Merry Kris

 Tuned in as I am to the excruciatingly subtle gestures that pass for individuality in the chestnut-sporting gender, i nearly missed Kris. Or maybe i was in a J Crew-induced coma. Anyhoo, by the time i got him in my sights, Vixens were prancing on my sugarplums and i had to stop, drop and roll to save my retinas (once i played retinas on a triple word score in scrabble -- dominating) from the hellfires of Pendleton.  Observe, he's already taken precautions. Based on the leather buttons, the put-your-pinecones-in-em patch pockets and the Stewart plaid that was clearly hijacked and infused with a mixture of plutonium and red dye no. 97 by their sotted scottish neighbors, i judged this to be a vintage Pendleton from their New Hampshire collection -- live loud or die. something like that. also Kris' savvy stylist/woman friend told me this very thing. i didn't just make this shit up. How much do i wish Kris was holding a long narrow tray of green olives stuffed with pimento -- that's all i want for krismas.  He bears full responsibility for the newsboy cap because, holy irony, he's the COO and MIC of a news site, http://woodbury.patch.com.  Whatdya know, a fellow journalist. The difference is, he has readers.

Yves goes to the Walker

Hold onto your high brows mofos because i have made an art reference, regarding her beautiful Yves blue  ensemble. Probably she was going to the Walker so as to stand next to the Yves blue exhibit and blend in seamlessly. One of these things is not like the other though -- give up? it's her Belgian booties which the tiny hamsters in my hello kitty camera have not properly colored in. they're pleated at the ankle and spectatored at the toe and chock full of not-available-here chic. 

I was at the Walker as part of a fun family activity and, surprisingly, i enjoyed the graphic arts exhibit but immediately upon leaving that comfort zone, my enjoyment plummeted as i ran into flabby sacks, i.e. nylon stockings hung from the ceiling in vaguely phallic shapes. ick. this is neither enjoyable nor art. also dolls, human hair and/or bodily fluids on a napkin pinned to a backdrop. what the holy fuck? 

hot enough for you?

 As of this post, i'm taking a little festivus break. Miss me. Mwaaaa.

this is not Tavi G.

You know how you've only "met" someone by talking about them on the phone with their dad, and then the person walks into your favorite shop, My Sister's Closet, (who absolutely did not pay me to say that) just as you're being boggled by a navy Yves St. Laurent jersey with gold sparkly bits, and the tiny hamsters that spin the wheels upstairs get a little kerflempt, which is verklempt when you're really in it, because not only is it the person you were writing about only minutes ago but the person is rocking a believable school blazer + Norwegian thing that you never expected? Yeah well, that probably happens to you all the time, but not me. You know how, the harder you try not to sound like a pervy stalker, the more you seem like one? What I like to do in uncomfortable instances when I've just met an unaccompanied minor is to out with the camera.

Meet Clare who is a very fast runner and also writes for her school paper. She agreed, as you do to calm people who seem to have gone off their meds, that 850 words is not very much space, and she loves StyleRookie blogger Tavi Gevinson. People say she looks like Tavi

What do you think? The one on the left. 

Ha.

But soft, puppets. That photo is minutes old. I gnashed my teeth and cursed my ineptitude with the googlenets that i could not download this recent holy-eyeliner-and-red-lipstick photo and interview with the G-train, http://nymag.com/daily/fashion/2011/09/tavi_gevinson_explains_her_new.html. Boy, she sure is smart. Clare/Tavi, I mean.

hi-lo dressing with pinned hair on the side

Hi-lo. You know, kick-ass pumps and a secretary skirt mixed with a ski parka. It's irony, people. sheesh. It's also practical when you forgot your shiny hi coat at work but, come hell or high water, you had to run out and get pre-made pizza dough. (in fact, i often go lo-lo to trader joe's because i forgot my hi clothes when i escaped from the home at work. yeah, that's right, at work). 

