Y/N/M

The sweet and the sour of weekends past, present and future.

YES.
A pretty close to perfect Saturday. Eat delicious brunch outside. Lay in the grass with an old friend. Talk about stuff that matters (to us). Nap.

Later that night we rushed to my favourite gallery to see 2 parts Born Ruffians, 10 x talent.
I’ve seen Luke Lalonde before and I’m pretty sure he’s one of Toronto’s most underrated frontmen. Joined again by his sister Jessica on vocals, his quirky, careful cadence is engaging, tight and dripping with potential.

The set was good, but short. The family vibe set up a lengthy discussion on the genetic predisposition of musical talent. So many great musicians come from other great musicians. The majority of my closest musical friends come from musical families. What is the music gene? I want it. I blame my tone deaf parents for my lack of musical acclaim.

NO.
SUFJAN FUCKING STEVENS.
I really like Sufjan Stevens. I Really do. So when I hear he’s playing a one-night only, will call, limited ticket show at Lee’s... I was you know, a little excited. I solicit my card-carrying besties. We call. 10:34 a.m. was too late. 10:00:06 was probably too late, to be fair. FAIL.

MAYBE.
Summer might be here.

NXNE is a hit and a miss every time.

The problem with pilling 500 bands into 20 venues over 5 days even with a 4 a.m. curfew is that Toronto doesn’t have the trunk space. And usually, I’m fine with that. I don’t want to watch Matt and Kim at Circa EVER AGAIN. BUT, I do want to see them at my friends’ gallery with 75 other genuine fans. That’s the thing about NXNE. Every media outlet, marketing firm and product pusher in the city gets passes and those of us who aren’t willing to wait for 2 hours to see a 45 min set just get annoyed.

Buuuut. In the midst of a few minor annoyances: here are the 5 shining minutes of amazing from this year’s lineup.

1. 17.06.09 – 9:53 p.m. VICE magazine party at Amsterdam Brewery. always a big barfy Vice-who’s who of the skinny jeaned vapid scenesters – but also – always a good time. Ignore the coked out waifs vying for a chance to chat up indie label drummers, and you’ve got good 60’s revival tracks spun by a goldtoothed Black Lips member, free beer and uh, isn’t that enough?

2. 17.06.09 – 11:43 p.m. Lioness and Woodhands kill it at the Drake Underground. Lioness has such a great sound – so disco bravado – and that track is still good no matter how many times I hear it…and Woodhands had my friends screaming and fist pumping like regular sportsfans…

3. 18.06.09 – 12:37 a.m. The Field makes us dance like crazy at (lame) Tattoo…..Bad venue – good set. I was expecting a fully digital assault but instead was pleasantly surprised to see a full band looping electro gems before Juan McLean took over. Unfortunuately my “responsible” conscious took over at the same time and I missed what everyone is calling “the best dance set of the week”. Booooo day job.

4. 20.06.09 – 2:54 a.m. Japanther and Matt & Kim –hot sweaty dance mess at Wrongbar. Surprisingly no lineups, actually enthusiastic crowd, and Matt making our night intro-ing “Daylight” with “….I wrote this song in Brooklyn but tonight it’s about Toronto in the summer of 2009”…

5. 21.06.09 – 3:34 a.m. Bathurst NXNE secret house party. Less music, more throw down. OPOPO dj’s apparently had us dancing in between Steamwhistles…”apparently” because after 3:30 I pretty much don’t remember anything.

So overall, NXNE, you’re ok, I just still want to date other festivals.

Oh, and summer is here. now if we could just get someone to clean the pools for the 3 a.m. skinny dipping... it’ll really be something.

Wolfgang Amadeus Amazing-eus.

Holy hannah this band is tight.

Top 5 Reasons that Phoenix might be the coolest band, like, eva.

