral sex is still considered sex by parents, but seriously— it doesn’t count— OR DOES IT?

EL: Oral sex is not making out. Oral sex is technically foreplay, or a reward/perk me up/time waster, if you’re in a relationship. Example, if your boyfriend was just denied entry in the US and comes home all bummed out, you give him a bj.  However, when you’re single, oral is usually something you do when you’re drunk at a wedding or when you’re about to have some intercourse.

AT: Nope.  Not at the weddings I go to.  At the weddings I go to I focus on the beauty that is the sanctity of marriage, the union of two best friends whom are also deeply in love, the buffet, and the open bar.  Not in that order.

EL: Really? As a single gal, weddings are my time to shine. And by shine, I mean act super inappropriately and grind my ass into dudes’ laps and wind up in the bushes with someone I met only an hour earlier. I’m generally not that girl, but at weddings I’m totally that girl.

AT: Is making out okay on the first date?  Please say yes.

EL: If I’m super attracted to someone, yes, ‘cause I usually feel like I might as well try and get what I can get while I have this person cornered. But my gay friends have tried tirelessly to hammer into my head that the less you put out on a first date, the more that the guy will jerk off to the thought of you until you see him again. I guess that means there’s potential for the next make out to be really super hot.

AT: Making out is so fun right?

EL: Oh my goodness, it’s so fun.

AT: Have you ever made out with someone because you were bored? Or does this only happen to country girls?

EL: Lately the guys I’ve been making out with are all fellas who have no interest in me as a girlfriend, which makes it easier not to get attached, but still kind of sore for my self-esteem…but it’s not like my self-esteem has ever been a priority. I’m working on it. So basically it’s like, I can stay in and watch TMZ or go out and make out with a guy just for the sake of making out. Kind of a tough call but since TMZ is available online, I generally opt for the make-out option since as we said earlier, making out is so much fun!

AT: So, what makes you invite someone back for the make-out part deux?

EL: I usually hound the guy a bit or if he’s more into me, he’ll ask me out. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the same page with a fella so it always feels a little game-y.

AT: Hmm, hounding—I like the sound of that. I have been told that I am a very good kisser.  I just wanted to put that out there.

EL: Ditto. I was recently talking to a make-out partner about people who aren’t good kissers and how weird it must be when they finally meet their match. Like those virgins on that TLC show.

AT: My friend once got paid to make-out with someone who was very hot. Is this a job?

EL: Yeah. In the same way that mailing your undies to men over the internet is a job.

AT: I do need a job but I also need my underwear. Let’s generate more income ideas later. Elianna, you are a real sauce pot! Thanks for all your advice and for being so good looking.

EL: Wow, that’s nice to hear. I wish some of the dudes I made out with said things like that to me.

Hi readers! Did I miss anything when broadly trying to summerize the term “making out”? If so, leave me a note below or on Facebook or via email, write@eliannalev.com or where ever else you find me. ‘Cause I love making out with you via the internet! 

Welcome to the second installment of Is Avi Impressed?, where I sit down with my dad and listen to him critique some of my favourite videos. The underlying purpose of this exercise is to sort through my father issues, which includes constantly vying for the approval of a man who is so ridiculously impossible to impress.

A quick briefing about my dad: He’s a high-brow, judgmental snob with an impressive list of filmmaking accomplishments. His resume includes Israeli cult and experimental films, Jesus Christ Superstar, The Littlest Hobo and most of the CBC’s prestigious news programming. He has a bunch of awards, including two Geminis aka Canada’s Emmy’s. Click here to read the first installment of Is Avi Impressed?, which proved to be ridiculously popular, to my surprise. In it, he defied Pitchfork by calling the video for Bronx Sniper by Mister Heavenly “a poor man’s Clockwork Orange.”

On the roster this week is the video Bad Choices, by the Shout Out Out Out Out, directed by my friends A.J. Bond and Chris von Szombathy. A quick perusal on both these fellow’s websites will conclude – and I’m putting it quite straight –  that they are both remarkably talented.

A.J. is a sharp and nuanced editor and director. When he makes a short film, it lives a full and robust life, making the rounds at film festivals, rather than go the tradition route most short films go —getting buried in the short video graveyard known as YouTube and Vimeo.