Don't be too awful hard on yourself if you don't look like this in the deli aisle though, because meet Anita, the new co-owner of Design Collective in uptown. Explains a lot, doesn't it? She (un)did her side-swept upkept 'do with a few strategically placed bobby pins. i tried this once. someone said, your hair's coming out. did they mean the pins were coming out, or....? well, it is thin and sort of stringy...
p.s. bonus -- i happened to document a run on the bathroom at trader joe's and i didn't black out anyone's face. that's why they call it a public bathroom.

deep in anthropologie

Yes friends, we are in the remotest reaches, the sale room, of the vast new Anthropologie store in St. Paul and dressed for the expedition.  i was barely able to raise my arms i had so much on,  pressing the button with my mittened paw. the difference is, she looks cute and warm and i looked homeless and warm. i got a lot of help from the sales staff by touching stuff.
it was not, by the way, all that cold in the store. it's just that, once inside, your body becomes a handy coat tree, leaving your hands free to pick up stuff. the sweat won't soak through to the outer layer until maybe the fifth or sixth store, at which point it's time to go home. at least that's my m.o. -- i thought it was indelicate to ask if she was just going to dump the accumulated sweat out of her little furry animal boots when she got home and let em dry upside down or what.
p.s. i never imagined it would be possible to feel inadequate about the coasters in my house until i visited this shop. i didn't buy anything. i didn't steal anything either.

uptown camo

It's a wonder I saw her at all, perfectly camouflaged as she is with the light and shadow, cement and brick. You know how I dig her byzantine blanket coat (shop local-- she got patterned across the street at Urban Outfitters) but I'll give you a quarter if you can find her other arm. The exhortation to Stay Warm is kinda fun and ironic. See, she has a warm coat on and...

Respective of nothing but my love of zoology, I was inspired to add this photo of camo at work in other neighborhoods.

extra shot o' dude

The dude 'do (messy ponytails are here to stay!), the deconstruction boots and those fab tattersall trousers with sick jodhpur-esque inseams that you cannot appreciate due to the atomic blast of sunshine had me careening into a coffee shop for the second time in an hour. I will deny ordering another depth charge with an extra shot of adderall. Though my heart rate was in the hummingbird range, and I could hear dog whistles.
Here's something you may not have noticed unless you also are strung out smart: the last two posts, both in coffee shops, feature remarkable pants tucked into badass boots creating a delightfully red-neck swagger. Scroll down. See? And then up. And then down again. Now sing I Enjoy Being A Girl.

Pow!!!

Heads up oatmeal camo-ed pantywaists. Kickin A. and taking names, this is an adult dose for sure, tucked into bad attitude boots. I like. There is a 9 out of ten chance I'd hurt myself practicing roundhouse kicks in these bad boys. Oof!!

this post has more pattern, less talk

I've been yapping toooooo much. Must...speak...like...Captain...Kirk. Coat Karma. Beaded belt holds it all together. But didn't come with belt. So much pattern. So...much...pattern. Like...a...party. It's...her...party...and...she'll...cry...if...I...keep...this...up.

Giant...hand...'bout...to...bitch...slap...me. Turquoise...transporter. Over and far out.

we are the pants

Isn't she the cutest? I may or may not have had a crush on her (mom on mom is one part icky but mostly all too rare because moms are too busy judging, tigering or drinking to form a crush, not that i would know, just an observation, h8ters).  Charm is part of her job as official spokesperson for the pants. She speaks for the pants. Actually the pants first spoke to me -- the crazy diagonal seam, the postmodern patch pocket, the unaccountably flattering fit (I mean, they are just art teacher sweatpants, right?).  Normally I don't roll with my J Jill-wearing sistas so i panicked and thought some crazy new hormonal imbalance was turning me on to loose elastic-waist shit with exposed seams. As a test, I averted my eyes to the other long-cardigan-with-one-ashtray-sized-handmade-button-rocking womyn in the room (oh snap, pottery sale), but no. Same old gag reflex accompanied by eye-bag twitching. Whew.

So i went to the QR code which is this swaddled woman (i recognize another chihuahua when i see one).  They're Universal Pants. and i was like, well they're not that big. No no.  That's the brand name of the pants, referring to how Universally flattering they are to every body (group hug, cue a stage full of has-been stars including Carole King, Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell, Whoopi Goldberg and Neil Diamond swaying and singing We Are The Pants to soaring orchestral backup). oh god, i'm all misty. ok ok, so UniversalPants.com will answer a lot of your FAQ but not this one, Q. what is Universal Pants' motto?

