Wednesday, July 14, 2010


Posing for pictures can be awkward even at the best of times. Now, imagine you were told to take it all off and pose. Not even pose. To take it all off and just be. Be normal? Be shy? Be playful? Be aloof? Be yourself? And what exactly does that mean, to be yourself, when you're standing before a lens? In a way that's not sickeningly philosophical, Caitlin Cronenberg, daughter of David, effectively considers these questions by placing regular people in that very position, stripping them of their clothing, and seeing what shines through.

In her new book, entitled Poser, Cronenberg offers her subjects no direction, leaving them to posture themselves however they feel most comfortable, or uncomfortable. Each photograph was framed the same, and lit the same, and the only variation from image to image is the subject, and their expression. Somehow, though, each photograph seems drastically discrete. Although the book (which took a surprising amount of time to be completed and published) seems at first a symphony of tits and ass, it's something much, much more sexy.

And you should have a flip.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010


Is it bad that when I heard the news, my first instinct was to text back: THERE WON'T BE ANY MORE CURB?!

George Steinbrenner 1930-2010

Monday, July 12, 2010

kitsch + kitchen + klothes

Two years ago, doing my second annual run (or should I say teetering hobble) down the runway at Fashion Alternative Toronto, or [FAT], that I thought to myself: Whose actually going to buy these shorts?

Not because the shorts weren't nice. They were gorgeous, highly high wasted and hand-made by the lovely Diepo duo. And not because the shorts weren't shorts. They were more like glorified panties. But because these shorts were barely-there, and far from forgiving. So much camel toe you'd think you were on Birthright. In short, wearing them made my legs look like cased sausage. And who wants that?

In any event, shorts and sausage are two things that don't often go together - naturally or successfully - until now. NYC boy's brand Outlier has found a way to marry the two, in a marketing marvel that could have easily crossed the border to tacky-town, but didn't. It's a meaty alliance between Wurst Editions and Emily's Pork Store, and they're calling it The Wurst Outlier Sausage Pack. Yes, the gentleman's togs will temporarily be sold in a landmark butcher shop in Brooklyn. Designers Abe Burmeister and Tyler Clemens boast that the very limited edition shorts (only 45 pairs are presently available) have "an elegant folded cuff, front watch pocket, and sausage toned rear pocket button."

I don't really know what that last part means, all I know is that some people love a sausage near the rear pocket, and guys (mine especially) like Outlier, and I love this idea all together. And that's that.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

will write for food

The word rolls less lovingly off the lips today. Internship. If you were born after 1985 and pursued any sort of post-secondary trade degree, odds are you've done one. You've likely made coffee, and licked envelopes until your tongue turned white and raw. Or, if you're one of the lucky ones, or unlucky ones maybe, you've actually gotten your feet wet, for some soaked, and have done it all for the recompense of a reference. Experience builds character. Experience builds resumes. But it doesn’t buy dinner, or pay rent, or erase student loans. Graduates of this year, and already a few years past, have had the misfortune of throwing their four-cornered caps into oblivion, shouting "we did it!" only to later ask, "what did we do?" That dreaded ten-letter "R" word hangs above our heads where our roofs should be, but for most of us, it's where our parent's roofs are. Unable to find work, and sick of working for free, a generation of qualified 20-somethings loose entry level positions to disgruntled 40-somethings who were previously replaced by other 20-somethings that were willing to work for less… two years ago. So we accept another internship, add another bullet to our resumes, and continue to wonder what the hell happened to the Simcoe Act.

on cool

"This one girl who I had been watching most of the night stood squashed in the middle of the front row, and when she caught me looking at her, I gave her a smile. She made a gagging look and turned back to the band, swaying her head to the beat. And I got really disgusted and started thinking, what was this girl's problem? Why couldn't she have been nice and smiled back? Was she worried about imminent war? Was she feeling real terror? Or inspiration? Or passion? That girl, like all the others, I had come to believe, was terminally numb. The Talking Heads record was scratched maybe, or perhaps Dad hadn't sent the check yet. That was all this girl was worried about. Her boyfriend was standing behind her, a total yuppie with Brylcreamed hair and a very thin tie on. Now what was this guy's problem? Lost I.D.? Too many anchovies on his pizza? Broken cigarette machine? And I keep looking back at the girl - had she forgotten to tape her soap this afternoon? Did she have a urinary tract infection? Why did she have to act so fucking cool? And that's what it all came down to: cool. I wasn't be cynical about that bitch and her asshole boyfriend. I really believed that the extent of their pitiful problems exceed to far from what I thought. They didn't have to worry about keeping warm, or being fed, or bombs, or lazers, or gunfire. Maybe their lover left them, maybe that copy of "Speaking in Tongues" was really scratched. But I came to understand, standing there, the floor vibrating beneath me, the band blaring in my head, that these problems and the pain they felt were genuine. I mean, this girl probably had a lot of money, and so did her dumb-looking boyfriend. Other people might not sympathize with this couple's problems and maybe they didn't really matter in the larger realm of things - but they still mattered to Jeff and Susie; these problems hurt them, these things stung... and that's what struck me as really pathetic. But, I forgot about her and those other geeks, and did the last of the coke Lars was offering me."