1.They keep a 70/30 mainstream to west end crowd engaged for a 10 minute instrumental.
2.Minimal banter, minimal bravado, straight goods. also: French.
3.Reminding us how encores used to be (and they used to be epic).
4.Oxford shirts, levi’s, haircuts and good shoes. Style without hairspray.
5.Hand-SOME.

Phoenix have been around for a while. They consistently deliver solid albums that never tire on repeat, make everyone at your party happy (not to mention continually ask “who is this? This is good”) and they’ve got that whole, style without effort or pretention thing down. Their sound tips between strong modern rock and modern electro, no synths – just danceability. Musically they manage to squeeze in instrumentals in between pop gems that stand out. Their rendition of “Like a sunset” got the biggest reaction from the crowd last night.

And you know what? The Phoenix is a pretty good venue. The sightlines are decent, it’s pretty intimate (ok, compared to the Kool Haus) and you can actually move around pretty easily.

Except:
1.ONE Bartender per bar is NOT OK. I’d pay $6 for a beer if I could actually order it in under 20 minutes.
2.Mainstream-ish bands bring mainstream-ish boys. Dude. Why are you wearing a giant hoodie? You weigh 250 and it’s fucking hot in here. And standing right in front of me and devil-horns-ing arm-pumping through this song? Pull yourself together Mooose. ALSO. Goatees are NEVER ok. Like, never.
3.Uhhh, umm…so I only have 2 complaints. Heh. Looks like I kind of like this place?

Oh yeah, and NXNE starts tomorrow. I am kelly’s anxious liver and pending ulcer. Also. kelly’s complete and utter lack of enough cute outfits.

Y/N/M

YES - $100 at the Horseshoe




NO - Let's hope no one remembers Carmen/Skin Divers this weekend so I get the good seats.










MAYBE - Joining the circus. (ok. becoming a trapese phenom anyway.)

while distracting yourself

If pondering the impossibilities of futures for the futureless, I hope you too, have stumbled on the idealized greatness of Kim Gordon.

A beacon of style, grit and talent – Gordon makes those of us who never wanted the trappings of the traditional dream think ‘what if….’

If I wake up, at 50, to find myself beside the better half of one of the most seminal rock bands of our time, clad in my own stunning clothing line, staring at Brooklyn-raised well-spoken pixies of children and suddenly acquire a set of killer legs under the covers, I think I’d be happy. So, to summarize. If I start a band, marry the hot/talented guitarist, define a generation of female musicians, create my own clothing line, paint/create in my free time, move to Brooklyn, start a charity and stave off the aging process –

I might settle down.

So, there, I said it.

Also. why is that every time something amazing is set to happen outside, it fucking rains? It’s like Toronto doesn’t want us to get too big for our britches. Ooh, you want to watch a vintage German horror movie outside under the stars set to the live musical score of Final Fantasy, for free?? Alright. Here’s a torrential downpour. Enjoy your drinks at Woo.

f. Toronto, why you gotta be like that?

If it rains for the next Drake Drive In, I’m shipping out.

Solutions to save you* from yourself*

*me; * myself

Warm yourself in the knowledge that the Toronto Star, doctors and smart people everywhere, do, too, hate Oprah.

Drink more coffee. Fuck the haters that say caffeine is bad for you. Coffee tastes delicious. While you’re at it, smoke, too.

Fill your office with good things. I used to think this was so Angela of The Office, but when I’m pouring over cancer-related drivel, thinking about night swimming and making out in Florence makes me hate everything less.

Like this.

from the mess to the masses

do you ever get emails from your long-distance best friends that make you laugh out loud? Make you smile with a cupped hand over your work-day face? Stare off thinking of how amazing they are and how you are never thoughtful enough to try and 'catch up'

and you think...ok. reply. I have to be clever. and interesting. something good. there's so many things to say. No time will suffice. I'll totally write back at lunch.

and you never do.

dear friends, readers, lovers, fans. This is my returned delayed email reply.

there's too much to say - to go from then to now.

