never. drinking. again.

(at least until 9 p.m.)

first i'm*:
cutting my hair? super short. really.
going to a craftsale
buying a new dress
going to the gym


*actually: getting a trim and eating a Big. Mac. and then dying.

Hot sweaty mess II

Some nights are so perfect and amazing and fun that you either can’t help but smile when you think of them or you are filled with dread that you’ll never feel that way again.

In my top five nights of the summer, one in particular stands out.

There was dancing. A lot of dancing. I wore lace and braids and everyone wore flushed cheeks and unstoppable grins.
There was secret swimming and summersaults and so many friends that I feel lucky to know.
I’m sure a few other factors added to the perfect feeling but in the end I don’t think it mattered that much.

And now the chance to do it all again is back – and how can you focus when you can see something so amazing on the horizon?

James, let’s dance like crazy tonight.
Work is for suckers.
Friday is going to be rough.

rabies is the new first base

I’m seriously lazy today.
I have no excuse- this is self-inflicted.
So I’ll give the top 5:
1. That Australian band is really good. Genuine and dance-worthy.
2. Sneaky Dee’s nachos have lost their appeal and are only good at 4 a.m. not, at 12:30 a.m. on a Tuesday, as it were.
3. Boys in Hunter Wellingtons is the new beard. (and beard is the new bike, bike is the new deep V)
4. There is not enough body butter in the world for this kind of cold.
5. My first Palahniuk experience was hilarious and dark and [en]gross[ing]

wickedly, perfectly, insatiably awful.

So remember when you thought your family was so f’d up and you were dreading Christmas dinner like nobody’s business?
Well after 90 minutes of this verbal abuse, violence, humor, suicide and crimes against nature, your family will seem like a boring family sitcom rerun.

Festen – the newest buzz-worthy Canadian small stage production is the cure for any family dread you thought you had.

Disturbing and moving, Festen was truly entertaining.

Seated in the 2nd row with the ridiculously handsome lead actor making eyes at my friend-date for the first 10 minutes…
“Kell, I’m starting to get a bit uncomfortable here…but holy shit he’s hot” those moments setting the stage for the next 2 hours of intensity.

I felt uncomfortable, awkward, shocked, oh, and Riveted from the first line to the last gesture of family drama.
The set design was so well done – at times forcing you to imagine separated spaces while three or four conversations took place all on the same bed.
Forget the back woods of Nova Scotia, Norwegien WASPs know how to ruin a perfectly lovely dinner party with mouths more dirty than a Fight Club love interest.

Side bar: while waiting in the lobby with my lovely friend date – my eyes caught those of a familiar face.
Tell me, what is the protocol for recognizing the nude model you routinely draw at drop-in art class?
Do you say hello, or just sit there, smug in the knowledge of all of the nuances of her now-clothed figure?
It’s a bit strange.
I chose the ‘half-smile, semi-ignore’ response.
Perhaps it was just a prologue to the next 2 hours of tension.

i can't decide what i want to do on NYE '09...

but i know what i want to wear.

(balenciaga f/w 2009)

never watch fashion file on an empty stomach. your new vintage leather skirt will lose all of its sparkle.

A-tisket, a-tasket

Internal monologue overheard in my head at a recent art show:
“Hey I saw you at that overrated magazine party? You were wearing Birkenstocks, but I’m trying not to judge. Really. You’re pretty cute. But the nose-ring?..isn’t that a little…..OH. right. Of course.“

Every tall, attractive man in Toronto who gets it, is gay.

In other news: Julia Hepburn is pretty f’ing talented.
Her unbelievably detailed and dark dioramas are like a rich cross between Tim Burton and Beatrix Potter.

After gazing at the detail of Julia’s work over cheap wine and amid the over-the-top fashion of West Queen West…we started talking.
Although I love the obvious sweet things about our friends, the clever banter over tapas, mutual love for the new Lykke Li album and the like…
Isn’t it the bad stuff that really connects? The nights when, over too many cigarettes and too much gin, the underbelly rolls over and you peel back the layers of the best secrets?
The good stuff: the former addictions, current addictions, bad habits, unhealthy obsessions, bad dreams and cynical outlooks...
It’s the sweet and sour.
The nice stuff is what draws you in, the awful is what makes you stay.

Ok and lastly and wildly-importantly: the search for the best opaque black tights continues. Upon looking through old photos I have realized that despite continued investments in what look like the perfect black stocking: I never manage to avoid that ominous sheer line drawn down the leg.

Proof:

grr.

This is for our friends, the Midnight Juggernauts.

November is hard. It is cold and it’s dark and it catches you off guard and it makes you realize your love affair with summer has come to a brutal, cold end.
For weeks I have been wallowing in this, wrestling my hatred of the cold and other stupid ideas.

And I’m over it.

And I would like to thank Cut Copy.
Cut Copy is not a virgin mobile commercial. Not a crowded show at the stupidest club in town or anything my cynical mainstream-hating friends derive.
Cut Copy is, and always will be:
A sundress in 30 degrees
Vodka in lemonade
The bass hammering my sunburnt chest
Sweaty, hot sun. Palm trees.

Perfect.

Every band is like a pin on a map for me. Every song is tied to something.
Cut Copy is a perfect day and even Richard Branson can’t fuck that up.

jigsaw falling into place

Every morning is a scene from groundhog’s day in the winter.
On Wednesdays:
Wrestle out of the perfection that is the Bermuda triangle. Leave the house. iPod “morning playlist”. Old African guy in the beige coat. Long haired skinny kid runs awkwardly on opposite sidewalk. Beer unloads at Diplomatico. The bike I always think is yours against the gate. Windows at Soundscapes. Manic. Americano with a straw. Three beautiful, smug Chinese tween sisters, arm-in-arm. Skinny mom on the Pashley. “Lenny” the homeless guy.
And then…..
Striding out of Queen’s Park station:
6 feet-something-amazing.
Striped scarf.
Watery eyes shielded by fogged up classic Holly glasses.
A streak of white hair on an otherwise young head.
A smirk.

Sometimes routines make even the least committed of us, excited to do that all over again.

clever, no?

Tuesday, 7:34 a.m.

Forget you sarah marshall (sometimes you are funny though)

Over brunch last week: my good friend, dude and straightshooter C and I were talking recent movies:
C: have you seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall yet?
Me: no…I haven’t gotten to it yet.
C: (rolling eyes) ok, I’m sorry if it’s too mainstream and if it’s not being screened on a brick wall in an alley by a bum then you are too good for it, but seriously it’s funny. Just rent it already.
Me: what alley?! How do I not know about this?

Ha.

So, my friend, I watched it last night, in my house, on my television wearing totally mainstream jogging pants.

And ok, the plot sucks, that chick from “That 70s show” is hot but can’t act for shit and, alright, there are some seriously hilarious scenes.

Example A:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7msJTomonI