{ Read about - then go see - these art shows }
top: Derek Mainella. bottom: the next gen, a.k.a OCAD
{ The new Tupperware party }
Women renting dresses. Buying jewellery. Buying chocolate. Whatever. With cocktail service. This week’s column, in The Grid.
{ Whiskory: A history lesson: Prohibition x Canadian Club }
…also known as “What I did in Windsor for 24 Hours.” I toured a mansion. Drank enough to fuel a country album. Click for pics, word play, etc etc etc.
{ Up & Coming: A new art/sex/etc mag }
More photos in the gallery. Click the link. By Becca Lemire. For The Grid.
{ The Night Shift: Toronto's douchebag divide }
Probably the most level-headed - or depressing - thing I’ve written about nightlife in Toronto so far. Us and our empty fucking labels. For The Grid.
{ Q+A with L.A. artist Steven Harrington }
…chatting about the intersection of art and fashion, the nature of craft and inspiration, and his new collaboration (below) with footwear brand Generic Surplus. For The Genteel.
{ The Night Shift: Welcome to Chroma }
There’s a new club den in town for the young kids with little money but big dreams. In a deep dark corner of the city that holds the final days of ’90s Toronto rave culture within its rooms. Rife with futurisms, probably a metaphor for all we have left in the night, or ever: to dance/party/smoke/drink/laugh/sweat until the end. And makes me think of this song. Always. Kelis, yo.
{ I went to hear DJ Pauly D spin }
…and all I got was this article. Yes, Jersey Shore. Bedazzled headphones and laptops. The people who paid money. Young girls, old dudes. Ok, I know you’re curious. For The Grid.
"The outrage is tiresome and deeply hypocritical, in all the tiresome ways you’ve been tired out by before. M.I.A. was illustrating her line, acting out the attitude of the words: performing. Fine, it may not be legal to flip the bird on television, but that’s simply a remnant of the fifties we haven’t shaken. Unless somebody was handing out Xanax with the foam fingers, Lucas Oil Stadium was ringing with the music of profanities last night. More to the point, television viewers were submitted to ad after ad that likened women—negatively—to sofas, cars, and candy. Mr. Winter didn’t have anything to say about that, so I’d like to raise both of my middle fingers to him and anyone who thinks profanity is somehow more harmful to our children than images of violence and misogyny. (My two sons, fourteen and eleven, thought the Fiat ad was corny, so I guess they will be safe without Mr. Winter’s intervention.) I say we get out of The Pretending To Be Moral game altogether and use the Internet for important things like posting pictures of cats looking at croissants and PDFs of sensitive government documents."
— Sasha Frere-Jones — M.I.A. Shouldn’t Have Apologized (via annaetc)
"But the seventh night in Toronto can be akin to those hours you find yourself trying to fall asleep, but just can’t. It’s busy, but subtle. It’s dizzying, but sobering. Every brain cell wants shut down, but the energy keeps your pupils dilated, and the complete silence of being alone in a dark room means your thoughts only want to get louder. The city is sort of like that."
— fromThe Night Shift: Sunday nights in Toronto. This week, talking about the things we do/don’t, for The Grid.
{ I used the word "douchebag" in a column. Who am I? }
For The Grid. It was a proud, weird moment when I realized that the only way I could describe Queen West restaurant Nyood’s reinvention was to say “de-douchebagging.” (Look up the word in Urban Dictionary.) Funny enough, the girl holding the “Club Nation” microphone threatens to derail my entire theory. But go for yourself, report back on Yelp.
