Lusting for FAT models: day II

At FAT the models move. There are no stiff shoulders, straight leg steps, or dead eye-stares. Instead they cartwheel down the catwalk, blow kisses at the cameras, crawl on all-fours, leap frog over each other, swing tennis rackets, and drag the next girl forward with hooks piercing the skin.

Fitting then, that the second night began with a dance by Lauren Weisz. In Sunday’s best black ties and simple sauntering dresses, the models lined up two-by-two. Women behind the men, they kicked their legs up over suited shoulders and spun in circles, losing dresses as swirled, revealing black lingerie underneath.

Opera boomed out of well worked vocal chords as a busty brunette led a procession of tightened bodices by Starkers Corsetry. Bombshells in sheer black skivvies followed, including a hot-and-heeled miss Carli Rothman, who I found backstage after the show with a slice of pizza in hand, undies and all.

Self proclaimed jetsetter and socialite Jet Phynx filled the gap between shows with his brand of fame and fashion induced pop. Later Phynx, who self designs his highly stylized stage looks, tells me he’s been hanging with Gaga and Kanye and is en route to Europe and Japan to continue his global takeover.

Evan Biddell, who must have spent many sleepless nights to pull off opening his first boutique and creating collections for both LGFW and FAT in a single season, opened the second set of shows. Biddell enlisted Magnet Creative’s Gail McInnes, former Phantom Pastel Supernova, and your favourite fashion writer Sarah Nicole Prickett, to walk in the show.

Then there were the style sluts, all wrapped up in latex, courtesy of Pippa and Fashion Whore. There was the terminarix with her tech-armour arm, Alice out of Wonderland, and a rubber red wonder-girl walking in heels so stiff she needed arm supports just to wobble. And finally a set of wedding-white balloons released at the runway’s end before the top was dropped for the fondling of a honeymoon hooker.

It ended with a not-so-subtle nod to Mr. McQueen as punks in plaid kilts were paraded to live bagpipes. The presentations blended into performances with one last towering black beautiful monster standing a story tall and followed by a crawling mini monster, all teethy with face paint, whispering to the model inside the way.

Then the lights went black and before the announcer could finish closing remarks I was out the door to find a beer and a boy for a birthday, and finally a bed.

Master of the reveal, miss SNP

As his bio says: Jet holds a drink in one hand and a crowd in the other

Backstage beauties

Feed the models

One of these things, not like the other ones

Nolan Bryant with that Yuppie Activist

The lovely Lauren Weisz does it all

Suffer for fashion

Wobble on

Trapped as a twosome

A nice day for a white wedding

The offspring of the McQueen generation

Crawl towards the closer

The Surreal Life

It was to be a Surrealist Ball, or so the invitation read. But before selecting an outfit for the evening, I thought back to the last time I'd attended a party with a themed devised by Miss Prickett. It was another birthday party, then for Mr. Corsin. The theme, Suicide Idol.

That night, after carefully creating a Hunter S. Thompson costume, I ended up standing at the Beaver in khaki shots, two months too early for spring, with only Sid Vicious to talk to. Luckily, just hours before the ball was scheduled to begin, a message arrived in my inbox reading: "for dress, try to think shocking pink, schiaparelli, lobsters, man ray, trompe l'oeil, and ballets russes. and if you can't dress up, you can still get down."

Translating said message to "attire optional", I put on a navy matador jacket and a striped tie and headed out the door. Blending into a crowd of bunny ears, femme fatales, and birdcage broads, I slipped into the themeatic venue, Salvador Darling. Hours later, after an evening of '90s R&B and disco-pop, I downed one last jack-and-coke, hugged the hostess and hurtled myself into a cab.

Hope you had a surreal birthday, Sarah.

*original outfit follows

Man with moustache, floating through frame

The bottom of the birthday suit: bare feet

Bright young things

The dukes and dames of hazard

Back in black

Look closely for reference points, is all I'm saying

Kavin, getting into trouble

And, of course, the birdcage

Neo-Nazis? Naw.

By now you’re probably sick of hearing about that new Nazi flick. You’ve heard it grossed over $ 65 million at international box offices, discussed whether or not the win could save the Weinstein Group, and gossiped about the film’s secret Crash-style Oscar campaign.

The violent, picturesque WWII story--ripped from the wet dream of the of a Jew-frowed teen picked on by a gentile--has been the talk of the town for weeks now. Tarantino and co-star Eli Roth even made a visit to our so-called Hollywood North on August 12 to promote the film (and sign some Reservoir Dogs merchandise, of course).