From "The Rules of Attraction" by Bret Easton Ellis

Friday, June 18, 2010

this jacket

and she said it was too warm for a jacket, but I wore one anyway. A light jacket. We had picked it up at the army store, only ten dollars. I hoped no one died in it. Then I see the white maple leaf, patch sewn, small, left shoulder. I feel better. The night was warm, but not "too warm" to my dismay. We walked through the dizzy streets, adding familiars to our marching pack. Now, six people strong. Now seven. A long walk, but it feels good on my feet. We arrive late, and not the kind associated with fashion. Fashion had come and gone, and we've missed most of it. Just three mini women in maxi-dresses stomping their sandals to the oldies upstairs, we don't know them but we watch; in the basement, a heavy base line, it rattles the bathroom mirror(s). The two sounds don't mix. He can only get three of us in, everyone else needs to pay. At a quarter-to too late for a Thursday, I slip off, slipping off my jacket and climbing into the sticky backseat of a stuffy cab. I text a goodbye, but it doesn't go through. Not right away, at least. Despite it, I am happy. Can you roll the windows, down? It's too warm for me back here.

summer makes us want to do the craziest things

Thursday, May 27, 2010

the oldies

It's recently come to my mother's attention that the yellowing desktop PC in the basement still contains all of our old files; our Microsoft paint creations, our old class projects and papers, and our high scores on Lemmings and Simms. All saved, accurately titled and meticulously archived (that was her doing, of course) and now available for her morbid, late-night amusement.

Last night, while excavating the deep, dark tomb that is the hard drive, she uncovered a real gem. It's my music request list, typed and numbered, and addressed to the DJ who was hired to play my Bat Mitzvah party.

It was to be a joint party had with my childhood bestie, Marli. It would be a coming-of-age extravaganza, not soon to be forgotten by the rest of my pubescent peers. I was going to Israel to become a woman in the eyes of hashem, and everyone else on the LITAL tour bus. But before I left, I would throw the ultimate sock-hop at the all-ages night club in Transcona.

Together, Marli and I composed and printed this letter to the music man:


To the DJ,

This is Marli and Carli's song list for our party. These are just some of the songs we want to hear at our party. Try to cut down all Backstreet Boys, absolutely no S-Club 7, and hardly any slow songs and try to play all of these songs at least once.



















19. ABC – BY “JACKSON 5”

23. CREEP – BY “TLC”





Thank you,

Marli & Carli, Bat Mitzvah Girls


We didn't know much about run-on sentences or quotation marks, but we did know our music. As you can imagine, the party was a huge success. All of those shiny wigs we bought really won favour with the popular kids, and the Phil Collins song allowed for that girl from public school (you know, the one from your softball team that your mom made you invite to "diversify the guest list" and ensure your continued placement in post-game carpool...) to have her very first kiss.

Personally, I feel that this playlist is a good one. Perhaps I will resurrect it for the summer.
And, of course, the same rule will stand: Absolutely no S-Club 7

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

time flies:

- when you're having fun
- "when you're old"
- when you're not waiting
- when you're not ready
- at 50 cents a minute
- when you finally let it

and before you know it, they're actually gone.

Friday, May 21, 2010

RE: RE: Safe

"...After we realized its going to cost $2000 to come home early, money that we won't get back, we decided to [get out of Thailand] and fly to Malaysia, not tomorrow but the next day. We're going to chill at the mall there, try on the Miu Miu clogs. Ironically, this is the cheaper option. And, I mean, when faced with the decision to see waterfalls and temples or Topshop and Starbucks, is there really a question as to what we would choose?"

You can take the girl out of North America, but you can't take the girl out of the girl.

boker tov

Ice-cold coffee.
Long, warm morning.

Nice way to kick off a three-day weekend.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

extra extra

This morning, global news wires reported that government leaders in Pakistan have officially banned Youtube, calling the video sharing website "sacrilegious".

Upon hearing the news, Youtube issued this response.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

RE: Safe

"…We are in Chaing Mai now, and there's a state of emergency here - we haven't really noticed much, but I overheard some people saying today that they canceled some conference that was supposed to be held here because of everything… Anyway, I do like it here in Chaing Mai, it's more 'urban' and there are fewer cheesy Australians... More to come."

