if Winona Ryder shopped at Savers, she wouldn't have had to steal stuff

Wow huh?  Normally the lighting at Savers makes me everyone look about six weeks past the sell by date, but it made her look like a young Winona Ryder.  It's like a Christmas miracle.

She got this coat before it became an Urban Outfitters item, and the sweater underneath from a free bin at a coffee shop only minutes prior to this incident.  She told me which coffee shop but I immediately forgot because I had 47 yards of navy blue tulle attached to a waistband in my cart and I was driving around until it seemed like a reasonable purchase. It only took an hour and 27 minutes!  Back to our waif above -- she's my poster child for 2013 which is more personal honor than financial gain.  (Although, if she cares to contact me, a tulle-ific prize awaits).  This dubious award was bestowed because of her reckless use of pattern, pragmatism and hair which I feel is a harbinger of crazy shit to come.  Happy No Fears my fellow twist-tie recyclers!

Daisy reads

So I'm in the Walker store fingering well-designed alarm clocks and cheese spreaders, and absolutely not looking at startlingly large glistening body parts in art books when I spot Daisy Buchanan reading. Heads up nonreaders, a literary allusion has been played.  Straight from East Egg to uptown,  this vision of loveliness and luxury is complete from t-strap dancing shoes to the richest thickest feather headband-ready hair.  I dropped the Mapplethorpe book and got over there as fast as any lumpen potato-shaped commoner could.  It's true, those are 2-foot long fringes sewn on in an undulating pattern.  She did not wrestle a bear, kill it with her bare hands, skin it and fashion it into dramatic outerwear. Her great aunt did. Or maybe it was mink. A herd of mink.  It was all I could do not to pet her. 

Instead, I followed her around taking photos that did not capture the bathtub-full-of-champagne decadence I was jazzed (ha, historical joke) about.  This last photo was my way of saying, Look, it's a dress with a really nice blowout and some of that straightening serum.  

Anyhoo, it briefly occurred to me that the Walker hired a Daisy Buchanan look-alike to soothe horrified, over-challenged guests to restore their faith in beauty, in a conveniently retail environment.  So people would think, Thank goodness for beauty and opulence. By the sixth mutilated doll tossed on a pile of feces, I was beginning to feel a little down, but now by golly, I'm outing with the VISA and I'm gonna buy smooth shiny pretty things.  Also, though I don't know how, I have a strong desire to dance the Charleston.

designer in chains

Moving on from a weak reference to Quentin Tarantino's recent splatfest, we find Doris Day's sweater (googtube it, friends under the age of 95) fresh out of a meeting of the PTA going to town with a Scarsdale skirt that appreciates modern dance and Amish boots that have left the order, all lulling our irony-luvin souls into a false sense of Stepford conservatism.

But what's this!?

Oh for tribal!  Tusk-like ear interest (no worries, only a credit card was harmed in the harvesting of these from Asos) and natives-are-restless hand party shaking it in the most ethnic way.

She's licensed to handle this level of contrast because she's a graphic designer visiting her roots. And her parents.

24K Tyrol

If sprinter Michael Johnson went to a talent contest with a charming rendition of How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria... Heart. Also, colored legs are animated legs, legs that can bend in unusual places and zoom around in a blurry circle.  There is absolutely no excuse for not moonwalking in this ensemble.

the freshest thing I've ever gotten at Korte's

That's a polar bear on her vintage pullover. That's a plaid shirt under the pullover.  Those're daisy dukes over the tights. That's curls on her hair. That's pineapple, 2/$5.  These are a few of my favorite things.  Any questions?

day of the dude

Hello.  His girlfriend gave him the full-throttle shadow biker jacket and I went ahead and assumed the splotches of color on his boots were paint since we were outside MCAD, an artist-rich zone.  Uh no. That would be food, a work-related hazard of his sauce-slinging gig. Finally and tuffest, locked, loaded and accessorized...

two views of Jeffrey

 Above is pixelated Jeffrey which is user error an expression of my relationship with the artificial lighting of the Institute of Art.  Or perhaps an imprint of the very strong aura of the Buddha that was behind me.  Anyhoo, I turned to Photoshop for enlightenment, as you would.  Pixelated Jeffrey is friendly, approachable, perhaps a Capricorn, has what appears to be skin.

