I never would have guessed when I got a Canada Goose jacket that I would have to watch over it like the protective mother, that I so clearly am not. Like, when you go to a bar that’s really packed and doesn’t have coat check and everyone just flings their shit everywhere, resigning to some form of communal trust because we are all drunk and “in this thing together man!” Well I don’t buy it. Maybe at The Beaconsfield, but not this time.
Case and point: My first jaunt up to Le Petit Castor. If you have not been there. It is stupidly packed on Thursdays. Packed to the point that you are sardined into the cramped space, and you can’t even move to let the busboy go by. Ah, the eternal question, “Do I give the ass or the crotch as he shoves his way by?” I’d rather not have to make that decision and have my little space bubble violated, but this is the price you pay for going to a bar with overpriced drinks, and all the fabulous people you pretend you don’t see at every other stupid party.
But I digress, so there we are- looking for places to put our coats and there are none. I not-so-cleverly tuck mine in-between two of the booths as we sip our martinis, holding them away from our chests so as not to have them spilled all over us by passing drunkards. We polish them off and agree to bounce. I lean in to grab my jacket and as I stand back up, I see one of the cougars situated in the den *ahem* booth getting all fired up as she announces to her cougar friend loud enough that I can hear, “OH. MY. GOD. That girl is stealing your jacket.”
“Come again?” I say
“I believe that jacket belongs to my friend.” She hisses
“Uh, no, it’s not. It’s mine. But thanks for making that gross assumption.”
“Well, then she has a jacket just like it!”
“Oh, you mean like every other fucking guy that has a black Canada Goose jacket in this place? Like this one and that one and that one and this one? Keen observation.” The place actually was littered with them. It’s a shame they’re so effing trendy, but man, are they warm.
Their whole cougar pack is giving me cut eye at this point. Mind you, you wouldn’t be able to tell from the obscene amount of Botox injected in their leathery faces, thus removing any evidence of expression. It’s gross how women who have plastic surgery and shit don’t look younger, they just look like women who have had plastic surgery. All pulled and stretched and taut like that. Ick.
I bid them goodday and turn to leave in some dramatic, poignant way, only the place is so goddam packed that I hit a wall of people, and am left awkwardly negotiating my way to the door.
When we finally push our way out of the front door, it feels like LPC literally shat us out of its bowels. Fun times had by all. On to the next one!
Stay tuned for Episode #2 in Montreal

Fashion designer Alexander McQueen has taken his own life at age 40. His office confirmed his death, saying: ‘It is a tragic loss. We are not making a comment at this time out of respect for the McQueen family.’ He was found at his home in London.

McQueen’s secondary line, McQ, was to be presented TODAY as part of New York Fashion Week. KCD, the PR company handling the show, says the presentation is canceled.

Source: The Huffington Post

This is such a tragic loss as Alexander McQueen was internationally recognized as one of the most innovative and leading fashion designers in the world. His artistry spanned beyond the runway and challenged the fashion industry in many ways. For me personally, when I saw his SS’10 collection, I was truly inspired, and in some weird way, fashion and art and media made sense to me. His creativity has most definitely influenced our mandate of always daring to be different when envisioning projects and he will be truly missed.

What’s more fun to do on a Sunday than round up your friends for a jaunt down to Sears Portrait Studio? Gather up your most fabulous friends and associates and head to fashion photographer duo Lily and Lilac’s uber trendy studio off Queen West, with 5 garment bags in tow stuffed with hoards of primo Canadian designer threads, for an afternoon of whimsy and magic.
A million thanks to the amazing crew:
Photographer(s): Lily & Lilac
Stylist: Claudia Da Ponte (The Artist Group Limited)
Hair & Makeup: Cia Saldutto (The Artist Group Limited)
Cameras: Billie Mintz & Jon Pottins
Music: Sweet Disposition (The Temper Trap)

*Being a firm believer that moving images are constantly shaping the future of fashion, we felt it essential to include certain video/film aspects to our Advocates blog. Keep your eye our for random vlogs that tell the tales of our exploits and industry adventures.
Most women will agree with me, when I stress that there is nothing sexier than a man in a suit. Being a self-admitted junky for quality tailoring, you can guess that I’m not talking about suits that come from stores with “barn” or “depot” in the title. So ladies, if you can find yourself a man that knows how to and likes to dress like your favorite James Bond man, be it Connery, Moore, or Brosnan- hey whatever floats your boat- you should make an investment in him, the way he’s willing to make an investment in his suits.
It was a random Monday night at the office when composer Igor Vrabac showed up, in desperate need of a suit for his interview for a “real job”. Turning to longtime friend and collaborator, filmmaker Billie Mintz to lend him one, I couldn’t not get the cameras rolling for an impromptu fashion show that turned into something more like monkeys grooming each other.