A. Impressively correct pants to the people -- no two alike. Allow me to enlarge. The reason these pants look and fit so awesomely is twofold (ha, that's sew punny!) -- they have no bulky side seams and they're bias cut so they hug and drape and forgive and forget like it's their job. which it is. Clothes cut on the straight are instruments of the devil the 2D accounting department. Clothes cut on the bias are partners with 3D human beans in our jumping-in-the-minivan-buying-tofurkey world.  Also who among us signed up for side-seam pockets that add another zip code to the hips? Not a part of Pants Universe. These clever angles allow prez and chief Panter, Liz Plambeck, the opportunity to boldly mix fabrics since she makes up the rules in Pants Universe. In fact, as a comrade in Universal Pants, you can ring Liz up at 612-824-2169, head on over to HQ which is near Lake Nokomis, pick your own fabrics from her vast selection and, bing bang, custom anti-sweat pants.

i'm over word count, overheated and underbrained. Anyhoo, just know it's not a hormonal calamity -- it's Universal Pants!

layering for fun and so parts won't fall off

I was on my knees giving thanks for cheap likker and Trader Joe's cult-like secretive subliminal seductive marketing manifesto (if you smoke the brussel sprouts and listen to the happy consumer muzak slower and backwards while staring stonedly at a Tatty Ho's hawaiian shirt, you'll hear the mind control messages -- I do want every possible permutation of eggs and I'll keep buying the conditioner even though it actually makes my hair so knotty i could cry. or you'll hurl) when i saw john denver's feet walk in.  Sing it with me -- rocky mountain hi-i-i-i-igh colorado. thank god i'm a country boy and not some middle-aged cinnamon broom huffing ruin. 

(I just rediscovered colored text and have determined to do a bit of holiday decorating. note to Booger: where is the blinking function?)

Hot flash: thank god john denver's feet did not come with the rest of that grinning tool and his awesomely large wire-rimmed glasses but rather this warmly dressed child who we will call tiny timette. or cindy lou who. While it's true she may have realized she was dangerously low on alcohol only minutes before the sabbath dry 24 hours so she threw on the closest articles of clothing to rush over for some OK shiraz. But i prefer to imagine she artfully arranged the layers in descending size and entertaining shades of khaki, blue and green, topping it off with a toque knitted with love and skill by a friend, for some creative problem solving, namely how to venture out of the house without losing some aesthetically pleasing body parts.

dig the skirtsky

The way she teamed the elaborately pieced skirt, with denim and boots and silver dollar belt buckle, had me in a Montana state of mind. Well aren't i just as wrong as first cousins. Again. I'll give you ten guesses and you still wouldn't land on the provenance of this anika-get-your-kolishnikov marvel. Give up? 

Warsaw, Poland.

Well raise my rent, right? When I think of Poland, I think of women who look like kruschchev in babushkas, blond achieved by the most toxic means possible and borscht. Cotton? No, cotton doesn't come to mind at all. 

This pioneering woman is in the education arm of Rockford, Illinois' Burpee Museum of Natural History, and was attending a conference in Poland. Skirtsky happened.

a person not at the Mall of America

Let's review the number of ways this woman is a rebel, an outlier, marching to her own little drummer boy (this marks the official start of the dancing santa season). 

1. She is not, like every resident of the upper midwest and a significant percentage of Japan, at the MOA. 

2. She is looking cute, which is to say not succumbing to the slow death and national shame that is Uggs, despite the seasonal apocalypse that just happened.

3. She walked more than a block on that bumpy ice you see here without falling. 

That's a lot of individualism -- i salute you, nanuk, and hope you don't pull a groin muscle on the way back. Because i didn't either.

And now, since i have finally stopped swearing, i will tell you how i know that every resident of the upper midwest and a significant percentage of Japan is at the MOA. Yesterday, when it started sleeting and the roads were 100% ice covered, i decided to run a bunch of errands, ending with a quick trip into the big blue maw of hell that is Ikea to return a twin bottom sheet made of 12 thread count burlap that i never took out of the package that would undoubtedly net me a handy $1.97. or maybe just store credit. worth it. Immediately after exiting 494, i encountered the 3-lane nonmoving line of very smart people waiting to rush into the MOA and buy the Limited sweater that probably won't pill and stretch out and make you look like a nocturnal invertebrate. At this very same moment, I realized my gas tank was empty and my bladder full. What to do? Since i was driving without a loaded firearm or adult diapers, my options were limited to crossing four lanes of traffic, going the wrong way for just the tiniest block(s) and maintaining a stream of cursing unbroken by even one nonswear word. Ikea is a four-letter word.
P.S. in rereading, i have just written and signed an affidavit of mental incompetence with every red flag waving -- poor judgment, paranoia, tenuous grasp on reality, driving sober, veering from one imagined enemy to another, reliance on foul language when a weapon would do. i need to run for office.