This is badass Jeffrey rocking the beanie, the whistle-on-a-chain, a Mr. Rogers gets a loft in Williamsburg cardigan,  rolled jeans and boots that automatically walk to Andrew Bird concerts (computer chip in the hand-stitching, available on Etsy) like homing pigeons.  Bird, pigeon... Ok, moving on. 

Badass Jeffrey is an emo action figure, made of life-like plastic, gonna come over and chill wit u, maybe make some sushi and Mraz it up.  Nah I'm joshing but on a completely related artistic note,  don't you find it complex and mind-bending that the Institute's lighting makes marble and wood look like real skin and real skin look like it was made by Mattel?  Say Dude if so.

you better pink

 

Plenty pink, pleated, picnic basket gingham -- what could be better?

 

Palazzos!

 

Aloha baby, book this

 

Peter Max pop fizz with covered buttons, covered with buttons, ooo

Twisted in a good way. 
And that is the two pigs fighting in a blanket at the tail end of this pink parade.  All of these were liberated from various do-gooding thrift stores.  If this was one man's trash, I would like to meet that man.

it's come to this

 The lay down.  Which is different from the throw down.  Unable to find any pedestrians tottering through the snow in angry Bottega Veneta pumps or indeed anything that did not look like a gigantic tuber, I've resorted to showing you stuff I found at thrift stores.  That's pretty interesting, right?  Example A, above and below, came from the Quincy Street Sallie Army in Brooklyn.  This is hands-down the most beautiful Middle Eastern swimsuit I've ever seen.  I slay myself.  Note the gathering and the self-fabric seam covering under the arm.  This excites me, it's strong stuff, and I can only imagine it sent many a Middle Eastern blood pressure skyrocketing too.  I find tunics and crazy big pumpkin pants all the time in the course of the rag picking biz -- they all look like they were cut out by the Grinch and assembled by a springer spaniel.  Gorgeous and well-made with great attention to detail are not features of the tunic trade.  This is the lone exception.

I loved that intricate floral pattern so so much and then it started looking reeeeeeeaal familiar.  The above rectangle of botanical beauty is by Arts and Crafts kingpin William Morris.  A pattern emerges. (You've been great, tell your friends about it, I'll be here all week). Morris et al have been enjoying the hookah a bit too much but then again, that is a feature of the Arts and Splifs trade.

potatoes n lightbulbs

I could have labeled this fifty shades of grey but that would have been misleading. There's like five or six at most. I especially like the can-do optimism of the white woven shoes putting on brave socks and heading out in December. She went to college where she majored in Textural Gradations and Scout's Honor Hair. 

I want to know the creative genius who decided to make wallpaper of blue sky blue with ultra realistic roots n bulbs in regimental formation.  It makes me very happy.  Actually the sprite and the wallpaper together were like a ray of sunshine, but less trite, in stark contrast to the other exhibits at the Walker that represented all the emotions from ugly to horrifying to creepy.  I went home, had a stiff drink and a good shower and looked at our photo albums where we have surprisingly few photos of pubic hair glued to a piece of stained linoleum and nailed to a mutilated doll.  Our mutilated dolls had eyeballs that were twisted and closed left to right instead of up and down which is sort of endearing.

community organizer

Love the suave double-breasted jacket which is handmade, not with pixels as it appears here due to injudicious use of Photoshop, but with stitches all around the lapels. I suddenly wanted to write All around the mulberry bush, but that's just me.  Also the contrast of the cosmopolitan blazer and the jeans tucked into whoop-ass boots is nice and ironic.

Here's where I explain (always a lot of explaining to do) why I labeled this post community organizer:  Gia (spelling is conceptual, like the art) took a break from the third grade to organize the Vote No campaign and dang if he didn't do a great job of it.  The brilliance of the Vote No message became clear to my addled self in the voting booth where I read the statement, the gray cells seized up, my eyeballs rolled around independent of each other and I couldn't parse out whether I was voting for being against families of united people or yes I don't want to restrict marriage or no I do want ... ice cream.  But then I thought about the cute Mini I saw driving around covered with huge letters that said Vote No in blue and orange, the school colors of Macalester College, and I like Minis and blue and orange so I voted no.  No, people like me should be restricted to only this world.

art, life, chicken, egg

Here we are fresh off Cindy Sherman's unsettling photographic journey through fashion, beauty, art, culture and gender roles, so this photo could be viewed with six kinds of lenses including a great big ironic one.  Or it could be utterly random, a hiccup, a burp, end of the week wardrobe rotation.  Let's give it the benefit of the doubt, and listen to what these two are saying so pinkly and so blackly. 