When I call up Penny Lane and ask how dressed up she’s getting for our dinner on College last night, and she replies, “I don’t know, I might just wear a jumper.” I’m not going to lie… I actually cringed a little. Thinking to myself, I don’t know that there’s ever been a time I’ve seen a jumper done right. I immediately envision mental images of Amber Rose, all squeezed into spandex like a tube steak.
Ick. Nonetheless, I opt for my FAVOURITE Le Coq Sportif boots and head on out. I just got a SO WARM Canada Goose jacket, and it will forever be my winter saviour. I don’t care where I’m going, I’m wearing it. Period.
Well of course she shows up and puts my tomboy Monday look to glamour shame, gliding out the door in her beautiful brown Mackage parka (Yes, the one she just featured on her first “Wearing It” article). Also wearing this off white H&M jumper below. I asked Kat what she likes about jumpers and she said, “It’s like getting to wear pajamas out in public. It’s great”. Seconded.
Only Kat would sit down at Vivoli and order a drink that looked like a party in a fishbowl (otherwise known as a white Sangria), while I’m stuck with my boring glass of Valpolicella. Had I known “party in a glass” was on the menu, I would have rsvp’d.
We top it off with gelato next door, yes, we were aware it’s the dead of winter. Instead of eating mine in the shop, I tried an experiment of seeing if I could get my gelato cup home before it melted and got all over my car. Not a total success, but I still enjoyed some of it.

It’s always a little disheartening to get a message from your neighbor that the police are on your doorstep looking for you. I don’t know if “relief” is the right word to describe the feeling of finding out they are only there to tell you your car has been towed from a derelict parking lot in the wrong end of town, after being deemed “abandoned”.
Fuck me. Of course, living in downtown Toronto, my first thought is that my leased car has been stolen, taken for a joy ride, and left for dead on the outskirts of town. Grrrrreeeaaat. So I put on my jacket and ventured out into what had to be one of the coldest nights of the year, to verify that my car, and all its contents (yes, I am one of those people that uses my car as a closet) has in fact, been stolen. But to my confusion, my car was there. And now I was really wondering what the F was going on. Let me fast forward and explain a lengthy phone conversation with the police department like this:
In the monopoly game of life, sometimes you “pass go and collect $200”, sometimes you “go to jail”, and sometimes you pick up one of those damn chance cards from the middle of the board, and find out that the beater car you sort of owned when you were in university and left broken down in your degenerate ex-boyfriends parent’s garage, in Stoney Creek, ends up outside a Coffee Time at Keele and Old Weston Road with your name attached to the registration and the police come banging on your door looking for the charges. Yes, this was definitely one of those bizarre cards. Not quite as bad as the go to jail card, but still, stung nonetheless.
Never one to run from my problems (unlike my younger years), I saddled up my mazda 3 for what was sure to be an interesting afternoon. Finagling my way into the industrial siberia end of town, I ventured upon Toronto’s little known “meatpacking district”. No it was not lined with trendy bars, shopping, and gay sex clubs like the famed district of NYC. It stunk and had trucks piled with carcasses higher than the beds in the back. PUKE!
I pulled into the lot and covered my mouth with my sleeve. Can you still get H1N1 at this time of year? Cuz for damn sure it would be air born up in this bitch. At the time, I still wasn’t sure what the hell I was going to do with the hunk of junk… *ahem* styling 94′ Volkswagon Jetta. I for sure didn’t want it. But every day that it sat there, I had to pay more for them to “store it”. I moseyed up to the counter and inquired as to what my options were as I had no intentions of taking it. The most enticing offer was that I signed a little form and they would “junk” the car, thus turning it into one of those tiny little metal cubes like they do in cartoons. I asked if I could have one last goodbye, and they obliged.
Conclusions: Cost of towing/wrecking fees for a car that you owned with a loser ex, which he surely orchestrated as a last and final “fuck you”…. $200. Cost of achieving closure, oh sweet, wonderful closure from one of the little loose ends of your past…. priceless.