The Toronto Star is Terrible

As a Toronto-based blogger, I dutifully attempt to read the Toronto Star from time to time. They don’t make it easy.

Yesterday I tried to read one of Heather Mallick’s columns. I couldn’t get through it. I really tried. But my eyes kept glazing over. The column is nominally about the dim economic climate, but it reads like the diary of a little girl playing at sophistication:

My new friend Scarlett is 6 months old. Her beauteous mother Michele, who I used to call by name—now I just say “hello Scarlett and Hudson’s mother”—took me to lunch last week so I could nibble on her daughter’s earlobes. Wonderful things, little flesh pastilles. Ah, peace came dropping slow. When Scarlett’s perfect shells are available, it makes you wonder what people see in cocaine.

I buy cheaper clothes. Scarlett, Michele and I go to Lululemon, where we stare at a wall of Pastel ‘n’ Practical garments for women that serve as mute declarations that sex is not on the agenda. A saleswoman enthuses, “And now they come in antimicrobial!” Yeah, men love that.

The new memoir by the wonderful Anne Lamott, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of My Son’s First Son, is delivered to the door. The book is basically another hymn to the deliciousness of babies. I sense a theme here.

Either men aren’t part of the Star‘s demographic, or Mallick is a diversity hire.