OR

We could say, Analysis of gender tropes is BS man, and just listen to what they said said. With their mouths.  They're here at the Walker on free night because, what are they, stupid?  They both used to work here in member services so they know a sack o manure conceptual art when they see it. Now one of them works at MPR and one is applying to vet school with her fine arts degree.  Let's think about very beautifully done neutering.

sisters

Isn't shared DNA weird?  Their eyes and their cross-body bags are the same (aren't you so so glad I'm 100% on my game and did not say crossed eyes and body bags by mistake? I am) and yet their footwear is very different.  That must be what they cover in Advanced Genetics because in my Genetics For People Who Should Never Reproduce class, we did not get beyond vestigial wings -- information I only use once or twice a week at most. Are a predilection for scarves with feathery bits woven in, cape-like coats and cowboy boots linked traits?  Are bangs thicker than water?  Is a super-Katniss survivor braid nature or just cool?  What the hell are gametes and how can I get rid of them? Science raises a lot of questions but the only thing we know for sure is that the white dot on the photo is def not a drip of whole milk foam from a small latte with an extra shot that, through osmosis or perhaps sneezing, got on my camera lens.  

black Saturday

Unlike Black Friday when you wear a firearm in your sweatpants that say PINK in letters that span the curvature of the ass earth and jump up and down with each rolling stride in the most animated way,  black Saturday is when you get yourself over to the Bibelot and huff Thymes bath products until $209.99 seems like a damn good deal for salt and pepper shakers in the shape of a typewriter or mold or some such.  

Oh man, I'm just bitter because some other J Jill-wearing gangsta got the last retro pink eraser shaped like an eraser for $703.99 (in classic leather pouch) by saying, "Is that Louise Erdrich over there by the ironic Mary-shaped ice cube trays?"  Oldest trick in the book.

I digress. 

Laurie (saurie, I forgot to ask about spelling because I'm a hopeless journalist) is dressed to kick ass and take names as a Bibelot employee in ways with black that make you think,  This outfit is galvanizing neurons and making me think of blackness in a whole new and exciting way. I'm seeing seams at dynamic angles and gathers where I never have before. Or is that the soy-based mud puppy-scented candle talking?! (who remembers mud puppies, raise your hand).  Ok, I'll holler out the stuff I love about Lori's look and every time you find it in the photo, chug some Hot Flash Tea.  Ready, go!

Grandfather watch on a rope

Double layer artful dodger gloves

Comfy dress w/Demeulemeester leanings

Large print polka dots 

Blue blue eyes for contrast

Soft nappy wool jacket with one big button

Polka dot neoprene handbag that's good to 4,000'

Busted!  The neoprene bag is not in this shot. Take another hit of tea.

Honey-Mustard dressing

Lookout because there's gonna be missed metaphors tossed around like a hot tomato and I'm going to make this Honey-Mustard thing work come hell or high collars.  And it'll  be so much more horrible enjoyable if I explain it: The coat on the right might be Honey-colored if the bees had drunk from the nectar of the black flowers on the belt and the cute duffel coat on the left is Plochmann's Mustard (Plochmann's because I went to high school with Heidi Plochmann, the mustard heiress).  Honey-Mustard, H&M (provenance of boat coats) and Honey-Mustard dressing because that's what you put on a pair (of friends) salad. 

I'm looking down now, not because I pulled a metaphor stretching that idea, not becauz I'm deeply ashamed from a career perspective, but becuz I likes their shoes too.

Yellow-handed

Red hair, yellow mittens and what I first thought were ankle-wrap ballet-inspired shoes but turned out to be argyle socks is why I started down this road.  Need of glasses is the least of my problems because I'm filled with self-loathing for excluding and passive-aggressively dissing her friend for not wearing blogger magnets like long shins.  That's my story and I'm sticking by it.

loss of extremities is invigorating!

