Malcontent.

The sun has finally come out in Toronto. And I don't mean the fake sun -- where it's -20 outside and whipping wind but it's deceptively beautiful or the snow is so bright it blinds you kind of sun -- no, I mean real honest-to-goodness spring/summer sun. Warm and glowing and receptive, welcoming and uplifting, almost motherly as it watches over you, watches you frolick and bask kind of sun.

I do love winter...I love the way everything gets very quiet. There's no other way to describe it but I've always noticed as october turns into november, once all the leaves are gone, once the air starts to shimmer with the promise of snow, everything gets really - silent. As I walk from home to the bust stop, I hear solitary crows or ravens calling to each other forlornly and my heels echo in the vast corridors of residential, suburban, cookie cutter houses with neatly-trimmed front lawns and three mercedes' in the drive, just for the heck of it.

I really fucking hate markham. It is a hole of no end, a deep abyss where everything goes to die -- or settle and have 2.5 kids on 2.5 acres with 2.5 nannies and 2.5 cars with 2.5 pets. It's not only isolation, it's not only the ridiculous smell of farms mixed with urbanization and domesticity, no, it's the way Markham kills absolutely any creative spirit with the posh prevalence of money. Richmond Hill and Thornhill are worse still. No, it's not that I don't appreciate living in an area where the crime rate is virtually zero and the only problem we have is grow-ops but -- why the manicured-ness? Why does every island traffic divider have to have flowers? What is so "quaint" and "charming" about Main Street anyway? Why is First Markham Place and blood silvercity at the richmond hill BUST STOP and Ten Ren/go for tea/east beaver creek the only ACTUAL place to hang out? And why, why, why, in the name of sweet beavers is it that the only thing you can do in markham is shop -- the alternative to which is eat?

My hatred, this sour taste on my tongue that screws up my face almost unrecognizably, extends (or is slowly extending) to Toronto. Sharp intake of breath! I know! Blasphemous! I know! And then...actually, the country. Egads, she is off her rocker, this is treason! But it's true. Walking down Queen Street last night only made me realize this even more. Toronto's downtown is ridiculously small. But even small areas can have hubbub, excitement. Seems nothing has changed though (besides 187287878.3487 condos going up) Bay St. is still Bay St. Bloor is still bloody Bloor and The World's Biggest Bookstore is still another name for Heather Reisman's indie-bookstore eating mega-chain. If it sounds like I'm crying for some authenticity, I'm not. There are plenty of pretty little boutiques, lovely starter businesses, plenty of competition, vintage clothing stores, comic book emporiums and record stores.

But there's no feeling. Crossing the street at the downtown core (whatever your core is -- Harbourfront, Union, Queen's Quay, Bloor, UofTville) at its most busiest time of day doesn't give you this feeling of metropolitan insomnia, big-city inspiration. Mostly, you marvel at the architecture or the pretty day or the funny people but your heart doesn't linger on the city. I find that sad. And it's like that with the whole damn country. Everything is burgeoning, everything is underdeveloped. It's small-scale and that's fine. I guess some people are content with that, drawn to that. Some people love Montreal's art-fashion-club scene.

Maybe I'm expecting too much, comparing it with cities in my head like London and New York, Bombay and Dubai. Maybe the time-factor is too hard to overcome just right now -- these places have been around forever (with the exception of dubai, lol). Or maybe the charm of Toronto, given it's size is just more subjective -- requires a different eye. Or maybe it takes a different kind of person to love it. And those are all fine. Maybe I've been here so long, I need a fresh pair of eyes to like it again. But I didnt fall in love with it instantaneously so tepid, lukewarm like is the only return I can hope for. Bearing that in mind, I think that the time has come -- or is soon approaching -- where malcontent for Markham, for Toronto and overwhelming love for...the world, really, is going to catapult me to action.

For now, I must make do with the promise of summer and endless evenings, crepes (yum), pandas in lattes (yumm-ier), beaches, and reading.

Dear Alexander McQueen,

Please stop killing armadillos to make shoes. No, please don't pretend, as others going mental over your abominations are that this is in any way post-modern fashion. In fact, it's not really fashion at all. If you are trying to bring the back surrealist or dadist movement and undermine our sensibilities by presenting such - disgusting clunkers, may I suggest a nice healthy dose of Krazy Katz and Ignatz to wash away those Surrealist blues?

We can even tolerate those...strange stilters tiled with skulls and towering on unwieldy spindles of double platforms. Heck, if Chloe can pull off double platforms why can't you? But - erm, these are not shoes. Yes, of course, we agree with you: fashion is wearable art. These are not art. We're not sure what they are having never seen anything quite so ugly before. We will gladly pick up a pair of Uggs in exchange that each and every one of these...creatures be burned and stamped out.

Ohhh, you clever minx! People just love a trend! They love to be outrageous. Everything seems so accesible! We can have a piece of the fame by owning these shoes! And you know this don't you? Otherwise, what (besides a bad trip to the bathroom) could have prompted you to design these?

Are you trying to unleash an epidemic around the world, now you've heard we're overdue? Are you trying to wipe out any modicum of sanity we have left? May we point out that just because the crazies (gaga and cruella deville guinness) have decided to encase their feet in vases of the 6th century BC, we really don't take that kindly to someone trying to case us in goat's feet?

We hoped that your shoes possessed a shred of transcendental quality - that eventually they would grow on us like the 2008 product of the Madonna and Justin Timberlake collaboration. Rather, we suspect, things will start to grow out of it, soon, given its current toxicity. In any case, everytime we look at it, for some sign of redemption, it, if possible, becomes more and more hideous.

May we suggest, as an immediate tonic, that you return to the drawing board and give Manolo Blahnik a call? Heck, go crazy, make it a party and call Christian Louboutin. Being creative doesn't mean you have to be on crack. You don't have to be alone. Help them help you get through this. Return to us. Also, Lovers: wearing these does not make you a walking canvas - you'd have to be able to walk in them first. Oh and - where did we get with that burning idea...?