20.4.07
Parliamo Italiano!
Oggi, adesso in fatto, vado a "Tuscan Market," un piccolino ristorante Fiorentino/Toscano che vende panini e insalate squisiti, per fare domanda di un lavoro. Questo post esiste per mettermi nella moda italiana, perche il padrone è Italiano lui stesso, di Firenze in fatto - sigh! - e perche ho dimenticato troppo...TUTTO, persino... Buona fortuna a me...io suck at italiano. io fail.
17.4.07
Basically: is this story good?
I want to submit a story of my experiences abroad to a travel website: is this one good? I think I'm going to keep writing stories like this until I run out of memories (as if that'll ever happen). Which is why I'll tentatively entitle this one:
It Was a One-Time Thing: Paris Happenings, Part I
In Paris, wine is both the go-to consumable for a momentous occasion and a momentous occasion itself. Parisians are existentialists who profit from their place in the present, consistently creating their own meanings, particularly when happening upon those "one time only" specials that arrive so often in Paris.
The first of these that I experienced occurred in a café I happened upon alone while wandering around Saint Germain, a left bank neighborhood known for its simultaneously lively and intimate feel. Although I didn't expect to interact with anyone that evening, I would, as it were, be toasting to post-impressionism and life with one Floriane, a young artist whom I'd never met before, and would never meet again.
She had waved me to her table, asking plainly what I wanted her to tell me about Paris. "Tout," I admitted. She grinned and nodded, pouring me a glass of ruby-red Hermitage.
"First you must know that there are many people who live in Paris, and always have, and don't like it," she told me, "but you must ignore them. There's no reason you should not love Paris and no reason these people shouldn't either. I was born here, and for me it's still the most wonderful place in the world." Her delicate gallic pronunciations were floating up to the ceiling like little butterflies.
Floriane had dubbed Paris a "place" rather than a city, and appropriately: "city" is just a political label for a place, but a place itself is much more. It could be anything to anybody, and to me, this place - this Paris - was everything. It was suddenly alive and essential as a surface beneath my feet. We discussed this romantic notion for what seemed like hours, and I just beamed helplessly: the idea that there existed people who shared my verve for Paris made my heart swell. Presently Floriane raised her glass: 'Au vin! Aux amis! A...Paul Sérusier!' And I raised mine. (Sérusier? Pourquoi pas.) It wasn't until I knocked my glass over in a paroxysm of laughter that I came out of my euphoric and (almost literally) wine-soaked reverie. This was no cliché Parisian fantasy. This was life.
Floriane left the café, and my acquaintance, as suddenly as she'd entered. We hadn't so much as swapped addresses, but something told me we weren't meant to. I finished my wine and left, enlightened and exhausted all at once. Outside, Saint Germain's fluorescent eyes were shutting along with mine.
There's a warm, existential feeling that comes from drinking red wine; the kind we experience when we are falling in love, fighting for love. Maybe its sanguine nature spurs it to find its way into our veins and to the heart, changing our time signatures and reminding us that we are alive. This must be why Paris has undergone so much revolution throughout its life. The beating of the battle drums in the love movement that is a Paris revolution echoes the heartbeat of its vinous people, a people who live for the moment.
Under a blue moon that evening, in a café inhabited by phantom barricades, revolutionaries, and lovers, I was alive for this moment: the company, the color, the french flowing as purposefully as the wine. And especially for Paris, inconstant Paris, where every moment is a revolution. Where things happen only once and last in us forever.
It Was a One-Time Thing: Paris Happenings, Part I
In Paris, wine is both the go-to consumable for a momentous occasion and a momentous occasion itself. Parisians are existentialists who profit from their place in the present, consistently creating their own meanings, particularly when happening upon those "one time only" specials that arrive so often in Paris.
The first of these that I experienced occurred in a café I happened upon alone while wandering around Saint Germain, a left bank neighborhood known for its simultaneously lively and intimate feel. Although I didn't expect to interact with anyone that evening, I would, as it were, be toasting to post-impressionism and life with one Floriane, a young artist whom I'd never met before, and would never meet again.
She had waved me to her table, asking plainly what I wanted her to tell me about Paris. "Tout," I admitted. She grinned and nodded, pouring me a glass of ruby-red Hermitage.
"First you must know that there are many people who live in Paris, and always have, and don't like it," she told me, "but you must ignore them. There's no reason you should not love Paris and no reason these people shouldn't either. I was born here, and for me it's still the most wonderful place in the world." Her delicate gallic pronunciations were floating up to the ceiling like little butterflies.