Dang, her hands fell off due to cold but what a trooper -- she thought to dress cute and a little bit tribal knowing she's going to have this ensemble on til she learns to shimmy out of the tights.   And this must be one of those new hands-free bikes: It works on a get-the-hell-out-of-my-way principle much like driving and stops as if reading your mind when you hit someonething. I hope Little Red Riding Hat got to grandma's house with her goodies intact.

friends with boots

It's a new social phenomena, and yours truly is on it.  Remember a few posts ago (or in planet earth time, about two months ago), the woman in the completely untamed leopard coat "given" to her by her friend?  Here we have another incident of a friend, motivated by being swung around by the arms until the centrifugal force flung the boots from her feet like some sort of medieval weapon pure altruism, "gave" the lucky beneficiary above the corseted, scalloped, fifty shades of grey boots. 

Probably.

I need to get new friends.  Or a gun and mask.

hot helmut

 

If this isn't the coolest way to survive the kind of cold like banging your frozen shins on cold steel, pain rattling up cubes of vertebrae along an exposed nerve, a dry cold, an abattoir -- I'm just not acclimated, that's all -- then I don't know squat.  Hush already.  Black and spare, the coat expresses the philosophy of our favorite Austrian, the Von Trapps  Helmut Lang.  The little envelope bag provides some levity because it's by Catherine Malandrino, the Betsey Johnson of designers who use black.  The final piece of armor in the Specter of Winter are some corner-lovin Frye harness boots.  This look eats nails for breakfast, AND YET...

 how cute is she?  This is Jennifer, a Healthy Hair Care Specialist.  She made that dimple herself, and also the kindergarten bangs, which is how you get rid of really long dreds.  Put on a nose ring, tie in some chick yellow, tuck your face in and go.

She's the main man at Hair.e.tic Salon, www.arielou.com, and member in good standing of the witness protection program. Oops.

sharp dressed man

Am I just not seeing well-dressed hommes? It's such a rare event and yet, I feel like my eyeballs are pretty much on high alert. Example A above --  it took approx a nanosecond, a cobalt cardigan and some rolled chinos to activate stalking mode. Tria denied being in any arm of the design business but said he is into fashion -- this is just an everyday sartorial expression. He dresses this way to go to the credit union. I am even now marking the credit union with a blue XY on my 1:420,000 National Fash-Map as a likely fishing spot.  And he is now closing his account there. Unintended consequences.

le artiste

Here we are on the Left Bank. Of Grand Ave.  The pops of red, including her gorgeously nuanced hair?  The linen frock coat? The insouciant silk scarf? Tres Parisienne, non? She is in fact a graphic designer. And I do not in fact speak French.

blue hair

She has punked the little old ladies who lunch at the Lex by a factor of 12 or so.  This is semi-permanent dye that's layered on top of the previous semi-faded purple with greater concentration in some places than others, so there's six kinds of color gradation.  Yes, I like the contrast with her gold hat and the natural animal on the coat collar, but pure D great is the perfectly matching Barbie blue eyeshadow.

chin up, man

Yes, this is a model (and we're not even in Meatpacking!) in perfect skin, waxed red denim pants and some boots I might have been willing to sell my soul for...  IF... I was not drawn off by the effing Chihuahua up to his/her radar-friendly ears in purse.  We chatted, I touched her pants, gushed about her boots and took a couple pictures and the dog (and I use that term loosely) never made a peep.  Maybe because it is crazily treading lipsticks and phones and keys and pizza (I know I am not the only person who keeps pizza in their purse) in a desperate attempt to keep its head above bag.  The dog is not even upholstered in awesome red pants, in fact, its wardrobe is pretty bland, but I can't look away.  Freda is absolutely stealing the show.

I dream of Ina

 

This is as close as I will ever get to the business side of this molded marvel of 26 yards of silk, pleated and compressed under approx. 471 PSI to create visual tension. Or attention. Dang, she wears it well, right?  There are two reasons I am still in ownership of my front teeth after this invasion of personal space -- 1) I share DNA with this person and 2) I got a signed release.  We were enchanted with the 14 covered buttons until we discovered they're not for affect, they're for crazy-making.  Theoretically functional, the only way into and out of this beast.  My fingers cramped up on me and the staff here at Ina (more on Ina below) had to take over.  Thirty-five minutes later, I took the photo, we plunged our hands into ice water to bring down the inflammation, popped a couple Wal-profen and began the unbuttoning process.  In the event that you do not have a staff of six to gird your loins, the woman at Ina whose career as a concert pianist is now over, suggested swirling the buttons around to the front for the operation.  Due to the fitted nature of the garment, I could foresee a somewhat painful repositioning of most of the dermal elements of your torso along with the skirt.