So... Fewf.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

wish list

Guess what I want for summer?

Hint: it's not the return of my youthful innocents.

DJ Cop-A-Feel

They're calling this video WORST WEDDING DJ EVER. I think this is just the worst wedding ever, period.


- Pot lights and panelled ceilings. Nothing says romance like a Rec-Room reception at the Route 9 Howard Johnson's.
- Man in baseball hat. No one said it had to be black tie... but really, Jim Bob.
- The angsty seventeen year old sulking on the stage. Relax. They're going to cut the cake.
What the hell is a "slice of wine"?

Monday, May 17, 2010


As a rule, or a playful riff on an older blog post (for any of my old readers still loyal enough to follow... hi mom), I truly cannot stand the idea of brunch. Typically, my argument states that "brunch" is pretentious both in name and concept. Something about having to invent an entirely new word to describe the every day act (or every Sunday act) of eating, is a touch obnoxious. Made up words - like Brangelina, sexting and synergy - grind my gears. So why should brunch be any different? Breakfast + Lunch = TOO MUCH FOOD. Pick a meal, and eat it. However, despite the angry way the word rolls off my tongue, I have to say that I tasted a late-morning meal sweet enough to to soften my hate-on for this ridiculous social phenomena.

Yes, brunch, to me, is all together flamboyant. Choice word. So, contrary it might seem to say that the best morning binge to be had in Toronto is at Cinq 01. I've been there three times, and all three times I have spotted someone of Shinan-Govani-certified importance. One time, Paul Shaffer sat at the bar, snacking and chatting with a pal of equally naked noggin, and another time FT's Jeanne Beker relaxed at a quiet table for four, gracefully evading the pointing fingers and peeking eyes of neighbouring diners. The third time I spotted my boyfriend's ex. The most thrilling encounter of all, arguably. (I doubt Shinan would care about that, but we can pretend she's Ainsley Kerr for the sake of the story.)

However, this weekend, upon personal invitation, we ventured to College St. to sample the restaurant's first ever "brunch" selection. Although the menu had more options than there were diners to enjoy them (10 AM is an hour that some brunchers might consider too breakfasty), the server assured us that nothing on the list would disappoint. He had the Eggs Benedict, dripping with some of the richest, creamiest, rub-it-all-over-my-body hollandaise sauce, loosley layered meats piled to perfection, served with home fries, crispy and well seasoned, and served scarcely. I had the Eggs Toufik, named for the the restaurants homme de l'heure, the owner Toufik Sarwa. He's also the mastermind behind Amber in Yorkville. (See: haven to handsome, rich Jewish guys, and the models who will sleep with them, hipster types who haven't fully committed, bankers, babes and bodacious bartenders. A symphony of well dressed people, with an ear for music, and deep pockets for tipping.)

Naturally, with a name like Eggs Toufiq, I assumed that my meal would be saucy, lean, middle-eastern, and would somehow incorporate something leather, binding and faaabulous. However, presented before me was a well-plated, Mexican inspired medley, complete with the softest, freshest tortillas since Cabo, sunny-side-up eggs cooked to gooey, not-too-runny, melt-in-your-mouth perfection, and a citrus splashed guacamole that immediately won my heart. Maybe the best guacamole I've had. Ever. And I've eaten my fair share of guac. Each bite was laced with cilantro, while one or two hearty, slow cooked beans snuck their way into the perfectly palatable mess. My juice was served ice cold, and not at all too sweet, and my americano was just like I love it, strong and black. Next time, if we're on foot rather than in helmets, I'd love to try one of their signature sunrise cocktails.

Next time.... Because there will certainly be one of those. Cinq 01's morning bounty has got this naysayer saying more, more, more.

So, before riding off, satisfied on all accounts, and not at all for the last time, we sent Mr. Eggs Toufiq a text:

"Brunch was great, thanks."

Less than a minute later, his reply:

"Tell your friends."

We'll do him one better. We'll invite them next weekend.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

at last

We were given three hours to write our exam. Our very last. Three quiet hours to bookend these four tiring years. Thirty-four months. Twelve designated breaks, spent everywhere from Manitoba, to Miami to Manhattan, or in bed. Part-time jobs that paid and full-time jobs that didn't. Enough A's, a few B's, and a D that I'd care to forget. Today we would shoot for our last perfect score. And I brought my camera to take pictures. I figured this might be a moment that needed keeping. One of those self-making moments to tell my kids about, if I have kids - and if not my own, then someone else's. Before three hours had passed, we slipped out of the classroom to wait in the hall, holding out for the last of us to finish. For the last time, we compared answers, sharing satisfaction in a job well done, or done just well enough to pass. This would be the last time we'd all be together. Or together, like this, in this way, or something.

