Tribal!

Navajo 2.1, above, outside Milk Studio.

 

Donna Karan went gaga for tribal, above.

 

As did this woman. Child by Marc Jacobs. (not bloody likely)

Rochas said tribal and he said how high?

My tribe cannot jump but, boy, can we mess up a pair of Hush Puppies.

men, i have one word: ankles

If there's an overriding take-away from FashionWeek 2012 for the XY half of the population, it's ankles.  Upon further inspection, the woman in the photo above is rocking flashy ankles too, but for dudes, it is all about that previously under-appreciated joint at the corner of pant and shoe. I guess my blog spokesmodel and I were prescient about the whole fetching lambshank trend. Again. But this trip to epicenter confirmed, gents who be happening have pants that stop short, allowing plenty of respiration and bold expression in hosiery (accessorized) or pallid hairy skin (plain). 

Meet Steven Onoja, below, chief cook and bottle washer at his gentstyle site, OstentationandStyle.com, and leader in the Free Ankles Now (FAN) movement. Wait a minute -- do you smell the sock lobby beneath all this? (thanks, you've been a great audience, i'll be here all century)

Steven and I are practically twins because our views on fashion are so aligned -- ankles loud and proud, liberal use of camo, short and tight as a lifestyle, underwear as outerwear and thrift first, last and always. I don't know how he feels about using thrift as a verb but I did not see evidence of this moral failing on his website. Read on fancy men, further posts will substantiate the rise of the ankle and its handmaiden, the fall of the arch.

The circus

 

So I'm standing around outside Lincoln Center sort of freezing, despite my homeless strategy of wearing four days' worth of clothes instead of packing them, when a gasp and a hubbub and a convergence of bloggers happened, and I went to see the train wreck too.  Instead I saw breasts. More clearly than I should have, given that it was 10 degrees below Fargo out. Turns out, a designer employed the old Tatas Sell song and dance with a fresh Frostbite Survivor twist. 

The models paraded excruciatingly slowly around the entire square, attracting a lot of very close attention. I have so many questions, not the least of which is that this was supposed to be the fall collection -- skull and crossboobs for fall? I don't think so. 

Who is this guy, and why is he wearing a shirt? And pants? The genius is the naked lips -- courageous! If you click on the photo so it's all huge and grainy, you can read the No Standing sign in the background. And the models' plans that are forming very slowly in their hypothermic minds about how they're going to axe murder that guy and floss the designer's neck with one of those dresses.

This is the designer enjoying the spotlight fully clothed. Her spring collection is hotly anticipated.

lovely in leather

Again, shameless paparazzi-ism on my part. I did not engage these two in conversation at all. I saw fields of soft drapey leather, I saw heels all out there, collars that lost their shirt, so much... Picture James T. Kirk, helpless against the strange glowing tractor beam drawing him and his tight bell-bottom capris ever closer.... if....I...could...only...be......cooler...

PETA Pals, get your buckets of blood because here we see animal hide used in 14 different beautiful, inventive ways. In fact, I think they deserve dispensation for extraordinarily excellent use of material. The woman on the left proved without doubt that less is more. To wit, the shirtless collar, the sleeveless trenchcoat, the linerless lace skirt, the heelless shoes with leatherless shiny elevators. If you ever wondered how to accessorize a statement piece like a full flowing leather skirt, turn your eyeballs upward and wonder no more. I was hoping to capture a reflection of myself scrunched over taking the photo in the shiny heels/no heels but when I leaned down to get close, my 53-pound Cub backpack fell forward pulling me with it so that I was literally on my hands and knees with a mild concussion in Lincoln Center.  Lesson?  Knee pads.

Coupla great things

Being force-fed fashion in Lincoln Center, the exhausting cries for attention, and hating seeing bloggers with real cameras was fun and diverting for a while but eventually I hungered for a calzone a bit more challenge to the sport, so next day I headed out to wonderfully atmospheric Chelsea or Meatpacking, or Meatsea, as I'm fond of saying (NYers are surprisingly slow to adopt this hybrid although I used it emphatically about 27 times in one conversation like this, "I just love Meatsea. Meatsea is so atmospheric and dirty. And hip. God, Meatsea is hip. There's a lot of gum on the sidewalk and loading docks in Meatsea, and I just saw The Sartorialist taking pictures right here in Meatsea, so you know Meatsea is where it's at. Meatsea -- so hot right now.")

Milk Studios, site of a number of off-Lincoln Center shows, is on the street you see behind my favorite couple above. In Meatsea. So the street styling was laughably easy. There was, though, a wind blowing directly off the Mongolian steppes and I was trying to deal with gloves, cards, camera, a beret that kept dropping over my eyes and mucus membranes that were on full flow as I lurched in front of these very appalled generous people. I'm going to spew out brief descriptions of things I love and you look for them, OK? Green specs! 5 o'clock shadow at noon (his)! his n hers scarves of love! cowboy coat! 'nother kind of animal girl coat! we've been playing doctor bags! skinny legs (4)! his shoes! her effin unbelievable persian carpet boots in size attractively small!!!!

