To: Readers of Phil’s Proof
From: Phil
Date: July 31, 2006 Night-ish
Subject: What do you want?

After my first post, a literary tour-de-force, I came right back and delivered even more hot ‘n steamy action. I spoke about geezer politicians and about Hollywood blockbusters. I poured my heart out in a beautiful retelling of a personal encounter at a coffeehouse, then delighted the musically curious with a smashing orchestral piece. I wrote about beautiful women and how we should treat them. And then the e-mails came.

What was the verdict? Great! Terrific! Fantastic! Ass-clenchingly good.

So I got compliments from friends and strangers who were all, ‘we love you!’ and ‘you’re so fucking hot!’. Then there’s the hate mail from the disapproving mothers who were all, ‘you disgust me with your juvenile shit’. And let’s not forget about the shitfaced teenaged boys who wrote in just to tell me, ‘I ain’t reading no ten page post, yo’.

Then there’s the e-mail I got from Don Foley, nominated Best Actor in the Sundeis Film Festival — who, when he’s not kickin’ ass on screen, likes to program in Java, play the fiddle, and speak Cockney.

Fuck, I even got a letter from the girl crossing the street telling me to keep my eyes on the road and away from her firm ass. And just for the record, your ass was so not firm. Bitch.

See, that’s great. Really. I’m dazzled. I’m flustered and flattered. Oh, look at me blush like a little schoolgirl.

But see, there’s something I forgot to mention.

Of all the wonderful posts I’ve written and of all the witty repartee I’ve imparted, you my readers chose to single out one in particular. In the past week, this singular and unimpressive post has garnered me more hits than any other section of Phil’s Proof. More excitement, more comments, and more love than any other.

I have two words for you: suck face.

So I realized something. You can even call it a fucking epiphany. What do readers want? I mean, what would it take to really push this blog from just ‘good’ to ‘great’? What would it take to transform Phil’s Proof from an unassuming and pleasant evening conversation to a full-out keg party with bikini clad women mud wrestling under a disco ball with little blinky lights?

Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. Pure, unadulterated, hot, steamy sex.

So from now on, Phil’s Proof is gonna be all about sex. All the time. I wanna know when you’re doing it, how you’re doing it, and how you’re liking it. Right now.

So for the benefit of my next post, tell me: do you like to be the spanker or the spankee?

la petite anglaise

“Asked to collect my belongings together and leave the building immediately. The words ‘faute grave’ were used. Translated into English: gross misconduct. Petite Anglaise: the blog that got me fired. Call me naïve, but I really didn’t see that coming.”

Catherine Sanderson

Today I stumbled across a charming Parisian blog which has recieved a lot of attention in recent days. Petite Anglaise (translated as ‘Little English Lady’) is a witty and wonderfully written blog by an English secretary who onced worked at accountacy firm in Paris.

That is, until she was fired for her website.

Her blog is an engaging equivalent to a Bridget Jones’ Diary where she writes about, among other things, her single/romantic musings, the enormous difficulties of maintaining a french girlfriend, and her pleas to get married soon. There’s certainly more than enough charm to win me over as a reader.

In her July 18, 2006 post, ‘things falling apart’, she explains that her mysterious two week hiatus in April was caused by a short meeting with the boss of her accountacy firm.

The meeting began with “Can you come down to my office for five minutes please?” and ended with “I’m going to have to ask you to collect your belongings, and you will then leave immediately.”

The reason? Her internet website was cited as evidence of “gross misconduct”, though,

“b…but I hardly ever mentioned work…”, she stammars.

She’s right. Her collection of work-related posts are nothing more than a few scattered recountments of cute encounters with colleagues . Certainly nothing malicious or worthy of being labeled as a “gross misconduct”. Certainly nothing worth losing a job over.

But lose her job she did.

Then moments later, the shit hit the fan. And boy, did it fly.

Articles from CNN, British and French newspapers reported the news. Television and radio interviews pepper the press portion of her site. Her readers wrote in hundreds of comments.

Sympathetic comments. Angry comments. Worried comments.

There’s been so much inprecedented attention that her site continues to have problems keeping up with the traffic. As a closing remark, she modestly adds,

So what does this all mean? What valuable lesson have I taken from our Parisian friend?

Certainly, it means that I’m going to have to be careful about what I say in the future. Doubly careful. Even some of the most subtle and innocent comments have a way of embedding themselves into Google’s crawl.

And kicking you in the face when you least expect it.

I’ve often wondered how one should go about writing a personal ad for one of those dating sites. Obviously, you’d like compose an ad that reflects who you are and what kind of partner you’re looking for. But what do you focus on? Do you focus on physical appearances? Do you focus on intellectual similarities? How do you screen for the freaks and find the sincere, sophisticated, and attractive gentlemen/ladies you really want?

Well, Pathetic Personals takes the guesswork out of the whole complicated process and really nails down the easy steps you should follow. Here, I’ve taken their system, and slightly optimized it for brevity and your viewing pleasure.

