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