walk this way

 

I was going to write, dude sewed on the patches himself because he digs florals, but then i was inhabited by Steven Tyler and wrote, Dude does not look like a lady. i can offer no explanation for this aerosmith riff other than that i too am wearing eyeliner and tight pants. Anyhoo, back in the saddle (somebody stop me), joseph's original plan for his technicolor dreamcoat was to do a matching gun patch (how much do you love a floral gun patch on which to rest your semi-automatic weapon?) on the other shoulder but asymmetry is what actually happened. 

i asked him to stand sideways, and he did. then i told him to face me, and he did. let's stretch our imaginations and think for one minute what might happen next if i was not such a sensitive caring person steven tyler. other than obedience, which i look for in a stranger, this guy is my new BFF because of his this-means-business scarf and orange cap that's doing a salute to the sun. and because he's wearing every article of clothing he owns.

saturday in prospect park

see how i put that saturday in the title? that's because i wanted you to think, dog my cats, did i put on even one item of clothing on saturday (and some of you can stop right there) that did not have EZ-schlub elastic? i wanted you to scratch the old bean and then the old bum in perplexity over the very notion of sanding your callouses and filing your nasty toenails so they won't snag the living daylights out of lacey tights which you delicately wiggle into ON A SATURDAY. WHEN THE QUEEN IS NOT COMING OVER. stretches the imagination to the breaking point, doesn't it? especially if you're a guy.

the dashing hat and dickens-y fingerless gloves are a dead give-away, the siren song of street stylists. and it worked. although i think she was hoping for The Sartorialist or Garance Dore or someone who didn't have to fossick around in a big plastic tote, that held among other victuals a bottle of local merlot, for a camera with no lens and one big red button. lookit-- it really did make a pikchur! whatever, my friends, i was really on my game, layering pattern over pattern, walking very naturally in heels, scaring children and cats.

tribeca two-fer

Actually it was probably Soho by now, deep in The Sartorialist's 'hood. No disrespect, but you'd have to be wasted or lazy not to get an outrageously good shot here by simply staggering out to a corner and remaining vertical for a minute or two. just taking up the slack because Schuman was in Paris or spongeing at The Little Owl, i got two shots fer the price of one (see the guy in the background?). She's European which is to say, used to having her picture taken and comfortable with pattern. I caused her to miss the green light and even as we were chatting, i saw someone better that crazy triple nomened freja beha erichsen go around the corner but i was real nice and only looked out of the corner of my eye at the famous model i was missing. here's the shot i did not take.

i immediately texted everyone i knew, both of them, that i was hanging out with models on spring street. god i am hip, in my wrangler jeans.

how to run a marathon

 

Any questions? It's not about covering a crazy amount of asphalt in less time than happy hour at Liquor Lyle's; it's about not revolting hundreds of thousands of spectators.  Always the professional, Emma employed a swipe of mascara, a little foundation to even out skin tone and a bit of blush to maintain a healthy glow for 26 miles, even as some internal organs were consumed. 

And then, when she didn't have to worry about a pancreas any more, she could focus her energies on styling the king-size piece of tinfoil she won. Here she's realized a hot one-shouldered, asymmetric silhouette.This is how to run a marathon.

feather 'n leather

Look, it's the freedom tower!  psyche. don't be a rube -- it's obviously just the shackled-to-crushing-debt-and-prisoner-of-forever-21 tenement. fresh off the plane, i like to get with the 99% and take pictures from behind like a cringing vermin/smooth operator who is about to trip on some cobblestones. holy coincidences, completely by accident i took a moving shot of someone in a when-animals-attack vest just like my first utterance from the may 2011 visit, cleverly titled NYC!

if i gleaned anything from this visit to the big apple, it's BIG FURRY VESTS. they're sort of sonny & cher, a little bit savage and reproducing like rabbits. remember to wear your flea collar! the freak flag above is not fur but feathers that she accessorized with pink faux leather bun warmers. as you would. with tights and banker-bashin boots, this could be the hooker the occupy wall street movement needs. what? oh hook? hook? they need a hook? oh.