Two big names I'd like to drop here are Burberry Prorsum (the skirt) and Ina (the shop).  Is it just me, or can you not get the image of a nasty possum wearing a really nicely cut trenchcoat with its skinny pink tail dragging behind out of your mind?  Hello marketing department? You're fired! 

Ina, inanyc.com, is a designer consignment store.  Second only to model/actress in libelous overstatement, most designer consignment stores are filled with Ann Taylor Loft and Limited. Collection. Ugh. Not so Ina.  In its five locations spread across the length and breadth of lower Manhattan, Ina walks the walk, chock-a-block with Lanvin, Gucci, Margiela, Fendi, YSL, Chanel, Balenciaga, Etro, Prada, and yes, the super-fierce possum.  Things are still $735 but that represents an 80% depreciation after one sashay down the runway during which the clothes tried but failed to make contact with the model's body.  If for some reason you can't make it to any of the five Ina locations, no worries -- you can shop online at the website or on Ebay.  Though the prices were somewhat higher than my mortgage, it was extremely gratifying to see the designer category honored, and it was very exciting to see these pieces before the accumulated wear and tear and bodily fluids of several raves and a long weeekend in Las Vegas lands them at the Goodwill. Where I normally find them.

in America

Here we are enjoying a loovly day (read: a day that does not have a weather event with a name) outside Central Park and her awful friends, who are out of frame stage right lending some helpful commentary, had just mocked her style.  Whereupon I stumbled in and said I liked her style. Isn't that the way?  That's the great thing about America: Everyone's entitled to his/her opinions, misguided as they may be.  I was on my way to the Whitney Museum to put that paradigm to the ultimate test. Was Wade Guyton's large scale, exhaustive exhibit of printer errors using only the letter X truly a groundbreaking study of our changing relationships with images through the use of common digital technology, or simply BS?  Remember, there are no wrong answers. And no refunds of the $12 admission fee.

L.A.M.B. at the farmer's market

Ok, we're going to learn things and it won't even be fun painful. Her voluminous clan of the kale seekers cloak has stacks of swagger and an acronym -- L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani. According to  know-it-alls on the internets, L.A.M.B. stands for Love Angel Music Baby which makes sense if you are drunk Gwen Stefani. No one has thought to ask Her Platinum-ness but rumors are that she had a dog named Lamb as a child or that her Harajuku friends were named Love, Angel, Music and Baby.  These are obviously the natterings of kitty litter huffers.

With all my connections in the pop music industry, I have it on good authority that Ms. Stefani started out with her core values -- Loins Are My Business.  Later a retail consultant insisted that, in consumer parlance, no one would be able to read it unless it was spelled correctly as Loins R My Business.  Rushed for time, Stefani just read off the list of stuff she was going to pick up at Target  -- love, angel, music, baby.  Baby was first on the list but BLAM? Ridiculous! 

I do not mind my own business

Lookit, a New Yorker standing still!  We're waiting for the free shuttle to Manhattan as the subways were still (12 hours after the storm) not working.  It took MTA a little while to get Moses on the job but dang I was super impressed with his efficiency.  Word from the inside is that the East River was a cinch compared to the Red Sea,  more of a butter knife operation what with the viscosity and all.  Being an infidel, I worried about which side of the Jew/Pharoah's army conflict I might fall. When the trains started running, I thought about this as we went real slow under the East River. I may have said Sholom and Oy vey several times.

I digress.

I thought to use my waiting on line time wisely by getting up in other's business! Hurray! If there's anything that riles me up it's a turban.  And when it's a turban on the very tippy top of a real male model-y bean swaddled in pumpkin colored outerwear (which I cranked up to make my point) and nice kicks, well,  predictably, I babbled and took a couple pictures without turning on the camera.  As you would.  This nice young man was apparently unarmed is an artist in training at Cooper Union.

the requisite view-from-behind photo

At first glance this would appear to be someone on her way to work on Flatbush Ave., Brooklyn.  And it is.  Ok, the tiniest bit anticlimactic but I always try to take one on-the-fly photo in NYC and the factors (there were factors) that urged me to put the piece of pizza back in my purse and exchange it for a camera were: bouncy curly hair, crossbody bag, nice proportion between the 3/4 length coat and flat shoes and particularly, the spectators.  Which you must imagine based on the snazzy two-tone heel.  See how her coat and tights look like the asphalt, utterly lacking in detail?  They were in fact formless blobs of blackish grey. They most certainly did not when I saw them with my own watering-from-cold eyeballs.  She was walking really fast and I was losing ground, thus was forced to zoom the living daylights out of the picture. Note to Santa: I have been very bad. Please bring me some proper stalking equipment, preferably one of those fancy new pizza-proof lenses.

something to think about before indulging in reckless pattern mixing

 

First off, why didn't I pursue a career as an intravenous drug user?

