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?