Chris is primarily a visual artist whose work makes me feel like my eyes might pop out of my head with amazement.  He is also my confidante when I’m having artist-related angst and uncertainty. He is a true artist.

To save time, I’m going to tell and not show my thoughts on their video in three short words: compelling, surreal and intriguing.

Well, we’ll see what Avi has to say, in his broken English, about it.

Avi’s summary: A guy gets up in the morning and can’t make up his decisions. The apples and oranges I understand but whatever with the mother and girlfriend. I didn’t understand that. Maybe it’s Oedipus syndrome?

Initial Thoughts: I like the effect. I like the lighting. I liked the Parkinson’s effect. Tourettes effect? How they made it shaky. He did it on an animation table to create all the effect? I wonder what macro he used.  The gimmick.

Overall:  It’s nice. It’s well choreographed.

Say one nice thing: It’s nice. It’s cute. There’s a few ideas there.

Were you impressed?: If you asked me to watch it again, I don’t think I’d be able to. I got the point. It’s not the type of thing that’s calling you to watch it again. But I like the band. It’s original.  As a filmmaker, I think they know what they’re doing.

Want to try and impress Avi? Send me a video at write@eliannalev.com or leave a link in the comments section below!

I’m one of those people who get anxious around New Years, because I have it in my head that if I don’t celebrate, I will be a big lonely loner loser who nobody loves. So usually a month before, I try to find a few friends to cement plans with so I don’t have to stress myself out to the point of developing a cold sore. As a result of my weirdly neurotic efforts, most of my New Years have been pretty decent. Yet, there’s one that stands out in my mind as the all time worst New Years, because not only did I feel like a big lonely loner loser, I really was one.

I was working as an anchor at a Vancouver radio station that billed itself as having the second largest English-speaking audience in Canada. It was an entry-level position so I was immediately assigned the shit-shifts. This meant weekends and overnights, 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. My job was to compile and write local, national and international news and read it on air, in between various programming, to approximately 174 listeners across Vancouver’s Lower Mainland.

Also working nights was Bob, the board ops guy. For those of you who might not be familiar with how radio works, board operators are paid $8 an hour to sit in front of a sound board and push those sliding buttons up and down. I made the mistake of being friendly to Bob, only because I once wanted to try one of his nine chicken McNuggets, which he would regularly eat as an appetizer to his food court Chinese takeout slop. I hadn’t had a McNugget in a while, and we briefly chatted about that. I guess this gave the impression to Bob that I was open to a friendship with him because he soon started Google stalking me.

“Are you the same Elianna Lev who once wrote something for Forget magazine and dated a guy from Hot Hot Heat,” he emailed me, at my work address, having clearly scoured my online existence. (This was about seven years ago, so it’s grown substantially since then.) I never responded and made a point of avoiding him when he approached. That didn’t stop him from wandering up to my desk and offering me a McNugget every chance he could get.

I was grateful for the anchoring experience, of course, but it couldn’t come at a worse time. I was already living a pitiful existence, having recently broken up with my first true love, who was a touring musician. In the months since we’d ended things, he’d met a go-go dancer in Ibiza, flew her back to Vancouver to live in the apartment we’d once shared, which was a few blocks away from the new place I lived in, alone.

I felt I had nothing much going for me at the time, except my career as an overnight news anchor. I was working another job doing listing for a magazine, so I spent the days sleeping and writing listings and the nights reading the news. I rarely got to go out or see my friends. I certainly wasn’t getting much loving. So when I was scheduled to work New Years, I was strangely numb to the idea of ringing in a fresh start alone in a radio studio, with Bob the opts guy.

News was slow that night, as it had been the whole holiday season. I pulled stories from around the world, mostly relating to festivities that were happening. In the long, boring minutes I had after I’d made up my cast and before I’d go on-air, I’d check my email. Even though I knew everyone was whoo-hoooing it up and not sitting in front of a computer like I was, I had absolutely nothing else to do.

My mailbox was empty, except for one note. One of the girlfriends from my ex’s band sent me a message on my MySpace wall.

“In Vegas at the Hard Rock Hotel! Miss you so much and it’s not the same without you!”

She was on the road, with her boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, and the other girlfriends and band members, whooping it up in Vegas at one of my favourite hotels. I’d stayed there once with said ex-boyfriend, and had a lot of fun, lounging by the pool in a cabana, eating onion rings.