But on with my didactic message.  In my book, patterns are not just for hernia trusses anymore. The above declaration of independence from rational living is an actual reproduction of an ensemble I trotted out in NYC.  If you stare at it and scroll up and down real fast, you'll hurl. Or suddenly be able to curl your tongue. Anyway, aside from causing some confusion for the TSA agent charged with getting up in my business (What is that? And is it detachable, she asked, and I trust she was talking about the traditional Hmong pleated hospital gown and not my ass),  it was comfortable and warm and brought to mind Tommy Hilfiger and J Peterman and a Scottish schoolboy holding hands and singing I Like To Go Awandering as they skip through a Deer Hunter-esque miasma.  This makes me very happy.

HOWEVER
Clothes are contextual.  At home, for example, our ex-dog Rascal would not have blinked an eye at this atrocity (he was blind) but as it happened, I was having a post-Sandy look-see about lower Manhattan.  Everything seemed quite normal, which is to say, guys in slim-cut suits and professionally knotted cashmere scarves on their cellphones, seldom inconvenienced by anything as insignificant as a natural disaster because, like Goldman Sachs, they have their own generator that powers their gold-plated WaterPic and their nail buffing protocol. So their cuticles are sublime.  And there were some people wearing Duane Reade bags.  I would like to say that this happened on Mulberry Street but I had just crossed Mulberry so I think it was Houston when a grizzled man wearing five or six coats and a sleeping bag gave a compassionate nod as he approached and said, "Hang in there man."

Hooti Couture

Meet Alison, proprietor of Hooti Couture on Flatbush Ave. in Brooklyn, answering the oft-asked question of what to wear when biking to work. It was asked a lot ofter those days when the subways were not functioning.  A helmet goes without saying, this one channeling a foot soldier circa 1851 with plenty of room up top to keep your hair or a calzone and knitted earflaps so parts don't fall off in the cold.  Feathered fetlocks excite me and caused me to lurch forward and raise my camera.  I don't really think Alison has over-exfoliated her thoracic region -- there was this post-apocalyptic glare of sun burning through the ozone.  If this photo is examined by a qualified physician, you won't have to get that chest x-ray after all Alison.

Hooti Couture's motto is Vintage For Everyone and there is stacks of good stuff, so everyone (and you know who you are) should get on down and claim their knitted knickers or tulle sportcoat.

color me easily amused

Give me a pair of irradiated pants and a purple n pink book bag and green-green-my-arms-are-green and I'm satisfied.  As far as I know. 

There are some whiplash-inducing shifts in chronology and geography going on here -- my OCD is flaring up something awful -- but now that we have finished the business at the U of M, we can move on to my eagerly awaited NYC experience in which I discovered how my current lifestyle is perfectly sustainable in a post-apocalyptic world. This is something I have in common with Donald Trump, Britney and most of the insect phylum.

here's what I found at the Quincy Street Sallie Army

Mr. Rogers and Lady Gaga.  Mmmmmmm, contrast. This is what I love about Brooklyn.  Yes friends, I've ventured out of the 651 area code, and my rods and cones have not stopped jumping around.  However we are in a post-Sandy world, which is to say,  we're all humming You're The One That I Want and trying to decide how we feel about John Travolta.  Be patient sick people, my internet access will be limited, but for now, I'm buttering my legs and shimmying into some tight shiny black pants and some hair.

business and agriculture, as usual

At first, I was like, Go Vikes, and we (by we, I mean I) were going to chest bump and do this awesome end zone dance. But then I thought, does that constitute assault  Hold yer horns Sven.  Something's a little off about his color.  That's not Vikings purple -- this article has more blue in it. He is def a winter, am I right? 

Furthermore, he's from Paris and is at the U studying business and agriculture.  And if you can tear your eyeballs away from the Usain Bolt of blue/purple, I want you to roll them southward and notice the purple bumper on his trainers. That's commitment, my friends. 110%.