re: i think you'd like this movie

eat your feelings

Every news anchor, radio host and fat person has their XXL panties in a knot over Fillipa Hamilton getting canned. I haven’t been able to watch a stitch of my regular morning programming without seeing those eight paltry words flashing along the runner:

Ralph Lauren Model Fired For Being Too Big

Ahhh, the great weight debate. In light of recent concerns regarding feather-flimsy models, later aggravated by Lagerfeld's 'curvy woman' snafu, designers have tried putting chunky chicks on the runway. The reaction? Anything but favourable, or fashionable. An example: Mark Fast (the models, not the line itself). But still, does society put too much pressure on models' broad, boney shoulders to be skinny? How thin is too thin? Where should we draw the line? And, for Christ's sake, IS ANYONE THINKING OF THE CHILDREN!? So many (de)pressing questions.

So, here’s a new one. How about, who cares?

Big girls are beautiful too. I'm sure there's a bumper sticker for that. But modeling is a job reserved for people of specific qualifications, just like being a doctor, or a teacher, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, a sumo wrestler or Prima Donna. To be a model, you don't necessarily have to be smart, or politically minded, you don't need to blow your load on a four year degree, only to dig deeper into dept, just to grasp at a Masters before dropping out to deal with your QLC/AKA working on that non-existant "extended thesis". You don't even really need to know how to spell your own name. There is very little a model must do. Walk strait. Eat less. Be thin.

If being thin, and thin according to industry standards is anything between a 0-2, isn't exactly your forte – then why not train horses, build houses, open a bed and breakfast. The possibilities are endless! You don't see genuinely stupid people kicking and screaming because they didn't get into MENSA? Why not? Well, probably because they're off enjoying their job as a daycare attendant somewhere. But that's besides the point. It's really because there are things in life that shouldn’t be challenged, but rather accepted.

I'll never be Jourdan Dunn, and not just for the obvious reason that I'm 5'7, Jewish and white. I'm not a size 0. I never will be. And it's never bothered me. Instead of focusing on what I can't be, I focus on what I can be. And I would recommend that Ms. Hamilton do the same.

So, Fillipa, if you’re reading this, you're a beautiful, talented, skyscraper of a girl who simply outgrew the sample sizes. No need to fret, or cause a media geyser to erupt in your honour, and in the honour of other lowly size fours in the world. (P.S. cry me a freaking river). Don’t focus on what you can't do (anymore), and start thinking about what you can do!

And, what does an ex-model do when she's too cumbersome for the catwalk, but still loves attention?

I've heard this works.

hi jeff

I am an American aquarium drinker,
I assassin down the avenue.
I'm hiding out in the big city blinking,
What was I thinking when I let go of you?

Let's forget bout the tongue-tied lightning,
Let's undress just like cross-eyed strangers.
This is not a joke, so please stop smiling,
What was I thinking when I said it didn't hurt?

I want to glide through those brown eyes dreaming
Take it from the inside, baby hold on tight
You were so right when you said that I've been drinking
What was I thinking when we said goodnight?

- Wilco, live at Massey Hall, Oct. 14th 2009

Jeff Tweedy broke my heart last night, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't easy.

expectations surpassed

So.

I suppose if you were to ask me what a Fever Ray concert looks like, I'd probably tell you that it's mostly like church, if church were for devil worship, and violent light shows, and antique lamps, and veteran ravers, and guys in capes. (true story)

If I were to tell you that, I would probably sound like every other person who's chronicled their experience, and I'd also be 100% right.

Although it was advertised as an all-ages event, I doubt there was a pre-pube in the joint. Karen Andersson stole the show in an oscar-worthy performance playing dual roles, first Jesus Christ, then the Golem, while the rest of the gang suited up and waved tribal prayer paraphernalia around the stage to engage the audience in group chants and evangelical-like hand shaking.

No dancebreaks. No encore. (But there was a merch stand?) Just lights out, lasers on, sound up. Way up. It was one of the most severe 40 minutes of my life.

But then, I suppose if you like Fever Ray, you'd probably tell me I shouldn't have been surprised. And you'd be 100% right.

vote or die

You may recognize Brian Coulton from such things as:

- all of my broadcast assignments
- arts and living from the Metro newspaper
- Jet Fuel
- the radio (specifically CBC and CFRB)
- GTA's registered sex offenders print-out
- "vinyl fan" fame

One of these factoids is false, but I won't tell you which one. And if you can't identify Brian by any of his real accomplishments, we're going to try and change that.

I want YOU (and the rest of the world world) to remember Brain Coulton. Let's make Brain Coulton a household name. Let's promise to love him, and honour him, and cherish him as long as we all shall live. (I do.)

Click here to make history. Thanks.

a letter to those in cars

Dear Motorists,

Smarten up.
This girl is far too pretty for that neckbrace.

From,
Her Concerned Friend/Your New Worst Enemy

P.S. Get well soon, little one.






Photo Cred: Merrill's Blackberry

fast breaker

positively atoned

I spent most of last night holed up in a steamy, stain-glass enclosed asylum, repenting and wiggling my skirt down. I had eaten far more than I should have in hopes that it would tide me over until 7:47 tonight, when what feels like the-slowest-fast-known-to-man will be called to a close, and I will gorge on whatever's closest. It's just about 5:00 pm, and I've broken my fast with an Americano and seven chocolate chips. Doesn't count. (Does it?)

Yes, Yom Kippur is supposed to be the holiest of holies, the one day where we get to say, 'shit, sorry about that, pal...' and all is forgotten. As a kid, it was a day off school. Now, taking the day off could mean a deadline missed or a mark forfeited. Like most things that take on greater significance as you get older, this tradition (I hesitate to say holiday) is no exception.

Without my family to force me, or grandparents to guilt me, I went to shul of my own accord - to take stock of my own actions, all for myself. In my most opaque tights, I stood for hours, and sat for seconds, in one of the most beautiful sanctuaries I've seen. And there, for the first time (because my mom wasn't there to whisper with me), I really, truly reflected on my many magnificent misdeeds.

Slighted my peers? Yes. Disrespected my parents? Yes. Lied? If I said no, I'd be guilty of that, too. Felt envy? Yes. Gossiped? Read on. Experienced a burning, fiery, insatiable need for revenge? Yes, yes, and yes. Eaten swine? Yes, once, but it didn't mean anything, I swear.

This list could go on, but I'll save the catharsis for my moleskine. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, ticking off an imaginary list of wrong-doings, and when I opened them, everyone around me continued to beat their chests with a closed, white-knuckled fist – in the symbolic Jewish customary way, not in the 'Celine Dion Live from Vegas' kinda way. It felt... important.

We are supposed to go to an open body of water and toss bits of bread into a moving stream. This is called Tashlich, and it's a practice that is supposed to represent a physical purging, releasing and then washing away of our sins. Today I put some stale melba toast into the toilet and flushed it. You can't be a good person all the time, but you can try.

It's been a big year. Big changes, with big achievements and disappointments to match. On (real) New Years, I made a few resolutions that I sort of bit the dick on. Lucky for me, I get a second go at a new beginning. I only hope that my complex-carb contraventions get lost in the sewage, and don't kill my plumbing.

'is this outfit...surrealist enough?'

As it turns out, dressing 'surrealist' is pretty dada-difficult. No one melted clocks to their clothing, but someone did carry a birdcage. At Salvador Darling we celebrated a darling of our very own in the most Man Ray kinda way, with bubbles and Brandy (songs) and whatever was left after the house red ran out, which was early, and for the first time, no fault of our own.

cne or just desserts?