Let's go with an old-school top three, for today, and today alone.

1. I don't care how many times they Play '1901' on whatever lame FM radiostation Torontoians listen to. THE NEW PHOENIX ALBUM IS GOOD FROM START TO FINISH. And even the remixes I've heard so far are making me think this album is going be the Bill Murray cameo of every Kelly/DJ Deadbeat dad mixtape for years.
Today I really like this one: http://hypem.com/#/track/836504/Phoenix+-+Fences no wait, this one: http://hypem.com/#/track/835607/Phoenix+-+Single+Lisztomania+A+Fight+for+Love+25hrs+A+Day+Remix
seeeeeee? so many gems.

2. ONCE in a WHILE the best solution to a Saturday hangover is not to solve it at all. Wallow in it. Eat no vegetables. Spend a mere hour outside in the beautiful June sun but complain incessantly. Read "11,002 reasons to be miserable" out loud in the park (my current favourites: Oprah. nostril hair. babies.) eat the food of jock-girlfriend-abusers (we like: wings. big macs. french fries. gravy.) make the livingroom a fort. But most importantly: lay back and let a complete TV series wash over you in utter comedic gluttony for hours on end. If you pick 30 Rock, we'll be friends for life.

3. I'm quarter-life crisising. I knooooow. I'm a fucking white-middle-class-post-graduate-city dwelling-cliche. I'm lying in a permanent unmotivated milky white haze of hangovers and slothlike ambition. I'm content to swim through this malaise of modernity. for at least another week.

How to win the weekday war.

1. Tease. At ONE MINUTE long – the newest Erol Alkan remix for Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Zero is already burning a hole in my overworked little office speakers. I kind of forgot about the YYYs…maybe I’ll go see them in like, California or something. They’re headlining some festival I think I’m going to …. As for you, Alkan, you amaze us as always. Love, hearts, stars, applause.

2. Dance. AGO Massive Party – recipe for success? You have to know the official party planning committee guru…then watch as your most talented friends of friends come together with all of your favourite sweetly dressed girlfriends…throw in a billion free drinks and make eyes at the suits…and you’ve got a weeknight party that could seriously ruin any semblance of Friday productivity you had envisioned…

3. Race like someone’s counting* I have officially met my morning lane swim match. AND! He’s under 70. I know! Today I threw down a good 60 laps. Thanks i-have-no-idea-what-your-name-is swimming friend. I am actually exhausted.

*I am.

Trust me on this guys. It's gonna be good*

*quote: Dan Deacon set - Coachella 2008

Everyone has a friend who’s a bit hard to handle. Won’t shut up. Hits on your friends, doesn’t get the hint…but the truth is, those hyper-active, obnoxious ones are pretty much always a guaranteed good time.

That’s so Dan Deacon. Sometimes you want to punch his annoying overthetop beats in the fucking face. BUT. in the meantime, while listening to his newest schizophrenic amphetamine-fueled dance gem – Bromst – you are going to get pretty pumped up. You’re gonna wanna dance. You’re going to get happy. This shit would make the crabbiest old man in town* fucking break into a little Paula Abdul dance-off.

*or the staff at Ted’s Collision.

I think Deacon makes music with a huge fire pit. He calls up all of his bandgeek childhood friends and they all throw everything in the flames. Then they drop acid and watch as the fire mixes with the xylophones and the keytars and the synths and the recorders…and the result is out of control, unstoppable dance music that makes you wanna get naked and start rock-star kicking around the fire.

So yeah, suffice to say, I like this album. Oh and, he’s coming to town in a few weeks.

See you there.

...to the kids from France and from London...but I was there...

When was the last time you danced like crazy to Tiffany and Phil Collins?
If it wasn’t on Saturday night, then you should get with it already.