As I was trying to snuff up some snot and find one of my valuable business cards, I realized I'd lost the 7-day unlimited ride Metrocard I'd bought 1 day ago. Since my budget allows for either Metrocard or food but not both, I was bummed. They may have thought I was actually crying so they suggested the subway station attendant would undoubtedly give me a new card. Well that was not true but their concern gave me a warm feeling all over and renewed faith in sharp-dressed people. Buoyed, I retraced my steps and found my Metrocard on the sidewalk. Stuck to a piece of gum. In Meatsea.

I don't get out much either

We were both inordinately thrilled with being at the Lagoon Theatre. Ole! Of course, I was at the Lagoon Theater, so that's different. I think that shit on the front of her shirt qualifies as froufrou, which I like. It's a modern hair dicky, which thank goodness, because the old ones needed updating real bad. Or insulation to keep the mid-ventral line nice and toasty. I for one lose a lot of heat from my midline. In case you missed em, I got up close with her triple tuff booties below. I took it real hard when I found out the shirt is Forever 21 and the boots are Target. How can she be so cute and happy knowing that? Anyhoo, she thanked me for validating her decision to get dressed before going out.

This is not Rooney Mara

Duh, it's Mandi M. Mead, wardrobe stylist, design and image consultant. And real nice person. I had just been ignored left the Thompson Hotel in Soho without benefit of their $18 dribble of house red when I spotted Mandi -- happy minute! I admired the fact she was navigating all those damn cobblestones in the Manhattan version of Sorels, and thanks to some really tireless PR, even I know what Rooney Mara looks like.... ehhh?

Ah celebs, who needs em right? Not when there's so much to love right here. Mandi's faux hawk, the 27-pound bugle beaded by hand jacket of penultimate glam that was once worn by Estelle of South Beach, FL to a gala concert with Tony Bennett but came to be Mandi's for $10. Ten scheckels. 

One of the many things I like about this photo is that it looks like Mandi has a little person stuffed in her coat pocket with one leg sticking out. That is called creative composition. In Soho.

How to make an entrance at Lincoln Center

And I thought my mullet was the shit, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something truly picturesque and possibly live happening on her head. Oh sure, the spray-on leather pants in the official color of the 1999 AC/DC World Tour may have had something to do with it too. These two somebodies were really moving despite bodybag-like satchels, tall kicks and a War and Peace level of visual information.  These were not looks you could sum up at a glance. Entrance accomplished, a crush of bums bloggers entreated them to stand for a snap, and I tell you I liked these two because they actually seemed to enjoy being young and beautiful and wearing over-the-top possibly gifted designer duds, and they seemed to understand their role as cheerleaders in this insane tableau and didn't take themselves very seriously. These two were nearly the only people I saw at Fashion Week having fun. Other than me. (Instead of getting glasses I'm making all my fonts enormous)

Fash 'stache dash

This innocent didn't realize that cutting through Lincoln Center during Fashion Week with a super duper handlebar 'stache and neck-centric hootenany made him fair game for the likes of moi. In sharp contrast to everyone else in this vicinity, I'm pretty sure he did not weep with vexation over eyeliner gone astray and would guess Prabal Gurung was Indonesian street food. He's been maintaining his mustache for a long time, or maybe three years.

Green beret

This is Anna Wintour...Oh snap, awful voyeurs, we're giving the models 'n celebs a rest so we can get down to it and do some serious style. We met shopping at Niemans on E. Lake Street, and from kelly green beret to cuffed 501s, I wanted to be her best friend. Then we started talking about street style blogs and she shared this gem that she read somewhere: "I don't want to make you feel bad, but I can still fit into the earrings I wore in high school." One sassy truth after another, and then she mentioned her favorite shop, My Sister's Closet, and I knew for sure we were twins separated at birth. (except i got all the barry manilow genes).  She's a rare one, this woman, and I feel lucky to have crossed her path. Anna Wintour wishes she could be this hip.

i am the only person in nyc not wearing leather pants

Did I just photograph Chloe Sevigny, fashion impresario and art house it girl? You be the judge (see certifiable photo of Chloe Sevigny below), but if so, she was among the 99% of fashion show attendees wearing leather pants. And I will back this up with documentation h8ters.

This is Nadine Ponce, supermodel

 

Unretouched, no airbrushing, no photoshop, no makeup, straight up fierce in 4" heels, arriving for the Herve Leger (which i pronounced Hervee Ledger and she pronounced Airvay Lezhair) show which she was walking in, not gawking at. Have you any idea how often she has looked at a camera? Normally though she would have earned 10 clams for a snap like this but she was so appalled by my mullet and i was so mortified by my own hideous opportunism that the whole thing went down in a stunned moment. So this is something extremely beautiful and something ugly at the same time. Dang. Ok well, what's done is done. Let's celebrate Nadine's loveliness and my smarminess because her agency may be sending big men over to break my knees. And my camera.

 

Above is Nadine in a day look by Alexander McQueen, fall 2012.