Floriane had dubbed Paris a "place" rather than a city, and appropriately: "city" is just a political label for a place, but a place itself is much more. It could be anything to anybody, and to me, this place - this Paris - was everything. It was suddenly alive and essential as a surface beneath my feet. We discussed this romantic notion for what seemed like hours, and I just beamed helplessly: the idea that there existed people who shared my verve for Paris made my heart swell. Presently Floriane raised her glass: 'Au vin! Aux amis! A...Paul Sérusier!' And I raised mine. (Sérusier? Pourquoi pas.) It wasn't until I knocked my glass over in a paroxysm of laughter that I came out of my euphoric and (almost literally) wine-soaked reverie. This was no cliché Parisian fantasy. This was life.
Floriane left the café, and my acquaintance, as suddenly as she'd entered. We hadn't so much as swapped addresses, but something told me we weren't meant to. I finished my wine and left, enlightened and exhausted all at once. Outside, Saint Germain's fluorescent eyes were shutting along with mine.
There's a warm, existential feeling that comes from drinking red wine; the kind we experience when we are falling in love, fighting for love. Maybe its sanguine nature spurs it to find its way into our veins and to the heart, changing our time signatures and reminding us that we are alive. This must be why Paris has undergone so much revolution throughout its life. The beating of the battle drums in the love movement that is a Paris revolution echoes the heartbeat of its vinous people, a people who live for the moment.
Under a blue moon that evening, in a café inhabited by phantom barricades, revolutionaries, and lovers, I was alive for this moment: the company, the color, the french flowing as purposefully as the wine. And especially for Paris, inconstant Paris, where every moment is a revolution. Where things happen only once and last in us forever.
12.4.07
g2g pp brb
I sometimes wonder how much stronger and finer my posterior would be if my mommy had trained me early on to squat and hover over public toilets, rather than to use toilet paper or a seat cover in order to sit down and pee. Would I be able to ride my bike more easily today, without huffing and puffing and feeling like I got kicked in the ass by a bronco later on? Would more skeezeballs "discreetly" spank me at Foxz Tavern on Karaoke night? You know what, I'm going to blame the fact that I always placed like 5th out of 6 in the 100 yard dash at my high school track meets on years wasted NOT toning my ass by doing the "public peeing exercises" normal girls were taught to do from the time they could reach the seat. I bet Jessica Alba's ass is the perfect way it is mostly because of the way she uses public johns. Huh. Well, better late than never, guess I'll start trying to mimic her there. I already drank a water bottle and a full mug of Moroccan Mint green tea today, so I'm sure I'll get lots of practice in.
13.3.07
NYFW (which of course was like a month ago): Musings on my Top 15 Collections (#12-10)
#12, Y & Kei:
According to style.com, Hanii Yoon and Gene Kang (aka Y & Kei) drew inspiration for this collection upon admiring the apparently über-modern architecture of downtown Melbourne, Australia's Federation Square, but for the straight shooting Americans who couldn't give two damns about anything in fashion that isn't New York but especially not Australia, well I think we can safely say that Y & Kei actually got the inspiration for this collection from 1930s Deco. In NYC, obvi. Or maybe I'm just writing that because when I saw and fell in love with this collection, I was absolutely certain that its inspiration was Deco, and so certain that I was a fashion f***in' master, and so proud of myself for being so certain, that when I read the "truth" on style.com, I was crushed. I had so wanted to write things in my blog like "the not-so-subtle Van Alen references give the centerpieces of this collection a certain optimistic, well, progressive, and protective feel; but in the end, this feeling is deceitful, as the overall look eventually overwhelms the onlooker and becomes Big Brother just when he or she is falling for a modern Mother Teresa" while waving my imaginary ciggie in the air and using my Katherine Hepburn voice. Whoops, I did all that anyway...
#11, Temperley:
Temperley's disarmingly ladylike, polite looks for the healthy 'n' wealthy London termagant (yes, this collection debuted in New York, though Temperley is based in London), inspire me to take up equestrian. Actually, they inspire me to BE equestrian - or just equine. Just look at the black beauty legs on those ladies! And those gorgeous, sporty, platform mid-calfs - fashion horsepower. But you know, paired with the girlish elements of cornflower blue, 60's floral prints, shiny, exaggerated buttons, and silk organza, these horses are in fact ponies. Pretty, adorable, little ponies. MY little ponies. Oh, I want to be a My Little Pony! I want rainbows tattooed onto my haunches! I want sparkles in my eyes! I want a magical fast-growing mane! I want a comb to match my magical fast-growing mane! I want Barbie to ride on my back to far away lands! I want to have a really gay name like "Lady Daffodil Parade " or "Bunny Rabbit Sunshine!" I want my older brother's GI Joes to take advantage of Barbie and his dinosaurs to take advantage of me! I want my Brother to write "Sofa King We Todded" on me with a crayola permanent marker! I want it! And if I can't have it, I'll just have to have Temperley!