The scene: a few dozen shoulder-padded Wall-Street boom squash-playing cokeheads crowded into my favourite gallery.
The DJ played everything we loved about the late 80s – with an American Psycho leaning – think: Huey Lewis over Madonna. Comme des Garcons over neon.
(one exception...Golden Girls are still not winning me over. Am I alone in my disinterest in that guy?)

Then, clad in Holly glasses, 18 years old …all of 5 feet tall and 75 pounds soaking wet - this kid strolls up to the stage and kills it for the next 2 hours. Fucking. Unbelievable. Girltalk style mashups crossing Feist with old school Daft Punk. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the best parties are the ones that surprise you. For a second I saw my fleeting youth dash across the stage – oh to be 18 again and new to it all, notes of an LCD Soundsystem track whipped through my head. But then the second passed. Sure, we’re not 18 anymore. But my friends still know how to have a good time. And 27 isn’t exactly geriatric, either. Fuck – I’ll say it: 30 is the new 21.

It’s starting friends: The SPRING OF KELLY. Let’s hope every weekend goes out like that.

lust.lust.lust.

Ok. I’m going to get back to writing about things that actually happen. (ok. Admittedly the light things)... This is not the place for me to tell you my opinion on foreign affairs or what I think of the new tax bill. Nor is this the place to whine about the weather and complain about chances missed…

I've lost myself lately (following the loss of my wallet and the subsequent overly-complicated fallout of that for the past month….no money can make even the most sensible the most reliant on their friends…)

I think I’m back. I think I remember the sarcastic, hard-edged girl of late who – in milliseconds – started slipping into idealized oblivion. I know why I am the way I am. I think the Kelly of March is someone I don’t recognize. All starry-eyed and lovestruck.

This is the spring of Kelly and I promise it’s going to be all fun, all the time. Back are the days of album reviews, art shows, wicked banter and travelogues….I’ll remember that I never believed in that stuff anyway...that I was getting a million miles ahead of myself…and now I'm back.

(for the record, it was fun while it lasted).

back, back, forth, forth

Spring is always on the verge, it teases like highschool make-outs in basements....It is the back and forth last embrace of winter that – while still in March – leaves you feeling anxious, desperate and makes the skin crawl.

I am so ready for sunshine....so ready for the feeling that spring and the possibility of summer, that I am aching with anticipation. And it’s not just the warmth, the suntan or the litany of spring shows to look forward to…it’s that everyone is happier in the spring.

We start to shed the bitter winter angst. The work week blends into the weekend and we wake up. I’m so tired of sleepy, cold, awful winter.

I want the return of Tuesday drinks, of nightly dinner parties, of stolen cigarettes on patios without the chill, of kissing outside and not freezing together and of black tights for style, not for necessity ; )

(I'm back. sorry. I have a real job. sometimes.)

I thought spring was here. I let my bitter winter guard down.
I thought I caught the faint drafts of bbq’s and sunscreen…alas the chilled wind is back and I could not be more non-plussed.
but! fear! not! friends! I promise you spring..then summer are coming. I know it's true.
To get back into the spring of things…here are the top 5 spring shows that make dreaming of the green grassy side of winter seem a bit more possible:



1. Dan-fucking-Deacon in what will probably be the weirdest show of the season in the most interesting venue.






2. Animal Collective. If not just to dance in total abandon to ‘My Girls’ (yes. I said it. I still love that song…see? What did I tell you? Best of ‘09….)





3. The National. I hear they have new stuff ready…I close my eyes and picture the National boys, all earnest and darkly clad against the hazy desert backdrop of a hot California day and I hope that this little (surely less epic..) show lives up to my first vision of them…






4. Noah and the Whale. Cute. Clever.British
(hmmm..this seems to be a Kelly- trend lately…)

5. Like you had to ask.

YES / NO / MAYBE

YES





Caplanski’s Deli – If you can’t handle the smoked meat sandwich/poutine combo, you can just take a permanent seat at the kids’ table there bud.