(i) Use photos with your ex

(ii) choose from a list of clichés

(iii) Make it clear you do not intend to date

(iv) Mention if you like your soulmates thick

(v) Remove all punctuation

(vi) Edit for spelling

(vii) And lastly, be sure to ramble incoherently

So I gave it a try. Unfortunately, I didn’t stumble upon the above seven steps until after I had written my own. But gee, I don’t think I did too bad. What do you think?

I’ll be by my phone all night, ladies.

Once upon a time, there lived a young lad. These days, those who can remember this young lad’s tale dare not refer to him by name – for fear of reminding themselves of past horrors – so instead they simply refer to him as He-who-must-not-be-named. But hell, I can’t call him that. Rowling will totally bust down my door and kick my ass.

So instead, I’ll call him Phil.

Now I really want to stress that Phil – if that was his real name, which it totally wasn’t – bore no relation nor resemblence to the other Phil, the esteemed author of this post. Have I made myself clear? Excellent. Let us go on.

Young Phil was a classical violinist at the Conservatory of Music in Hull (Québec, Canada). Sure, that was the official name of the school, but it was often referred to by other, less desirable names: Hell, the Abyss, Infernus, Hades, the House of Horrors, Shithole of Beezelbub, you name it.

the abyss

During those tedious years, he was tormented by the horrors of Conservatory: demanding professors, private lessons, solfège classes, harmony exams, orchestral recitals, tours, concerts, thumbscrews, racks, violin bows up his ass, and other travesties too painful to mention.

Phil began his studies at the tender age of 5 and would remain as a miserable student until he was about 17. During those tedious years, he was tormented by the horrors of Conservatory: demanding professors, private lessons, solfège classes, harmony exams, orchestral recitals, tours, concerts, thumbscrews, racks, violin bows up his ass, and other travesties too painful to mention.

In exchange for whatever tortured soul he possessed, the Conservatory milked him for all his musical worth. Yeah. They milked him good.

Today, I’m offering my readers a rare glimpse into Phil’s former life. Not this Phil. The other Phil. Oh hell.

In the following, you’ll hear the senior orchestra of the Conservatory playing a Concerto written by one of its own members, Patrick Roux.

Can you hear Phil? Probably not. He was a second violinist and stuck at the back somewhere, bound to a chair and screaming.

But you see, in an orchestra that large, nobody – and I mean nobody – can hear you scream.

Please do send Phil your condolences and your comments

Men of my generation have no idea how to treat women.

See, I’m a hopeless romantic. I believe in the policies of etiquette. I believe in opening doors and candlelit dinners. I believe in the timeless gifts of roses, lilies, and other bouquets of colourful, nice-smelling flowers.

etiquette

“Whether a man should open doors and hold chairs for a women depends largely on whether the woman will appreciate these gestures. It’s fair to say that most younger women today are not inclined to sit in a car while a date walks around to open the door.”
Peggy Post

Call me old-fashioned, but I think that the man should do what he can to make the lady – whether she’s the woman of his dreams or simply a casual friend – feel like a true princess.

Am I the only one?

These days, I see young men treating their lady companions with the most obnoxious, rude, and inarticulate manners I have ever seen (at least until one passes the border into Gatineau, Québec.)

I’m not referring to certain out-of-date practices, like standing up at a table whenever the lady stands, but rather less chivalrous things that border on common-sense and simple courtesy. Things like holding a door at a restaurant (whether in front or behind) for the next person. Things like going to the door when arriving at someone’s place instead of honking at the curb or calling on a cell phone. It would shock you if I were to tell you about some of the names I’ve heard boys my age use to refer to their companions at a public establishment.

Slaying dragons and rescuing princesses are not on the agenda, though the most basic guidelines of how a true man should conduct himself in public is.

Wake up my fellow brothers. Start treating your lady friends (whether romantically pursued or otherwise) with more gentlemanly behaviour and you’ll do an enormous favour to both parties involved. We are not brutes. We are not Neanderthals. And we are not French.

(My apologies to my French readers. It has been a well documented fact that French rudeness should not be taken as anything other than a bad stereotype.)

However, there is one interesting dilemma we’re left with: in today’s day and age with today’s boys and girls, which rules of etiquette are still desireable and which rules are passé? In Peggy Post’s well known 700 page volume, Emily Post’s Etiquette, she addresses this concern when it comes to opening doors and holding chairs:

Peggy offers a simple, modern solution to this clash of cultures:

What’s my take on opening car doors and holding chairs? I don’t hold chairs unless I’m stuck in a bit of a formal setting and only when I’m sure the gesture won’t be misinterpreted. On the other hand, opening and closing the car door is something that hasn’t lost its touch, even among young men. I’ve found that it’s very much appreciated if you open and close the door for your friend when she just arrives. Once you’ve reached the destination however, most girls will not wait for you and will simply get out on their own, leaving you the trouble of wondering what the right thing to do is.

Opening the door for someone is not a difficult gesture and I’ve found that my old-fashioned courtesy is usually taken in stride with a rewarding smile and a giggle.