Now, I was alone in a radio studio, reading news to who ever it was that stayed at home on New Years and listened to this radio station, across from a creep who only seemed to live for chicken McNuggets and my online presence.

Bring on the good cheer.

In the minute leading up to the count down, I made my way into the anchor booth. There was a sports call-in show on air, with a host I’d never met because he never bothered to introduce himself to me. He counted backwards as I put on my headphones.

“10…9…8…”

I sighed and stared ahead of me at Bob. A year ago I was partying on stage at a giant New Years gig my boyfriend was playing. Look how far I’d come.

“5…4…3…”

At least the studio was on the 35^th floor, high above the city, so I couldn’t hear the echoes of the good times that were being had.

“…1! And now here’s the news!”

I leaned into the mic.

“Happy New Years,” I said in a voice that would have flatlined on a heart monitor. “I’m Elianna Lev with your news to 12 o’clock.”

I managed to get through the next four minutes of my cast, knowing that in five hours, the sun would come up and I could go home. Then, I could ring in the New Year by sleeping the day away, and hopefully dream about happier New Years to come.

Hi readers! First off, extra points if you can guess which radio station I worked at. Second off, I wanna hear about your lonely loner loser New Years stories. Email me at write@eliannalev.com or leave me a message below or press one of those pretty buttons below to share this with all your social networks…I’d really like that! Like really really like that. Have a safe and happy new year! And don’t drink and drive…it’s the stupidest thing you could possible do. 

Anyone with a Facebook or Twitter page in Canada was probably aware that the legendary pop superstar, Prince, recently toured through the country. The status updates were unavoidable.

People getting ready for Prince.

People lining up for Prince.

People being seated at Prince.

Prince was in the house and there was no way you could escape it, though I really, really wanted to.

When I was a teenager, Prince was my messiah. During those particularly imbalanced times, I genuinely wanted to have sex with him and had the opportunity presented itself to me, I absolutely would have. He filled my thoughts. Rather than cutting myself, or joining an after school sports team or whatever it is teenagers do with their time, I fully immersed myself in Prince and his music.  When I was in grade 11, he broke a long silence and released a new album, appropriately titled Emancipation: I cut school twice in one month to watch him promote it on Rosie and Oprah.

To show my undying and everlasting love to Prince, I even got a tattoo of his male/female symbol on my stomach, in purple, and displayed it proudly every chance I could. (I was also 16, so showing off your belly wasn’t that inappropriate of at the time.)

The only thing is, my love has been far from everlasting. In fact, in recent months, it’s faded drastically. (I’ve also since got the tattoo covered up.) I obviously never thought that would happen. And I’m surprised that it did.

For a huge chunk of my life, identifying as a Prince fan helped define me as a person. When I was a teenager, I identified with his music on a sexual level. He sang about things that intrigued and excited me, things I really wanted to explore, just as I was discovering a new part of myself. (Ew, that sounds so gross.)

In my 20s, identifying as a Prince fan helped define me as someone who had good taste in pop music and liked to dance. It was way cooler to say I was weaned on Prince, than say, New Kids on the Block.

Now, in my 30s, I feel like identifying as a Prince fan only helps define me as someone who’s attached to nostalgia. And I’m not a terribly nostalgic person. When I think about my past, I’m mostly embarrassed by it. Instead, I choose to pretend most if it never existed, hope nothing comes back to haunt me, look forward and evolve.

I haven’t bought a Prince album since I was a teenager. Since then, let’s face it, he’s made terrible music. And he’s gotten pretty weird. And not in the making-women’s-lingery-sexy-on-a-man-and-not-allowing-interviewers-to-take-any-kind-of-notes-intense-dramatic-other-planet kind of weird. Having been in the same room as him once, I can assure you that kind of weirdness is the stuff of legends.

Naw, his new weirdness is the kind where you’re kind of concerned about his already questionable mental well-being. It wouldn’t be surprising to find him on your doorstep, asking if you’d heard the good word. (Becoming a Jehovah Witness is known to do that to people. Oh, it’s also known to isolate and traumatize family members who want to leave the religion, suppress free speech and thought, and generally ruin lives.)