#10, Vena Cava:
Q: How do hipsters in New York City differ from hipsters in smaller towns (like Athens, GA)?
A: NYH's buy $60 product to give their hair the never-washed, just-out-of-bed effect whereas STH's simply spend too much time in bed and don't wash their hair, because all they do anyway is go to Goodwill and it's not like they need to impress anybody there; NYH's buy brand new Chucks and scuff them up instead of just buying used Chucks or knockoffs at Goodwill; NYH's buy $450 Marc by MJ coats and $175 Miu Miu glasses and Trovata this and Proenza Schouler that and the odd Junya Watanabe for special occasions rather than buying 90% of their clothes at Goodwill; NYH's have iPod Nanos rather than good old fashioned Diskmans that they got at Goodwill; NYH's eat whole meals at expensive organic restaurants versus just grabbing a bag of Doritos from the gas station next to Goodwill; NYH's have modern record players rather than used ones from Goodwill like STH's have.
These are New York hipsters.
These are small town hipsters.
If the New York hipster and the Small Town hipster did it, I imagine their child would look something like this Vena Cava collection. Hipsters unite!
According to style.com, Hanii Yoon and Gene Kang (aka Y & Kei) drew inspiration for this collection upon admiring the apparently über-modern architecture of downtown Melbourne, Australia's Federation Square, but for the straight shooting Americans who couldn't give two damns about anything in fashion that isn't New York but especially not Australia, well I think we can safely say that Y & Kei actually got the inspiration for this collection from 1930s Deco. In NYC, obvi. Or maybe I'm just writing that because when I saw and fell in love with this collection, I was absolutely certain that its inspiration was Deco, and so certain that I was a fashion f***in' master, and so proud of myself for being so certain, that when I read the "truth" on style.com, I was crushed. I had so wanted to write things in my blog like "the not-so-subtle Van Alen references give the centerpieces of this collection a certain optimistic, well, progressive, and protective feel; but in the end, this feeling is deceitful, as the overall look eventually overwhelms the onlooker and becomes Big Brother just when he or she is falling for a modern Mother Teresa" while waving my imaginary ciggie in the air and using my Katherine Hepburn voice. Whoops, I did all that anyway...#11, Temperley:
Temperley's disarmingly ladylike, polite looks for the healthy 'n' wealthy London termagant (yes, this collection debuted in New York, though Temperley is based in London), inspire me to take up equestrian. Actually, they inspire me to BE equestrian - or just equine. Just look at the black beauty legs on those ladies! And those gorgeous, sporty, platform mid-calfs - fashion horsepower. But you know, paired with the girlish elements of cornflower blue, 60's floral prints, shiny, exaggerated buttons, and silk organza, these horses are in fact ponies. Pretty, adorable, little ponies. MY little ponies. Oh, I want to be a My Little Pony! I want rainbows tattooed onto my haunches! I want sparkles in my eyes! I want a magical fast-growing mane! I want a comb to match my magical fast-growing mane! I want Barbie to ride on my back to far away lands! I want to have a really gay name like "Lady Daffodil Parade " or "Bunny Rabbit Sunshine!" I want my older brother's GI Joes to take advantage of Barbie and his dinosaurs to take advantage of me! I want my Brother to write "Sofa King We Todded" on me with a crayola permanent marker! I want it! And if I can't have it, I'll just have to have Temperley!#10, Vena Cava:
Q: How do hipsters in New York City differ from hipsters in smaller towns (like Athens, GA)?A: NYH's buy $60 product to give their hair the never-washed, just-out-of-bed effect whereas STH's simply spend too much time in bed and don't wash their hair, because all they do anyway is go to Goodwill and it's not like they need to impress anybody there; NYH's buy brand new Chucks and scuff them up instead of just buying used Chucks or knockoffs at Goodwill; NYH's buy $450 Marc by MJ coats and $175 Miu Miu glasses and Trovata this and Proenza Schouler that and the odd Junya Watanabe for special occasions rather than buying 90% of their clothes at Goodwill; NYH's have iPod Nanos rather than good old fashioned Diskmans that they got at Goodwill; NYH's eat whole meals at expensive organic restaurants versus just grabbing a bag of Doritos from the gas station next to Goodwill; NYH's have modern record players rather than used ones from Goodwill like STH's have.