 

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setting the scene

In case you didn't know, it's Mercedes Benz Fashion Week in NYC, or as scenesters say, FashionWeek. one word. This is the facade they built off the courtyard in Lincoln Center so it looks classier than fighting your way out of a Eureka tent. See those steps they built? Site of some very close calls with fierce platforms -- lotta teetering and sudden loss of confidence. and luggage. anyhoo, the square where i am standing is all picturesque with a fountain and absolutely shoulder to shoulder with street style bloggers taking pictures of each other and resounding with the smack of air kisses. Mwwwwaaaaa, daaaahrling don't i look nervous? Interestingly no one took my photo. I blame that on my under-eye satchels  them. Lots more where this came from gangsters, but one more thing now before i perk up my mullet -- i learned on the subway that Fiber One bars are the official snack of Mercedes Benz FashionWeek. I thought it was parsley. Air kisses, call me.

model right out of the gate

Still reeling from the fine service on my dark-thirty flight and loaded down with all my worldly possessions in a Cub backpack (gonna get me one of those shopping carts that i see so many of my peers wheeling), and wham bam, or rather lui wen (i base this grossly racist assumption on the fact that she's tall, thin, pretty and asian), MODEL dead ahead! i do in fact love her compleat black look with very tuff motorcycle vest but mostly the silver reinforced bag/weapon! i babbled on in a very psychotic sophisticated way and asked her what shows she was walking (that's the lingo, sheesh) and she outed with the iPhone and showed me her schedule. legit! she was just the nicest quietest person to ever get into grrranimals X-long clothing, so i cut off her head and said have fun! instead of break a leg! to get us both off on the right foot, and then was immediately filled with self-doubt and loathing because duh wearing beautiful clothes and crazy makeup and having your photo splashed around the world and being the unattainable standard of beauty by which everyone else feels bloated and hideous is not fun, it's work. i should know  just shut up.
P.S. I forgot, the unfortunate framing incident you see above is actually called creative cropping in the biz. sheesh.

black and white and red all over

Ok, i dig long skirts. There, i said it. Call me old fashioned, call me over the hill; today's dresslets ai... ai...ghuuuuu. i loathe bob seger. i digress.

Long skirts have drama and movement. You could def do modern dance ala martha graham in a long skirt. Long skirts have mystery -- you wonder if they're just covering up shit like hairy legs or a boil, or whether she just liked the repeating tiers of black and white so much, she wished it would keep going southward forever 'n ever. a woman of few words and strong colors, she just said she liked long skirts. think what you will. 

a relevant behind-the-scenes note is that i spotted this woman from the seat of my dope circa 1990 10-speed bike on the inaugural ride of 2012. Despite my snowsuit and hi tech mittens developed by NASA, i had lost use of my hands so i kind of coasted into the curb to stop and may or may not have gotten a thrill from the sweet rabbit-eared gear shifters.

she's done her homework

Heading from the library with books and papers and dots and dashes, she makes a lovely study in pattern. Check off street style blogs as yet more stuff white people like, stuffwhitepeoplelike.com. But she played along with me because I look exactly like Barry Manilow

but less smooth. and less cleavage. So she was understandably appalled star struck.

On a sharp left turn into neverland related note, i have been upbeat, positive, nice, all that shit, long enough. i have had it up to here and cannot live the lie one more second. i need to be snarky like i need pucker oxygen. So buckle your seatbelts mofos, i booked myself a trip to NYC during Mercedes Benz Fashion Week, imposed my filthy unemployed self on my gainfully employed offspring and am planning a 72-hour rave, big apple style. Psyche foo', you don't plan a rave. even barry manilow knows that. nonetheless, i will do whatever it takes to get invited to an after-party. preferrably the FUBU after-party. i'm gettin my bitch on -- come on white people, let's do Street Style!

i'll fly away

This is what gospel singer Robert Robinson sounds like with his mouth closed. But when he opens his mouth, sanctified flows out and it sounds like this...

purple Piper

You read right gangstas -- she's a Hamline Piper. which represents untrammeled territory for me. She likes bright colors. Thus the brooch.

I was toddling on down Snelling when I saw these royal purple legs. Two lanes, a U-turn, assorted undergraduates and a tow-away zone later, and bob's your uncle.

too much information, not enough income

Icky. Smooshing together all of my little schemes, my degrading jobs, my half-baked very professional writing gigs, i made less than $20,000 last year. i believe that is less than the gains of a housekeeper at Motel 6. true, housekeepers work harder. this is always a difficult time for me friends. normally i live in a numberless, impressionistic (lower case) world to maintain my version of sanity, but when those tax forms start coming in, even i can't pretend.
little truth here that no editor would pay for -- in the last year, i have been offered writing jobs for national magazines for 6 cents/word, for 8 cents/word, for the honor alone. thirty years ago, when i started writing, 25 cents/word was considered low. i just finished enjoying Rum Diaries, by Hunter S. Thompson, in which writers in 1958 drink a lot and complain about earning $75 for a travel story. The star tribune offered me $60 two years ago for an 850-word travel story. i have my pride. i told them national geographic bought it. then i got a job cleaning toilets.
P.S. Above post was stupidly written last night when i was depressed realistic. Now i've had a fifth of coffee and see that i was merely wallowing in realism. i'm thinking about taking up art, for the money.