upright and locked

ok, so i haven't posted in a while -- make me. i've been in nyc watching emma run 26.2 miles without pooping herself -- right on sherman!-- though i may have wet my pants the tiniest bit on the 6 train going up to the 20-mile mark because i'd had a lot of coffee and there was a tokyo-style crush of people including someone with a duane read bag applying pressure to my bladder. but enough about street style -- on with bodily functions!

above on the sun country flight, i was just warming up, cracking my knuckles, stretching, loosening up the old stalking skillz with the back of the sucker guy in 4A. whatever, he was asleep and none the wiser. i was awake to the tonal textures of the plane, his herringbone jacket, itty bitty striped hipster hoodie and the seatback pocket. alternately squinting and bugging my eyeballs out a) prepares me for the visual onslaught that is to come, and b) inspires the woman in the seat next to me to beg ask to be moved to the nonreclining seat right next to the bathroom. i heart flying.

gone native

How far will i go for a shot? about a block beyond creepy, it seems. like any self-respecting stalker, i was coming from the Institute of Art cruising in my semi-rusted 1995 villager van when i spotted a powwow going on (i warn you, there will be a little big horn of sensitivity ensuing) on the sidewalk as i whizzed by. i said curse word, waited until i judged the oncoming driver was not armed to execute a six-point 180, went back a block and bombed into a driveway where i left the villager swaying and smoking slightly. which might account for her expression. or my fly was open. little of column A, little of column B probly.

what i first took to be an indian blanket-inspired coat was in fact a blanket, belted on for safe keeping. having just left the north american textiles room at the Institute, i was really seeing tribal patterns so my blood pressure was through the roof. (like when vulnerable people are shown violent images and they proceed to kill and eat their 4th grade classmates, i'm easily influenced by art -- fringe drives me to act out). the big black bag, freak flag flying, with the hair still on it? (insert primal wolf howl here).

what i first took to be cute boots were in fact Clarks.

no but really, we shared a moment of puzzlement because, isn't Clarks' motto We go great with hot flashes? i think they're cute, bordering on badass, but since my fly was open and i do have hot flashes, this only served to deepen her profound misgivings. this is the sort of thing that causes you to question everything -- lifestyle, career, colors that look good on you. color her questioning. i drove home and painted half my face red, tied a shell in my hair and made a pork roast with fennel and potatoes.

cap'n marvelous

     I don't know about you, but i like to contrast gorgeous textures
and beautiful people with a wall of raw meat, 
pink and glistening. mmmmmm. some day
i will take a photography class but 
until then, let's wonder at how mom's scarf has
about the same marbling as a brisket.
lady gaga, sit down. her hand knit irish
wool sweater with wooden buttons was
scored at a thrift store for $10. and the
plaid cap was custom distressed
by the dog. (i don't even want to think
about how jcrew would interpret
this -- they're somewhat vulnerable
when it comes to textile finishes.)
her friend made (as in, doing crazy
chopstick stuff with needles and yarn)
the young one's strawberry beannet. 
ps. i was forced into hard returns because
fucking Blogger decided to do something
janky with the margins. fucking Blogger.
fucking technology.

claudette on clogs

Which is brighter -- claudette's smile or that streetlight? hard to say, but claudette's smile comes with added benefits such as claudette herself who is a winning combination of worldly + cool + adorable and her schoolboy blazer-n-buttondown story and her handmade clogs. and now, THIS POST IS GOING TO THE CLOGS (sue me).

man, claudette had the 411 (i always have stop and think about the whole 411/911 confusement -- there is just every chance, in the event of a fire or tragic accident involving my fingers and a sewing machine, i would reach an operator asking me what city please) on clogs. these handmade swedish clogs with a scottish brogue and liberal sandal leanings are sold in New York City at a hip shop called No. 6 for $275 but she drove up to east buttwhistle chisago, mn to Sven's clogged-up workshop where little elf-like cobblers sit at tiny benches hammering in those staples with hammers the size of a cocktail fork and bought these No. 6 clogs for $125 which is still a lot but any third grader can figure, is about.... a LOT less than $275. also, remote as it is, chisago is somewhat closer than nyc. 