By all accounts, Prince still puts on a great show. He’s cut the naughty bits out, which is what I loved most about his music, but he apparently still knows how to excite a stadium. So much so that people couldn’t stop posting about it on Facebook. I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t make me jealous and sad that I missed what is being called the greatest show our country has ever seen. But I ended up having a pretty good night, regardless of not attending his concert.

I went to my friend Louise Burns’ show at the Horseshoe tavern. There, I watched a mini Canadian super-group perform a solid set. Louise, a veteran singer/songwriter who was once signed to Madonna’s label, was backed by a guy who plays in Sloan, and the former bass player from Hot Hot Heat, who was also my first serious, long-term boyfriend.

I hadn’t spoken or seen him perform in years, and it was a trip to watch him in such a different context. The three jammed away, happily, exchanging inside jokes and playing songs from one of my favourite albums of the year.  It was really fun to watch.

I could have been caught up in nostalgia that night, both at the Prince concert and at the Horseshoe, in front of my first true love. But I wasn’t. Instead, I reveled in being present, being there, because I knew it was exactly where I was meant to be.

Welcome to a new feature called Is Avi Impressed?, where I sit down with my dad and listen to him critique some of my favourite videos, which are likely made by people I know.

This feature, which I intend to post on a monthly basis, isn’t about taking the piss out of people’s work. No, it’s more about sorting through my dad issues, which includes constantly vying for the approval of a man who is so ridiculously impossible to impress.

Some background on my dad: He’s a retired editor who spent most of his career working on highbrow CBC TV programs like The Fifth Estate, The Journal and The National. He started 40 years ago making his own weird, experimental films, one of which was a hit on the international film festival circuit. Then he moved on to editing influential Israeli cult movies, like Metzizim. After that, he interned with Norman Jewson on Jesus Christ Superstar, did a few episodes of The Littlest Hobo, then surrendering his life to the Mother Corp., which earned him a good reputation and a bunch of awards, including two Geminis.

It’s also worth mentioning that my dad’s a huge snob. If he’s going to critique something (which is always), he rarely starts with positive feedback. Then, after berating your hard work with his honest, harsh opinion, he’s always quite tickled with himself. Hopefully that will come through in this segment so you can see what I’ve been dealing with my whole life.

For this inaugural feature, I showed him a video by Mister Heavenly, which was directed by Corey Adams and Alex Craig.

I know the pair from Vancouver and admire their work, which includes the mesmerizing, low-budget-but-you-wouldn’t-know-it skate fantasy film Matchotaildrop. (I wrote about it a while back for Dazed and Confused magazine.) At least two of the top 10 fun-est nights of my life have been spent partying at Alex and his wife’s house.

When I saw their video, I was impressed by how much chaos they could cram into four minutes. The images are captivating and speedy and it kind of gets you riled up like a 14-year-old boy playing a videogame. Plus, it has serious hipster approval. Well, that doesn’t mean shit to Avi. Here’s what he had to say (in his poor, ESL English.)

Avi’s summary: “The scenario is well-known. The little boy has his little dreams and his father is more monstrous than his dolls. He fears more his father than his fantasy or his dolls and it turns to be his fantasies win in the end.”

Initial Thoughts: “It’s violently entertaining. I cannot sync to the head of who made it. It’s a poor man’s Clockwork Orange.”

Overall: “For this day, it’s cliché. If I saw it 30 years ago, it’d be original but it’s been done over and over and over.”

Say one nice thing: “As filmmaking, it’s well done. I was too occupied by the images to listen to the music.”

Were you impressed? ”It’s well done. But I don’t know what it’s all about. They’re breaking the house?”

Want to try and impress Avi? Send me a video at write@eliannalev.com or leave a link in the comments section below!

The other night, my best friend and I decided to go to a sports bar in the mall we both grew up next to. Him and I are both staying with our parents (notice how I didn’t say living with?) and needed to get out, and away from them.

It was a chicken wings sport bar built in the last couple of years, nestled between a Sears and a Bay.

It felt odd and unsettling going for drinks at the same mall where I’d often go as a young teen with my friends, desperately trying to get picked up waaaaay before we were legal.

We used to literally chase boys across the mall. If we saw a group of them who were in the same age bracket as us, we were off sprinting like a Kenyan in a marathon.

However, once they were within range, we never actually talked to them. Usually, we hoped they’d notice us, but nothing ever really materialized. It was more the thrill of the chase, spotting them, honing them in. It was a lot like hunting except without the meaty reward. More like catch and release, minus the catching. Whatever. It killed time, which we seemed to have plenty of as teenagers.