I remembered my first day. My eyes were still red from a full night of crying. I was homesick and hadn't had time for breakfast, which would become a habit. The first girl to talk to me became my roommate and family. The guy down the hall, the one with the tidy room and the coffee beans, became my lifeline. The stranger from home who made a home here with me, would later return home-home no longer a stranger. The beauty who said she could do it on her own... did it. And the talent who grew up worlds apart has since travelled around it and back, ten times over. Today I look at these people, and a handful of others, and I can't remember a time when they weren't there to look to, or to call late at night, or to eat with even later. To think that there was ever a time when these people were [at least to me] just people, is so strange. And yet, that first day feels both like yesterday and a million years ago, all at once.

A few weeks from now, in cap and gown, the valedictorian will say, "there were times we were scared that we'd never make it…" because that's the kinda thing a valedictorian says. But the truth is, we always knew we would "make it", and maybe that's what's truly scary.

In the first day of real heat, although we've had sun for several, we popped bottles of cheap champagne in front of our classrooms, and we drank to never going back again, like the Fleetwood song. There, in the toast, was fallacy. I felt dishonest raising up my cup. Sickly sentimental, we drank beer in the sun until the real sickness set in. And even now, out of the swelter, rehydrated and cool, I can only wonder how I'll really feel in the morning.

Friday, March 12, 2010


If I looked this good at 15,
I probably wouldn't be as good as I am at cat's cradle.
And I'm very good at c
at's cradle.

(sonny rothman, sister)

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

where i've been

I've heard that good things come to those who wait. I've also heard that great things come to those who work at them. So, I've been working, and waiting, and working at waiting with grace, but I have yet to see a great thing.

But, I'm going to spin this straw into gold.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

good genes

I love this boy. It's platonic, of course. I learned the hard way, never date a best friend's brother.

Watch and Enjoy: Mr. Stephen Prickett.

I know I do.

you're eating too much

One of America's leading fork manufacturers announced today that in order to keep up with the teeming demand ("OM NOM NOM NOM!") they have elected to add an additional prong to their flatware.

Yes, according to a company spokesperson, "a four-tined fork is just not enough," when considering the how much American's eat, and how fast they wanna eat it.

In one breath, the honourable Dr. Oz will plead with Americans to eat less. He'll speak quickly, and move his arms wildly in front of his half-filled studio audience, telling the U.S. that their blue blood now runs thick with glucose, finishing the show with his traditional sign off, "you're all going to die", while Oprah eats custard in the control room and signs his paycheck.

And then, KitchenMaster - a global industry bigwig - goes and does something like this? Preposterous! If they're not careful, some blob who heralds Gregory Rhymes as a sort of colossal hero (referring to his mass, not his accomplishments) might come knocking on their door with multi-million dollar lawsuit.

All that said, a five prong fork would be pretty effing cool.

Monday, February 22, 2010

mothers say the darndest things

just ten

Down with gratuity! These ten photos are not only the best ones, but they're the only ones.
For the first time in too long, I had so much fun I forgot to get proof. New York anew.

I'm up for a World Record: fewest photos taken at any fashion week, to date.
Tsk. Bad, bad blogger.

Monday, February 8, 2010

simple gifts

I'm not great at keeping a diary. Never have been. I write infrequently, hazily, and hastily, and I can sometimes go weeks, even months, having completely forgotten that I have a diary at all. Its tightly bound pages, smudged with ink and pencil, sullied by the greasy evidents of late night snacking, is assigned to a hiding spot, and then consigned to oblivion.

There it stays, hidden from me completely, until I uncover it in a dressing frenzy or a hunt for loose change. Not at all unlike this blog.

When I'm keeping up, I'm way up. But when things get busy, nights get shorter, or longer, or I'm simply too exhausted by my day to even dream of revisiting it again at lamplight, the diary goes down. Down, down, down. Way down to the bottom of that list of things to do, that somehow just keeps getting longer.

That's why Keel's Simple Diary is an ideal gift for the laggard daily logger. Not at all unlike myself. And now I've got one. Gifted from a friend who is simply spectacular. And, although I may not always tell her, it's written in my diary. I swear.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

home stretch

Just when I start to think that school has lost its charm; mislaid our attentions; depleted their savings

I'm reminded of lunch hour, snack time, spare time

and I start to think I might be lost, misplaced and displaced, quite utterly defeated without this place, once it loses me, once and for all.