Tuesday, January 29, 2013
For years I thought a little pomade in my hair could duplicate the ease of being at the beach for the day. I was a naive fool. Canadian lakes don't offer drying purities like intense amounts of salt to dry ones hair to a crisp. We do offer the unlawful practice of dumping chemicals in the lake in hopes of birthing three eyed fishes and "beach hair". And then I went to the Bahamas, enjoying a few days of sun-and most importantly-perfecting beach hair.
Me: "Hey Khim, have you heard of Bumble and Bumble?"
Khim: "Yeah, but it's expensive."
Me: "Obvs. I'm going to make my own sea salt spray."
*Disclosure: conversation happened on the plane ride home on how to perfect aforementioned beach hair.
I arrived home to -20 weather in pursuit to create a feasible hair product to replicate island hair. It's simple and effective and it'll cost you a trip to the grocery store. I've read some recipes requiring oils and hair gels and I've attempted them all (I have not), however I enjoy something more basic. The oils seemed to make my hair more greasy than soft. I don't want soft, I want a mane I can't control.
Folks, this is easy shit. It's not like sprinkling paprika on your devilled eggs, close though-the technique is transferring. Grab an empty spray bottle, pour filtered water and sprinkle some sea salt to your eye-ball's desire. Shake, shake, watch Hannah snort coke on the latest episode of Girls and spray. Ta dahh. You learned how to perfect beach hair and divide your lines of coke at the same time.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
In the event that Canada surpasses a specific temperature (10 degrees +) in the winter, we like to consider it pre-spring. Pre-fucking-spring? Yes. Yes! We Canucks dust off le shorts & tees from under our beds and feel as though we're entitled to said apparel. (You have no one to blame about your flu, but your idiotic fucking self.) Did you spot the elusive photo just above? Big Bird incognito. This man is well dressed for occasions like "pre-spring". Not to hot and not too cold; just like Britney Spears in her search for missing hymen. You have a shirt, layer with a crew neck jumper (obvs) and execute with a well form-fitting pea coat. Unbuttoned for theatrical purposes for a non-chalant cool-Starbucks in hand, Chucks on foot.
Off to Bahamas because Perry doesn't do (feels like) -20.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
I released my inner beautician for this photo-op. No self-timer, hands up and shoot. My technique was learned through Hannah Horvath-who took a photo of her topless body-to send to her non-boyfriend. I on the other hand kept my clothes on with a book so engaging that with said clothes on makes a statement. Not a movement, a statement.
Fags, what are we and what have we become?
I'm going to be selective and categorize them into two departments. 1, The Village Gay (this is more complex than it is transparent); 2, The Non-Gay Gay (me and insecure boys out there making statements like this, "I like you fucking masc man" [not me]). In the paradigm that is being gay in a straight-acting world, you still like the big D.
I am by no means any aficionado in the gay lifestyle; I grew up in a suburban city that lacks gay culture, any culture in particular really. I never got the opportunity to exercise my gayness. Obvs, wearing unicorn t-shirts and having raunchy sex at Thames Hall in Western. The city's only gay bar was attended by the same people who were very clicky in an ironic culture that we are supposed to be accepting. Fags are assholes. You, me and the guy sucking cock on the dance floor. Gays are very categorical homosexuals. Masc, straight-acting, no blacks, no Asians, muscles, tall +++, bears only, no fems, non-scene, neg, top only, bttm, etc.
Why am I, the latter, so ready to differentiate myself from department 1? For me personally, from an outside perspective, I see the Village as something stereotypical and sexualized. Not all faggots enjoy branded underwear, techno house music, Kylie Minogue and seeing naked muscular men dance. To my knowledge, men who are average can dance too, perhaps salsa dance better than. I just want to enjoy my Sapporo in a dive-y bar without a side of cock. I understand the positive aspects to gay communities like inclusion and safety. I feel so fucking gay and safe walking down Queen West.
To all the fags, let's be nice to each other.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Recent Born Ruffians' events led to my friend's friend being hit with a beer bottle. He was hospitalized and I'm sure he's playing the new Born Ruffians song now. Anecdote accomplished. Albeit, short nonetheless.
This past summer I persuaded my confidant to walk with me to Roncey to visit Glory Hole where they top their donuts off with bacon. That's code for smart mammal being killed to speed the bacon shortage. I proceeded with a non-judgment glare of my vegetarian mantra. Not in your body, but on your body. I can't forgo leather accessories. We exited Roncey and proceeded east into Parkdale. I told said confidant, "hey, that looks like the lead singer of Born Ruffians." In return, I get the glare of death as if I ate the bacon donut and she was the vegetarian. There he was, Luke Lalonde walking a few steps ahead as we followed sheepishly behind. After sometime between the border of stalking and casually walking behind a "friend", we lost him somewhere at Dufferin and Queen.
My daily addiction to BlogTO led me to the release of their new song With Her Shadow. At first listen, I pondered Vampire Weekend? Confused. Obvs. A much slower and softer first single that I can definitely get accustomed to. Picture this: Mai Tai's, beach and some Ruffians.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
I have this tendency to occupy my time with one specific song until I know longer show interest. This has not happened, yet. Losing You has been on repeat to the point where my friends make me hit that double arrow button. You know, next. Obvs.
This video is ideal. Mixing prints to the point of Man Repelling and dance moves that represent the scene at dive bars. I'm sure I won't be seeing those articulate motions at any $20 cover club. And girl enjoys getting her hair wet.
Full disclosure: the side link lead me to watch on Victoria Beckham Coming To America.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Apparently waiting a full month to buy tickets to a concert in a city of 2.6 fucking million people has negative consequences. Not the kind of consequence where your bank charges you fees for overdraft, no, no, much worse. Consequence 1: no actual physical tickets; this means no waving them in the air, no taking a picture to post on Instagram and of course no entrance. Consequence 2: Eating feelings.
Learning curve. Buy dem tickets in advanced to avoid disappointment. I underestimated the popularity of Purity Ring and the city of Toronto. I planted my roots in a city of suburbanites where the subculture who would enjoy Rings of Purity would amount to the fingers of my hand. I've searched all the outlets: Rotate, Soundscapes and Ticketmaster. Sold out just like the release of Missoni for Target.
My undeniably fail proof plan would be to purchase such tickets minimum two months in advanced, maybe 3. Just like how Moda Operandi does pre-orders right off the runway because ineveitably everyone will want a new Chanel hoop bag.