the connection, claudette tells me, is that some hip designers-without-hammers from nyc were either taking a vacation at hazelden or thought the sign said Chicago, and found themselves at Svens. charmed by the tiny workforce but horrified by a design that was not influenced by the hormonal and pharmaceutical rollercoaster of an over-caffeinated artistic director/tyrant, the No. 6ers pulled Sven aside and made him an offer he couldn't refuse, namely their brand of vogue-ity vogue topside stapled to the same jajaja wooden sole that would turn no. 2-do shoes for nurses and other people who enjoy a little fentanyl with their tuna salad into hip No. 6 footwear anchoring the brittle legs of russian models. Sven bit and now can be seen cruising around Taylors Falls in a pimped out volvo with blackout windows and license plate that reads S-Munee. but Sven, that sly dog, doesn't send all of the happening wooden kicks to nyc -- some he sells to people in the know from a back room at the chisago  sweatworkshop. you have to know the password, which is Whereislakeshoredrive. then out with the benjamins and a little smoked herring for the elves and, bobs your uncle, you're clogging it up like claudette. 

p.s. 'roided out clogs are having a moment and that is for sure, but me and gerald ford are going to issue a warning right here and now about the dangers of clogs + snow and ice.

pretty in produce

I was weighing my fruit options -- commercial strawberries with extra pesticides for $3.99 or a tote of very shiny apples offered by an aged crone in a pilled out shawl with a big wart on her big nose and gnarled stick-like fingers. oh wait. that was a mirror, and a pimple not a wart. whew.

This woman looks great, suspiciously well turned out. She does not have a single Old Dutch product in her cart. Nor a big stack of coupons, nor three children with pink-eye(s), nor a motorized wheelchair that she's soon going to drive to the Grand Canyon or Walmart. So what the hell, you may ask, is she doing at Cub? I don't know. I have a pimple that is diverting all my brain fluid.

This much I know: her tweed jacket was purchased from Nordstrom's in the pioneer days when department stores tailored jackets for free, pants are JCrew with zippers at the bottom, she is tall and her feet are small
there was no mall
to appall
y'all
instead, she crawled,
trawled,
what's it called...
Shu on Grand for these Josef Seibel boots.

 

 Excuse me homey, but would you like a very shiny apple that is probly not poisoned?

just say no to ugly scans

 

My beef with full body scanners is they're not very flattering. for example, does the alien above really have no nose and close-set eyes? Standing in line at LAX for what would undoubtedly be another scarring experience with a camera, the woman in front of me announced she was opting out of the scan and going for the pat down. partly because i like to be a pain in the ass whenever possible and partly because i was a little low on physical nurturing, i decided i too would opt for a pat down. the woman who had the honor was so respectful and businesslike and explained exactly how she was going to be up in my business. it was not bad, indeed pleasurable. i asked her to go over some parts again but she declined, and i looked back to see her shaking her hands and doing the icky dance. i went on my way, whistling.

a busy moment at the LACMA

 

I don't want to put her on a pedestal (you've been great, i'll be in the velvet room all week folks), but wearing a sheer pleated skirt that's sort of Egyptian with a rockabilly chambray midriff shirt, a ring that may or may not hatch and Rihanna (or Run Lola Run -- did you see that movie?) ruby hair and reading and balancing on a pillar seems a lot to manage, doesn't it? what i like best of all is that she's reading a book (paper! pages!) and holding a pencil (vintage!), almost as if she was going to write with it or turn the pages using the eraser.

Now it's going to seem like i've had another small stroke and when things got reconnected, i spoke french and could curl my tongue, but it's going to come together. really. i was just on my favorite food blog, the italian dish, italiandish.squarespace.com, adding a splash of german irish laziness along with the heapin helping of love and i noticed how about 357 people had made the zucchini lasagna and left comments.  more than just a very strong case against over-age drinking, think of this here blog as a recipe, an inspiration to try this at home kids. go ahead, wear sheer clothing! dye your hair to match your bell bottoms! hold a pencil! see what happens! 

cook long enough to frighten the salmonella and let me know how that goes.

 

josephine plus...