YES runner up: Coeur De Pirate. I imagine dancing in summer dresses in the dark with CLOSED eyes, all grins and sunkissed cheeks. Listen to this and I want the summer of my youth.



NO

NO NO NO to this never ending winter. It is ruining me. Enough already. I'm dry and cold and wrinkly and bitter. Stop already.

MAYBE

this is my first unsatisfying Chuck Palahniuk experience. I get the hyper-consumer-superficial-debased reality, but I still don’t care.

...I just want to turn you down..I just want to turn you around...

Everyone hates MGMT. Five years ago, everyone hated the Strokes. It’s soo indie to hate whatever ends up on the radio. Forget that Oracular Spectacular is a great album. Forget that This Is It changed a million musical minds and they actually said something on that album that meant something to people like me who thought we were the only ones who didn’t know who the fuck we were (or are, for that matter).

So, whilst perusing my favourite dress store the other day, this track filled the space, I was immediately reminded of why that band mattered. I hope their new album pumps blood back into the limp corpse they became after the backlash. I hope they make music that is so tight and on point again. I hope they have it all figured out now and they can tell me how they got there.

I hope I can figure it out too, all I know is in that song, I am 100% with Julian.

The last chorus is fucking telepathic.

Monday Top 3.

1. The dry month of march begins: day one.
I’m already boring. I can tell. Boring and sober and boring. See? I can’t even think of another interesting adjective. Fuck. This is going to be a long month.

2. I’m giving in. letting go and sliding down the hill to complete and utter brainwashed consumer bliss. I have decided to buy the dreaded girl trappings of feigned exercise fiends. I know. I know! The most brutal, overly-done overly-priced fashion of the least-fashionable. And now I’m one of them. But the truth is, those fucking pants are awesome. And I vow to wear them ONLY to pilates and ONLY indoors.
Please take heed my friends, if, in 3 weeks, you see me scuffing down the street in pony-tail, uggs and the aforementioned lulu’s, please, do not hesitate to intervene immediately.

This is a slippery slope, dear friends.

3. Guys, I’m totally starting a band. I’m going to be the lead (OBVS.) and only my ridiculously attractive friends are allowed to audition.
Once formed, we’ll destroy the local scene with our inherent, attractive, awesomeness. All’s we need is a few thousand color photos of my face and the yettobedecidedbandname splayed in only the cool neighborhoods across town.
The outoftheloopers will be all, “who are those ridiculously attractive people I see on all of the telephone poles lately?”
Intheloopers, “pffffft. You don’t know? That’s yettobedecidedbandname. I heard the lead singer is dating Winona Rider.”

How will we achieve such success, and so soon?
Pfft. We’ll steal the booking books from only the coolest venues in town. Once returned, out yettobedecidedbandname will be splashed all over and those books don’t just fill themselves you know. If the book says you’re playing tonight? You bet your ass you are.

And if that doesn’t work. I’ll just watch these guys and get more tips.

p.s. dear Jay McCarrol, let’s get married already. You can be all deadpan funny and tall and shit and I’ll laugh a lot and let you write piano songs for me. I don’t ever need to eat peanuts again if it means not killing you.

No You Girls*

Tips for successful living by Kelly.

1. Be nice to cab drivers. Your friends will give you a hard time. Make you always sit in front. Chide you for flirting with old Indian men. BUT when in three consecutive weekends, you lose your cell phone (x2) and your wallet and cab drivers personally bring them back to you the same day solely on their own accord, I’m not so silly after all friends.

2. I’m considering taking March on the wagon. I KNOW! It’s crazy. I like gin like most girls like vibrators. And I’m no weekend warrior. This cold turkey thing would send ripples throughout the week. No Wednesday drinks at my local. No free wine at art openings. No drinks to aid my wreckless abandon dance moves. Can it be done? Why would I want to do such a crazy thing anyway? I know you are dying to ask.