The incessant promotion, which included everything from sponsoring UFC 100 to sending a darling, mini-dressed Diane Krueger on a global press tour, seemed to work: on opening night I was comfortably tucked into a seat in an over-crowded theatre.

But of all the buzz, one bit was my favourite. For its “Basterdized” special issue, which was dedicated to the film, EYE weekly enlisted a couple of my friends to take on a very un-PC, but undeniably aesthetically pleasing concept, Nazi Fashion.

Styled and described by Miss. Sarah Nicole Prickett, the shoot features the man behind last week’s Absolut party, your boyfriend Justin Broadbent. To Broadbent’s left is “it-girlish” Leigh Farrell, looking like a character from a 1940s murder-mystery. And last but not least is everybody’s favourite Winnipegger-turned-Toronto-based-journalist, Carli Stephens-Rothman.

If you’re into military men, battle babes, and a practical colour scheme, pick up the issue. If you’ve tired of the Basterds, I hear there are some free screenings of a new, terrible film called Avatar.

*Seconds before pressing publish I was grabbing a link to that Hyphenoptional blog and noticed Carli had just posted, well, the same post you see here. If you're the kind of person who reads endnotes first, skip mine and read hers. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed this blog-on-blogger, or "circle jerk" as SNP calls it.

In bed with the enemy

photo by Miss  Merrill M 

It's over. Toronto's most hated and/or: loved, admired, read, commented on, e-mailed, and protested against blogger is moving on. Yes, Miss Sarah Nicole Prickett is leaving the  ist-a-verse. 

Sure, she's still got a day job (or three) at  Eye,  Toronto Life, and  Fashion.  And there's the occasional freelance piece for a  paper (and we can always hope for another  tell-all), but I have to say I'm going to miss the comment-riddled posts on  Torontoist. Though the snarky commentary provided by SNP was reason enough to read, it was the two-way conversation in the comment section of the city blog that kept people talking, and typing.  

In today's post, one in a series on the  Future of Toronto Fashion, Prickett announced her own future at Torontoist: there isn't one. All readers got was a quick "hi, and bye." I'll keep up with Prickett on (and off) the blogosphere, but to commemorate her final Torontoist posting, I decided to take a quick look back on some of the choice comments from her time writing for the site.

Feel free to toss more of your favourites into the comments section. 

It's all in the last line

Indeed, bravo

It was rare any comment was the colour neutral, but here's proof it happened

Yes, and no. When Sarah writes a blog post, someone is always there to read it

Which was the appeal, or was it?

Many posts warranted comparisons, positive, negative, and riddled with spite

A Howard Stern comparison? She'll take it!

No, she's no Hemingway. But blogging is never done in Ernest

No, this is why we  could have Gawker

Animal activists found her journo-methods debate-able. To say the least, they weren't her biggest fans

Sometimes the comments over-stepped, but those only made it all more entertaining

*nb: this is definitely my favourite

Calls to quit were not uncommon, but commenters like Barb B. miss what makes SNP, well SNP. She's the kind of girl who thinks crayons are  cute. Still don't get it? Didn't think so

Only she will, Ryan. Only she will

The reference points left the less savvy confused

Evidently, not everyone is fan

The comments continue, but haters aside: hit counters don't lie 

And occasionally, someone would express gratitude for the hard work of a fashion blogger

But usually that gratitude was as sarcastic as said post

Posts often inspired rage, which was regularly funneled into fruitless online labours

Quick, check  Google.  There's a whole lot more space to be wasted

Let's be honest: the last word was always hers, so I figured I'd give it to her. You know, as a fashionable defender. Or whatever. Enjoy the Web 3.0, Prickett. 

Toronto's next top blogger?

Making her move from writer to written about, Miss Sarah Nicole Prickett made the ridiculously named "Hip Listers" section of this year's Best Dressed list, courtesy of the Toronto Star.

Labeled our very own "girl about everywhere" by Josh Errett in a recent NOW editorial, the something-slash-blogger is apparently internet famous, which had previously seemed all but impossible for a Toronto-based blogger.

For the record, Julia Alison isn't jealous, nor is she returning our calls. But a hat-tipping post is still in order, so here you are, SNP: a nod to my very favourite Rye-High drop out.

Congratulations. I'll see you in the comments sections.

*Also on the list, as a "Merchant Queen", and likely the only 40-plus fashionista to hit the pages of Marketing, the Bay's new big boss Bonnie Brooks, whose chat with my publisher I recently transcribed