These are New York hipsters.
These are small town hipsters.
If the New York hipster and the Small Town hipster did it, I imagine their child would look something like this Vena Cava collection. Hipsters unite!
1.3.07
NYFW (which of course was like a month ago): Musings on my Top 15 Collections (#15-13)
#15, Michael Kors:
This look makes me want to take the city bus downtown to a UNICEF gala, to present 17-year-old João Fernando Gaucho of Brazil, this year's recipient of the "Voice of Youth" award for excellence in not being in a gang, to the audience. It should be known, however, that the only reason I would have agreed to present such an award would be to wear my immaculate, classy but (if we're honest here) slutty cropped Michael Kors wool blend coat situation, with the express purpose of crouching down a bit to kiss João Fernando on the cheek in such a fashion that he would not be able to avoid glancing down at my SICK hot Park Avenue thighs and lusting after me. And no one would be able to accuse me of indecency because I'd be in Michael Kors, for Christ's sake! In the hotel room that night, I would ask João Fernando what the most frustrating drug deal he had ever pulled off back in the favelas was. He would play a little game with me about it for a while, trying to act all "but I don't do that kind of thing," and "are you trying to bust me, mrs. Robinson?", but with some liquid and some sexual persuasion, he would tell me that it was that one time when the chupadors de caralho accused him of selling them Arm & Hammer. We would have a laugh about it, and then he'd pass out and I'd steal his passport and drug money.
#13, DKNY:
This season for DKNY, Donna Karan's more economical, youth-geared brand, the DeKe did the grey menswear look thing everybody else was doing, only hers stuck to more of a gunmetal grey theme, not a gray grey one, and though she used more masculine fabrics for these impish pieces, she once again used her magical Donna Karan hand - a hand which will mystically turn any basic staple item (shift dress, men's pant, work blouse) into the most well-fitting, "I Am Woman" piece of American Sportswe-
-oh wait, I forgot, you don't care about Donna Karan. But you WILL (or SHOULD) care about this bitch: Irina Lazareanu, the model wearing the hot DKNY look in the picture here. Irina is my favorite model right now. She is Canadian, but she was born Romanian. As a supermodel, it isn't acceptable have two nationalities, but you CAN have one nationality and have a name affiliated with another - i.e. Canadian Daria Werbowy (Polish name); French Filippa Hamilton (Swedish name); Brazillian Gisele Bundchen (German name) - in fact, if you DON'T have this, you might as well not even try. Or at least you should stop eating those saltines, fatty, or your feet will never come into contact with any runway. Stick to carrot sticks, but only if you ABSOLUTELY must eat something...
...But Irina's set. Not only does she not need to diet because of all the coke she probably does with Pete Doherty and Kate Moss (who took her under their wings, mind you; after being discovered by Kate Moss, Irina played drums in the Babyshambles for a short while), but she doesn't have to do anything about her name, it's already just pretentious enough. She has long brown bedhead, thin enough to grease 'n' piece for an effective heroin chic look for Calvin Klein shows, but enough of it to bouffant beautifully for a Moschino ad. She's totes more rock and roll than her BFF Freja Beha Erichsen, the other 'it' model of the moment (although, I admit, Freja's pretty damn rock and roll, certainly more rock and roll than Maryna 'Lightweight' Linchuk or Sasha 'Poser' Pivovarova or Raquel fucking Zimmerman). Even if the Babyshambles and Pete Doherty suck, Irina's still rock and roll. She's the type of woman who, upon encountering for the first time, you'd immediately want to fall into some tragic, Godardian relationship with. But you couldn't do that, in fact you would never even encounter her for the first time, because she's unattainable, and elite (the adjective, not the agency - she rolls with Marilyn, yo), and rock and roll, and Canadian/Romanian, and cool, and you are not, are you? No. And you never will be (at least until you stop pouring reduced-fat ranch dressing all over your leafy greens, honey, 'reduced fat' is for 31-year-old twice-divorced cheerleading coaches, not 17-year-old Romanian street urchin supermodels).
#13, Lela Rose:
Again, another youthful collection, but this time all girl. Everything was fun, cute, sweet, girl. This look in particular makes me want to work at a crayon factory. It could just be the waxy look of the fabric, but I like to think that it's just the fact that this model looks like she should still be using crayons to color in her Barney coloring book. Actually, in that adorable dark cerise dropwaist, she kind of looks like Barney! Or at least one of the little girls that Barney brainwashed I mean enlightened. I mean, look at the expression on her expressionless face. Sheer, guileless enlightenment.