I’ll tell you, dear readers: the reasons are three-fold.

reason #1. Moneymoneymoneymoney. I spend more money on booze than the average Stepford wife and I definitely don’t have the absent rich husband (ew) to pay for it.

reason #2. Decisionsdecisionsdecisions. I don’t make good ones on the ol’ gin. Drunk texting and bathroom make outs are soooo 2008.

reason #3. Skinnyskinnyskinny. No one ever got skinny on 3 bottles of gin a week.

3. Do something that scares you. So the guy from your pilates class asks you for drinks? And your safe zone instinct say that pilates flirter is a pretty man who does girly exercise classes and is therefore, gay, and thus, confused. So you say “maybe?” and then said cute pilates man never comes back. Causing you to think he might have just been trying pilates to meet girls, and therefore, NOT gay. Fuck. Foiled again.

Sidenote: crackberriez take photos that Invisible Monster protagonists dream of. Like instant soap opera blown out lighting that practically erases half the face. And sometimes? It kind of works.

*I like Franz Ferdinand again. I need a bit more bravado in my life I think. More fist pumping. More spastic dancing. Thanks Franz. See you at Coachella.

squalor victoria

I liked the Wrestler. I liked Mickey Roarke. I even wanted him to win a stupid Oscar.

For two hours, his watery-eyed performance as the washed up, juiced up, shell of a fictional goliath really got to me.

Where are all of those aged-ragged one-time celebrities? The ones without the breadth to see outside of their one-time moments of glory? The guy who dressed up like Barney or Pockaroo or the cast of Saturday morning teenybopper sitcoms…once kids and teenage girls threw themselves at these stars of 1980s. Then one day it was over. Pockaroo is selling insurance in New Mexico. Until last year, half of the New Kids on the Block were working construction in Arizona. Kids got over wrestling. Teenage girls outgrew those teen heartthrobs.

And still the washed up former WWF wresters were schlepping their fake-tanned asses to every small town rink in the country to get paid $40 to get a few steps closer to an aneurism and relive something that was never real to begin with. Guys I know from my small hometown went to see Randy the Macho Man Savage at the Pictou County Hockey rink, and even at age 10, the spectacle left a bad taste in their mouths.

I wanted Roarke to win. There is such grace in redemption. The means are glazed over by the glitter of the ends.

I have made a lot of mistakes. Said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. But I doubt any grandiose redemption is in the cards for me, it’s far less dramatic when there is no audience. And I probably don’t deserve it anyway.

Mickey Roarke though, he does.

Performance Enhancers

I’ve been thinking about the climb lately. I think at age 10 I thought I would be a CEO by 27. I need a boost. I need to look forward to more than just the next Cut Copy show (ok, F that, even CEO’s should still be excited about that shit.) I think I’ve toiled at this level long enough and it’s time to start juicing.

I want to be a Director before I hit 40. I want to do work that matters. Finish a masters’ (or two). Read more Kafka. More Baudrillard. Sometimes I worry that one day I’ll wake up, and I’ll be 34 and I’ll have achieved only minimal successes and sunken into the lull of mediocrity. Sometimes I can’t sleep. I lay awake and try to recount the academic writers I so hotly debated over drinks years ago. The Chomskys the Adornos the Mulveys the Haraways.

Do you worry about this?

We all do something to get ahead. I’m so over this “I can’t believe ARod did steroids” story the Sports sections can’t seem to get enough of. That we ever believed any Major League player wasn’t using ‘roids since Mark Maguire’s muscles practically burst through his skin 10 years ago is f’ing insulting. Of course they use performance enhancing drugs. Baseball is a business. It’s not a non-profit making dreams come true for little boys with dreams of athletic greatness. Players who can break records fill seats and boost ratings. Owners make more money. Players make more money. It’s win-win. Baseball lost all credibility years ago and now how can it go back? Clean players will never be as entertaining as juiced up super hitters. Drugs enhance ability. Ability enthralls us. We tune in. Love of the game is a thing of the past.

what career booster superdrug do I need?

