

Artists rockin out at Richards on Richards, for the exclusive Gibson Guitar party. Everyone from Loverboy, Hedley, Barenaked Ladies, and Robert Pattinson were in attendance.


We hit up the Artist Sanctuary at the Loeden Hotel, and watched the likes of Bedouin Sound Clash, Ill Scarlet, Serena Ryder amongst many others, get their hair did, pick up some sexy duds from Ben Sherman, freshen their minds at the oxygen bar and rock their ears with Some pimpin Skul Candy earbuds and headphones. And yes we did pick up a thing or two for ourselves, including some tasty yet dangerous Grey Goose Red Carpet Martini's that I guarantee will be the drink of the weekend.
What up Cana-merica! No this is not a post about the Michael Cera vehicle that made teenage pregnancy cool! This is a post about the Canadian music award show of the same name.
Check out the Microsoft Word toolbars on that screen. They left it that way for the whole show. With production values thus established, other details followed accordingly. This poor girl had to do her walk in silence, as the track that had been playing ended and they didn't have another song queued up. Look at the sad model:
There were a few highlights though. Andy Samberg made a surprise appearance, and, after doing his little turn on the catwalk, sang a song about premature ejaculation. Not really, but doesn't this guy sort of look like him?
Coherence was key, and what better way to establish a theme for your fashion show than to have the fellas wearing jeans and Chucks, and the ladies wearing evening gowns. I guess that's what will be hot for fall this year.
Like Jim Morrison, Hunter S. Thompson and The Sand People from Star Wars I too recently spent some time in the scorching desert. It wasn't all lazy days in the sun by the pool, this adventure took me deep into the darkest reaches of Arizona's Superstition Mountains past crooked cactuses, to broken ghost towns built of dusty dead wood. 
















Levis is making limited jeans to suit your ass and your taste.
I remeber a simpler time when I used to wear my 501s down to the local fishing hole where I caught frogs and counted clouds. I'd saunter down the dirt road like the little scallywag I was with a piece of wheat in my mouth and a slingshot in my back pocket. Then me and my friends Pete and Ralph, and my dog Charles Worthington the 4th, well we'd swim the summer days away laughing and cavorting like a bunch of rascals. Especially Pete, the chubby one of the group, what a little scamp. We'd have a good ol time until Old Man Johnson would chase us away, but that didn't bother us much. See, back in them days we didn't have a care in the world and that's the way we liked it....
wait.... shit, sorry that's a Norman Rockwell painting, not a memory. Fuck.
Anywho, here's the greatest song ever written about jeans. JAY