This look makes me want to take the city bus downtown to a UNICEF gala, to present 17-year-old João Fernando Gaucho of Brazil, this year's recipient of the "Voice of Youth" award for excellence in not being in a gang, to the audience. It should be known, however, that the only reason I would have agreed to present such an award would be to wear my immaculate, classy but (if we're honest here) slutty cropped Michael Kors wool blend coat situation, with the express purpose of crouching down a bit to kiss João Fernando on the cheek in such a fashion that he would not be able to avoid glancing down at my SICK hot Park Avenue thighs and lusting after me. And no one would be able to accuse me of indecency because I'd be in Michael Kors, for Christ's sake! In the hotel room that night, I would ask João Fernando what the most frustrating drug deal he had ever pulled off back in the favelas was. He would play a little game with me about it for a while, trying to act all "but I don't do that kind of thing," and "are you trying to bust me, mrs. Robinson?", but with some liquid and some sexual persuasion, he would tell me that it was that one time when the chupadors de caralho accused him of selling them Arm & Hammer. We would have a laugh about it, and then he'd pass out and I'd steal his passport and drug money.
#13, DKNY:
This season for DKNY, Donna Karan's more economical, youth-geared brand, the DeKe did the grey menswear look thing everybody else was doing, only hers stuck to more of a gunmetal grey theme, not a gray grey one, and though she used more masculine fabrics for these impish pieces, she once again used her magical Donna Karan hand - a hand which will mystically turn any basic staple item (shift dress, men's pant, work blouse) into the most well-fitting, "I Am Woman" piece of American Sportswe-
-oh wait, I forgot, you don't care about Donna Karan. But you WILL (or SHOULD) care about this bitch: Irina Lazareanu, the model wearing the hot DKNY look in the picture here. Irina is my favorite model right now. She is Canadian, but she was born Romanian. As a supermodel, it isn't acceptable have two nationalities, but you CAN have one nationality and have a name affiliated with another - i.e. Canadian Daria Werbowy (Polish name); French Filippa Hamilton (Swedish name); Brazillian Gisele Bundchen (German name) - in fact, if you DON'T have this, you might as well not even try. Or at least you should stop eating those saltines, fatty, or your feet will never come into contact with any runway. Stick to carrot sticks, but only if you ABSOLUTELY must eat something...
...But Irina's set. Not only does she not need to diet because of all the coke she probably does with Pete Doherty and Kate Moss (who took her under their wings, mind you; after being discovered by Kate Moss, Irina played drums in the Babyshambles for a short while), but she doesn't have to do anything about her name, it's already just pretentious enough. She has long brown bedhead, thin enough to grease 'n' piece for an effective heroin chic look for Calvin Klein shows, but enough of it to bouffant beautifully for a Moschino ad. She's totes more rock and roll than her BFF Freja Beha Erichsen, the other 'it' model of the moment (although, I admit, Freja's pretty damn rock and roll, certainly more rock and roll than Maryna 'Lightweight' Linchuk or Sasha 'Poser' Pivovarova or Raquel fucking Zimmerman). Even if the Babyshambles and Pete Doherty suck, Irina's still rock and roll. She's the type of woman who, upon encountering for the first time, you'd immediately want to fall into some tragic, Godardian relationship with. But you couldn't do that, in fact you would never even encounter her for the first time, because she's unattainable, and elite (the adjective, not the agency - she rolls with Marilyn, yo), and rock and roll, and Canadian/Romanian, and cool, and you are not, are you? No. And you never will be (at least until you stop pouring reduced-fat ranch dressing all over your leafy greens, honey, 'reduced fat' is for 31-year-old twice-divorced cheerleading coaches, not 17-year-old Romanian street urchin supermodels).
#13, Lela Rose:
Again, another youthful collection, but this time all girl. Everything was fun, cute, sweet, girl. This look in particular makes me want to work at a crayon factory. It could just be the waxy look of the fabric, but I like to think that it's just the fact that this model looks like she should still be using crayons to color in her Barney coloring book. Actually, in that adorable dark cerise dropwaist, she kind of looks like Barney! Or at least one of the little girls that Barney brainwashed I mean enlightened. I mean, look at the expression on her expressionless face. Sheer, guileless enlightenment.
New York Fashion Week Fall 2007
Before I write about it...get a visual.
My top 15 favorite collections. 15 pictures from the #1, 1 picture from #15, etc.
(It's my blog and I'll cover the entire thing with expensive clothes if I want to.)
My top 15 favorite collections. 15 pictures from the #1, 1 picture from #15, etc.
(It's my blog and I'll cover the entire thing with expensive clothes if I want to.)
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