I know this much is true:

1. Long weekends are pretty great. I like to stay in the city and make the three whole days away from my grey desk last longer …I’ll take sleeping in and brunches and vintage shopping and going for long walks and basketball and working out whenever I want over some clean air, any day. (ok, this time anyway.)

2. Finding a classic Burberry (like, for realz) trench coat, in mint condition, in the depths of a Bloor West used clothing depot for $20 (bargained down from $30 with a bit of strategic leaning forward in a smartly low cut sweater with a slight grin) feels pretty good.

BUT:

Question: is it unethical that I do, in certain circumstances, abuse a bit of overconfidence and a strategic lip-biting “c’monnnn” aesthetic to get what I want? For free cabs, free AGO admission, bargained goodwill finds? Am I no better than the blow-job promotion? (for the record, my office has never seen above my knee or below my collarbone) am I just as bad as the office slut?

3. I like dive bars. Give me $3 pints, crumbling walls and a well-stocked jukebox and I’m your biggest fan. There is something so comforting about the grimy, cozy dives my friends and I love so much. Give me Dundas West and Sir Perry’s in cans. Give bathroom stalls sprawled with incoherent self-deluded ramblings and tags. Give me aged, ragged regulars pouring over free papers sitting at stools they’ve sat on for 20 years.

A friend once told me that when Cat Power comes to town she calls the boys she knows and sets up shop at Jilly’s. She’s light years ahead of us in the dive game, and though I don’t think I’ll get to her level soon, there’s something so intriguing about a critically acclaimed, trendsetting songstress ordering scotch and stuffing g-strings with Canadian fivers at the dirtiest strip club known to the east end. If pushed I’d take Jilly’s over King Street any day.

oh and:
Ingredients for the drunken dinner photo shoot?

I part afternoon vintage shopping with 2 best girls
2 parts exhaustion
3 parts swim gear (on hand in full intent to attend evening lane swim post-shopping. Ha.)
10 million parts Stella

Results:
Kelly demonstrating front crawl at the Lakeview at 6:30 p.m. clad in swim gear and towel.

Oh well, I never liked that place much anyway.

dear manchillitron, you're old.

I remember when we first met.
you said:
"I only like watermelon candy, Sprite and hiphop"

I think you weighed 90 pounds.

I thought:
"This skinny bitch is annoying."

Today you are the friend that I think of first when I love a new song. when I fuck up. when I want to drink gin and complain and when I want to laugh a lot.

At 27 you are sick and laid low. we'll dance and eat later...today, I hope you know, we, your friends, you know...we like you and stuff. ok?

hearts, high fives and happy birthday,
K.

BEST. WORST. BEST.

Top 3 Best and Worst for Tuesday:

1.BEST Globe and Mail headline in recent memory:“Yoda to help Canadian troops overcome phantom menace of stress”
Also: kind of the worst. Post-traumatic stress syndrome is historically undervalued and misunderstood. That we are subjecting legitimately affected war veterans to counseling via Star Wars is horrifying. That said, holy moly what a bi-line.

2. WORST Saturday night decision:
A quiet night instead of the party HENCE: missing James Murphy secretly DJing at the Beaver Saturday night.
Where was I? Falling asleep at a table at the Embassy.
This is not unlike the last time a musical impresario breezed through town and I missed out.
There is a reason I say “YES” to most social suggestions. When I don’t my friends end up dancing all night in lofts with the de-helmeted men of Daft Punk (worst “NO THANKS” of my life circa August 2007) or pounding back scotch and soda with the driving force behind the best lo-fi-dance disc in recent history.

3. BEST way to find new music.
Mix tape swaps are the HypeMachine. Forget downloading, buying records or streaming myspace. The only way to get the goods is to host a mixtape swap. If you aren’t listening to a dozen handmade, handwritten, carefully designed playlists today, get with it. Who knew I liked so much Australian music? Or that my friends were so crafty? (Ok, I knew they were…this is the 2nd annual affair we’re talking about…).