My best friend, who’s gay, laughed about how terrible he was at the other end of it.

“If I tried to pick up girls at the mall, I told them I liked their shoes,” he said. “That should have been a dead giveaway.”

To his surprise though, the girls ate it up. It just goes to show, girls, before they’ve developed taste, boundaries, decency or standards, really get a thrill from male attention. Even if it’s from an effeminate (albeit incredibly handsome) boy.

While the mall didn’t produce much luck for me in terms of attracting the boys, Canada’s Wonderland was a whole different story. Any girl between the ages of 12 and 16 was fair game to the boys, who came from suburban municipalities in all directions and were generally flanked by their out-of-town cousins.

Since they were very young teenagers, their technique was far from savvy. A guy in baggy jeans and a baseball cap would walk up to you say one of the two things: “My friend over there likes you” or “My friend over there wants to know how old you are.”

If you were feeling sassy, you’d interrogate the messenger (“How old does he think I look?”), otherwise you’d lap it up. Numbers would be exchanged, phone calls would be made but ultimately nothing would happen ‘cause the boys lived in Woodbridge or Oshawa.

Nearly 20 years later, I sit in a sports bar at the mall that once provided me with such excitement, and look around. My best friend jokingly asks who at the bar I’d try to pick up if I had to. I look around. It’s mostly mustached hosers watching the game, Jersey Shore Lite, or large Indo-Canadian families eating chicken wings. I sighed. My 13-year-old self would have been thrilled by the challenge. But my 32-year-old self can’t get over the fact that I’m drinking in a bar in a mall that I grew up next to, flanked by two department stores.

It sure takes a lot to get a thrill these days.

A few years ago, I was on my way to a dinner party, when I stopped into a cake shop that was called Transylvanian Treats. The cakes were unusual, layered and spongy, with creamy toppings in a rainbow of neutral colours. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed so I asked the man behind the counter to fill up a box with his favourite cakes.

I asked the man, who was broad and hairy, how long his cake shop had been around. He said three years. Since I was living off a business grant at the time, and taking an intensive business course, I was curious to know what his challenges were.

“The first two years are tough,” he said. “But it’s important not to give up. After that, it falls into place.”

The man behind the counter said he believed in his product and knew there was a niche for it. He admitted that after the first year he was ready to give up, but kept going and was glad he did.

What he said seemed valuable enough. I’d been taught in the business program that it took three years for a business to be profitable. I suppose Transylvania Treats were lucky enough to succeed.

I thanked the man for his insight and told him I looked forward to trying out his goods.

“You won’t be disappointed!” he said.

I was. The cakes were super gross. Barely anyone at the dinner party touched them. Total waste of $20.

But that’s beside the point.

What I’m getting at here is that I’m going into my second year of posting a weekly blog on this website and I don’t know what the point is anymore.

When I started this blog, I had a lot on my mind. I so desperately wanted to be a columnist and I thought doing a weekly blog would help discipline me to write every week, while giving me an outlet air my thoughts.

My life inspired me and there was always something going on to write about. People related to me and I got a lot of great feedback and it felt like the right thing to do.

But something’s happened between now and then. Well, a lot has happened. I’ve grown up and stopped being naïve. My drive to become a columnist has died down a bit. (Although I’m going to be temporarily writing a column in the Metro, yah for me). I’m not as inspired and I’ve become complacent. I don’t know what to write about anymore. As a result, my voice has changed, along with my tone, and my format. I don’t know where I’m taking this. And it’s stressing me out.

I’m in a jam. I don’t want to give up after two years, but I’m not really sure what to do next. I’m not putting an expiry date on I’m a Good Story, I just don’t know where to take it. I’ve committed to writing once a week, but I feel like this lack of direction is leading to a decline in quality writing and storytelling.

This is where you come in, Internet. I need a pep talk like the guy in the gross cake shop. Or failing that, please take this survey.

Feel free to answer one or all of the questions, or leave a comment in the comment section of this blog or in an email, write@eliannalev.com, or on Facebook.

Because I don’t want to end up like Transylvania Treats: Kicking around for years, only to be producing a shitty product that barely anyone likes.

I strive for more than that.