 

jasmine =

am i right or what?

new and improved hippie

 

Californians, and by that i mean women, cannot let go of the hippie aesthetic, example #413,786 above. Like all retro looks, hippie has been tweaked and tidied up, the good parts enlarged and the grotty stuff... eh. Excuse me, but i'm an eye-wear-tness to history here, harumph. Most of the improvements have come in hygiene and foundations. See above: yes, she's got a funky braid in her michele philips hair but it's recently washed. real hippies were liberated from the self-made prison of regular shampooing. the tie dye is obviously the work of bourgeois artisans rather than the vomitous renderings of someone who's sole sustenance for the past 30 hours has been the pungent exhaust of nonstop fatties. real hippies eschewed foundations, choosing to breathe from all orifices freely. and noisily. she would have bartered for the jesus sandals at a hostel in venice beach. and what kind of boyfriend is that? he's wearing shoes and apparently vertical. no, smells of disney hippie.

alex goose tells nice stories

 

So nice, this young man. he's a music producer and his name is alex goose and i made him spell it because of course i didn't believe him. i mean, the gray cells are like lonely raisins floating in a gelatinous mass of runny porridge but even i know a fake name when i hear it. poor dear, i thought, he's 12 and undoubtedly the product of a broken home (never hear much about father goose, do you?) and he's getting the holy crap beat out of him at school because he's not very big (and yet, i couldn't manage to get the very tippy top of his head in the picture) so he has to fabricate these pathetic lies. but just because he's a lying bastard is no reason to be unfriendly so i prattled on about his Sebago dock shoe-boots with tribal aspirations as manifested in the removable moccasin-inspired ankle fringe (thus re-moc-ables) that are just so damn category busting. gotta love that. and then i revealed my minnesota origins which scared surprised the living daylights out of him and he shared that he had spent three months in minnesota on an internship with Target. a graphic design internship. oh what tangled webs we weave when we seek to deceive....  my goodness, the awful back-pedaling. well, he was a graphic designer and a freelance music producer.... and i am lady di.

alexgoose.com, myspace.com/goosebeats, theblueprint3outtakes.com.

alex bro, g-man, you natural gangsta, how's every little thing?

 

Raise your hand if you love sassy people. 

Melrose

The young one and i were on our way to the wasteland on melrose when she (being my navigator) pointed out a sale at fred segal by saying stop the car now. which i did. luckily we were at an intersection, so we left the suzuki running in the left turn lane and stumbled out. when in LA...(here i would insert a smiley face icon if i was a fucking idiot).  little red riding pants was a little scared  doubtful until i assured her we abandon suzukis running in the middle of the street in st. paul too. her shoes are jeffrey campbell but since they're friends she calls them jeff. i call them she who stands tall like pine tree until she hits (literally) uneven sidewalk.  anyhoo she was very nice and i loved her indian queen-sized scarf but the car could only idle for so long on one tank of gas so we toddled off to fred segal where i saw a pair of sweatpants for $3,427 but i didn't get them because they were 15 minutes old, thus last season's sweatpants.

in a completely separate incident, i did not have my camera with me because i was running up the sullivan fire road singing the happy wanderer (vall der ahahahahahaaaa) when i met reese witherspoon coming down the trail with a friend. she said i thought they didn't let people out of those institutions hi and i said hhhhh (i was a little winded) and she went back to jake gyllenhal or whoever and i went to the nike missile site.

cat like

Look. i'm in LA! Surprisingly like minnesota, right? well you know what they say about LA  -- the st. paul of the west coast. i wore a long-sleeve ankle length tube of b.o. inducing Qiana nylon/poly knit from the 70s in a print that spoke strongly of a tragic skin condition, wedged in the middle seat between two arm rest  aggressors for 3-1/2 hours, stood in a 57-person line at the rental care agency behind a chinese couple who spoke no english and rented a big american-style suv til i got the keys to my chevy aveo or similar (check here if you'd like us to whiz by and wave after you're stalled on the 405) that i did not realize was manual until one transmission later. bing bang, i say la cieNAga and sepulVEDa in quick succession (to the delight of locals as they have not yet had their slurry of xanax and coffee) and a few near-death moments later i'm at the goodwill on beverly scaring  chatting up nice people wearing shades of blue (her pants are actually navy even if they look black) and super stealth leopard slippers. i got some bright yellow heels and a rash here! success!

red leather artist tea

Any questions? 

Like for example, are those bullets in her belt? (no, it's sunday and the banks are closed).