(Kelly Best of '08 cover)

Honest Kelly: Sweet Kelly

In 2009:
I’m trying to be more honest. And more sweet. These traits are something of a paradox for me.

Recently, someone asked me “What if it was socially acceptable to actually say what you honestly thought all the time? Good or bad? Just the straight-from-your-head truth?”
It would be disastrous, of course. But sometimes, it would be nice to say what you really think…things like:

“you have absolutely no sense of style, like, none.”
or
“sometimes I can’t look at you because you are too beautiful.”

I think I try and say the good things I am thinking. But not enough, hence the introduction to “Sweet Kelly in 2009” wherein I am trying to be the sweeter, softer version of my usually harsh and bitter self.

Don’t worry, the ice hasn’t completely melted and we’re not talking total redesign here, but maybe a compliment here and there will be good for me, right?

p.s. I still hate most things. Don’t worry.

p.p.s Sweet or not Sweet Kelly: I would still break-up with anyone who would give me a Valentine's Day gift, as clearly that would indicate a total lack of knowing who the hell I am to think I would ever celebrate such an insincere corporate vomitfest.

ode to the bermuda triangle v.2.0

For as long as I can remember I had perfect white sheets on my perfectly tussled bed. I love the look of crisp white sheets against naked skin. And white sheets in the morning with the sun and blond hair and newspapers strewn about is pretty hot.

But then, some time ago, the white sexiness fell from grace.
Drastic action was taken.
Paint it black.
Too masculine? Perhaps.
But I imagine these are the simple lines of sheets in which Howard Roark and Dominique Francon would drown. And all I’ve ever wanted to be was a perfect Dominique Francon.
Oh and I needed a change.

fight the fire that's in your head

Tuesday top 3:

1. Walk to gym. Lane swim. Sauna. Dress. Spend 10 minutes primping in an attempt to make your blue skin appear at least, half living. Then: spend the next 45 minutes walking to work getting snowflake facials, thus destroying any semblance of grace by the time your snowflake [jizz] soaked body tumbles into the office.
Dear Toronto, why do we put up with this misogynistic winter bullshit? Let you blow your load all over us for 6 months, and for what? Your charming personality? Your hockey skills? I’m leaving you* for the warm embrace of ArgentinaBrazilLaos. I mean it this time! *shh I love you.

2. While in the midst of a 45 minute facial-attack, I tried to escape via DoDos. And you know what? The banjo is so underrated, it adds so much sweetness. Specifically on “Walking”. And ok, the DoDos may not be the Wordsworth of the indie music scene (please buy a rhyming dictionary before the next release boys…) but holy fuck that song is relevant. You can apply the lyrics to anything. In an admittedly possibly overreaching comparison, there’s a hint of Buffalo Springfield or maybe Fleetwood Mac in there…and definitely a bit of Sufjan Stevens.
Maybe it’s just a perfect walking song.
Maybe the cold makes me nostalgic.

3. My job is awesome.

sunday perfect sunday

I’m a pretty simple girl.
Give me 5 extra degrees on a Sunday and I’m happy.
Add to that:
Eggs benny over smoked salmon brunch perfection.
A Sunday stroll with a bestest friend through the simple perfection of Wychwood.
A $14. Blazer bargained down to $7 at Goodwill (yes, you can bargain at Goodwill. Even wearing fur. It helps if you know how to use a good smile)
Tea over the dirty sex and deliciously awful narrative of my latest Chuck Palahniuk obsession.
A sleepy evening and a 1 a.m. photoshoot complete with a personal fashion show of new clothes and attempts to learn how to use my camera (unsuccessful)

p.s. ok. maybe I do like to complicate things sometimes. but i'm always straight up about it. right?