Here's another one that comes to mind: Why didn't i wake up this morning and decide to put on boots that don't go all the way up to equestrian (thus, pony), graphic tights, sailor buttoned shorts, a desperado-in-a-celebratory mood belt and a racy red leather jacket? (because i am not a portrait artist like she is and i don't have a pony. yet).

and finally, what are those blueberry-like dark things at the bottom of the drink? (blueberries).

boarding school

Long boards are long boards, whether it's Hilo or St. Paul, and girls + boards are just cool. so much cooler than, say, girls + a 1994 honda civic. not too cool for school though -- these two are concordia scholars. here's a novel approach -- i'm going to let the photo speak for itself (read: it's a perfectly gorgeous day, in limited supply, and i'm on my deck with a nearly unlimited supply of cheap likker. i'm kinda busy).

peak color

This is exactly the right ensemble for a trip to the farmer's market -- the chunky knit hat, woven leather belt, the cotton dress falled up with tights and fully secured houdini boots (the trick is the instep zipper). i'm always surprised, and impressed, by very young dressers with such an advanced and natural sense of style. she nailed color and textures and proportion, and she makes it look easy, like this was the first and only draft of today's sartorial story. not a whiff of teenage angst, and she didn't lean on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt or Uggs. amazing. uhoh, i jerked my own chain when i wrote Uggs just then so i must go on a mini-rant: one upside to climate change and a moist and irradiated world is that, while we will likely be rocking three feet due to holes in the ozone and six kinds of genetic mutation,  our many many little piggies will not be stinking up salt-stained spreading tuber-like growths. Uggs will be extinct. i feel like emptying a can of Aqua Net Super Extra CFC in my backyard just to hurry their demise. there, i said it.

 

What about this photo does not say visiting artist, up to and including his name tag? This is Naoto Nakada whose work is being exhibited at Northern Clay Center on Franklin. Boy, the Japanese have a lockdown on adorable, don't they? But then they like to throw in a really dark side to make you think or recoil in horror a little bit -- like a cute cartoon puppy that eviscerates cute cartoon children and then wags its tail and licks its bloody button nose. Well anyway, Naoto sure is cute. I think i startled him by rushing up and saying i loved loved his tabi socks and pink shorts and his blue workman's jacket that is exactly like the one that NY Times style photographer/legend Bill Cunningham wears, and about 2500 words into it, his handler indicated there might be a bit of a language barrier so she said real loud and slow, SHE WANTS TO TAKE YOUR PICTURE. He was down wit it.

He may or may not think this photo will appear in Italian Vogue. 

I thought that was his lunch box there on the front bumper for keeping some decent snacks handy because he'd heard about american food, but turns out it's a man bag. he outed with his card and we did an exchange. now he's thinking, shit americans got a lockdown on wrong, don't they? here's his website: naotonakada.jimdo.com. i don't know who jimdo is but i like it -- kinda chill and sassy. hey jimdo you natural gangsta, 'sup? like that.

Helena B. Carter is sick of looking stupid

 

Barf, i've had it up to here with Marc Jacobs and his quest for disturbed genius bs. smacks of effort man. also, who could make a career of making people look like they've just had a quart of malt likker and some blow at 8 a.m. and subsequently shot low-budget porn that involves illegal immigrants and invertebrates? thanks juergen, but here's how it's done...

ok she asked me to cut off her head, and i was like, i think i can do that.  because it's all about the Marc Jacobs lace-up shoes, hot off the runway, that she waited and waited for (easily 15 minutes). you see why this pisses me off-- his ads are a clumsy ploy to appear avant garde and above bending over for the walmart masses when in fact he is churning out vanilla ice cream. who could not like it? massive moa-sized egos aside, i like the way she gave marc a lesson in creative genius with some flirty black stuff and a hit of urban Alpha Industries jacket. we were at Northern Clay, tossing back cheap wine appreciating art.

majoring in sweater

 

Another incidence of yarn bombing, but this time, it's personal. There's something about that first blast of forty degrees, like the beginning of the ice age, that makes neck-to-toe acrylic seem like a good idea. Also i'm starting a quasi-scientific rumor (ala bachmann) that lots of pattern worn together with absolute abandon actually generates heat. here's how:  the little color molecules are busy running into each other and clashing and getting up in each others' business, and they get hot and sweaty, whereas you can be wearing six tent's worth of a solid color and the color molecules are bored and dispirited and like, i'm khaki, you're khaki, the whole world's khaki and they just lay on their khaki couches and let the breezes blow through like anything. they could give a crap.  this is particularly true of khaki, my least favorite, and the laziest,  segment of the color wheel.  she is not smiling and wondering how the hell she's going to get away from me cuz i didn't even share my color molecule hypothesis. she's smiling at her yoga mat.