the Kitty-ian Theorem explained

This somewhat esoteric theorem has been used by the likes of Richard Simmons Albert Einstein to explain eyeball dissonance in a visually intriguing University setting.  It's sometimes called the When Bad Things Happen To Nice Math Majors Who Really Do See Patterns And Have A Pretty Bumpin Sense Of Color theorem. To summarize, when huge infusions of joy are introduced to an otherwise grindingly grim March via the first bike ride of 2013 and I, heretofore known as The Celebrant, finds herself, nose running with a stripe of mud up her back that she doesn't know about, at the corner of Oak and Chipotle  Mobile and Deranged,  extreme vulnerability to tightly edited color themes ensues.  To wit: red, black and white, up to and including the wazzoo.  Given the cultural sanction of staring real hard at stranger's pants (Lohan, 2005), I The Celebrant nonetheless senses a wacky Korean  (our math gangsta is Chinese but he does his pants buying in Korea) mashup of Lacoste and La-crazy-a.  Like many Asian graphics, these defy even the most advanced diagnostic techniques but this knowledge gap does not reduce The Celebrant's enjoyment of same.  

Further,

the Kitty-ian Theorem ignores background pattern, be it good (bricks up, down and sideways) or unfortunate (mildly disturbing cable that bisects this nice young man's neck). In conclusion and ergo,  dude knows how to turn heads in the math style department.

There's something to be said for looking awesome when you leave the house

 I ran into this woman at My Sister's Closet on Grand and was blown away, blown away I tell you, by the level of togetherness, from the pinnacle of her hair that has style and texture and sass and absolutely no marinara sauce to the artsy tangle of neck x southwest to the super hostile business going on below, below (no really, scroll downward).  Shut my mouth, she's wearing a belt!  I thought those loops were decorative. I struggled to identify what exactly made her look so cool, as if she had white wine glasses and red wine glasses at home, and neither had a Smuckers label still on them.  Was it the layering of sweater and jean jacket without cutting off circulation to the upper arms?  Was it the Private Benjamin pants (must have one foot in the grave to understand this allusion)?  Was it the fact that she was wearing pants?  AHA!  Now we're getting somewhere.  It's the little things, I deduced. Like bathing.  Like checking to make sure the chocolate stain won't show.  Like taking off your X-dorky bike helmet before you put your napkin on your lap, or leaving it on given certain hair circumstances.  So you're welcome for that.

There is one more small consideration, and that is that she and her mom own Sisters Ugly boutique in Northfield.  And the badass boots are Sam Edelman.

He's going to spend his life being in color

I was transcribing our man of local color's profound words -- Life is too short to spend it wearing brown and black -- when I was possessed by Michael Jackson, grabbed my crotch, moonwalked, wrote the headline and wished very fervently I looked like Diana Ross.  Just like the King of Pop, I got some complaints from the neighbors. 

Dude was working spring along with another job on his way to becoming an economist.  His future is-- wait for it....rosy.  A-thankyou, you've been great.

battle of the beauties

I'm going to lay it out there -- March in Minnesota does not inspire me to greatness.  These photos were taken about a week apart, the birch in Minnesota, the crabapple in Los Angeles.  As beautiful as that birch tree is, frosted and sparkling and pristine.... and the crab is in possibly the grittiest area of central Los Angeles, in the crotch of the 5 and the 110. Or was it the 101?...

Morticia at Malibu

 

So right off the bat in LA, I changed into running clothes in the charming restroom at the rental car place, drove my white Kia to La Tuna Canyon Road in Malibu, parked on the side of the Pacific Coast Highway, jumped out and started running up. When I got to the top, I think I saw the Smith/Pinkett residence, briefly, because I realized I was standing in the backyard of a less famous resident who was living in his Scamper and had a late model pickup truck with a gun rack. 

THEN

I drove to Malibu Beach.  Whence I came upon the Japanese version of Morticia darkly enjoying the SoCal scene.  She seemed pretty skeptical of daylight in general, and sand and water. This was as close to the water as she got. (This is where the sand got in the camera, the ex-camera. A scenic way to go).  This post is courtesy of my new camera, an Olympus Tough, recommended after my unflinching description of the abuse I visited on my last Hello Kitty -- RIP.

spring break

There has been a work stoppage due to sand.  I'm in LA at the Vagabond Inn Glendale, which is very similar in terms of minimalism to the photo above.  Despite my lux surroundings and la dolce vita up the wazzoo, I would dutifully be getting up in strangers' faces and producing images of the LA sensibility regular as a bowel movement  

BUT 

like all professional bloggers, I keep my Hello Kitty camera in my great big satchel along with some snacks, the key fob to my rented Kia that is the size and weight of a manual typewriter, practical shoes, lip balm, tissue that is not used but looks it, a map of all of California that I continue to consult when trying to find my way around LA and, since the first day when I drove straight out to Malibu Beach, about a pint of sand.  Surprisingly,  sand got in the little tiny retractable lens of the camera and it's now stuck in the Ouch position.  I pushed on it very hard, blew on it and considered flushing it with water -- nuthin.  I went to Abbott-Kinny, or maybe Abbott-Kinney (which sounds like rehab so that the locals will feel comfortable with it), and nearly wept over the number of Tom's-shod, snoodie-capped, flowing sheer mullet-shirted, skinny jean-snuggied hipster moments that passed by, unmolested by me.  I don't want to talk about it ... too soon.

I like stripes

And so does he.  We're, like, friends now. Probably.

and they mean it!

I like signs that don't mince words.  Isn't it a federal offense to remove someone's license plates? It seems like the problem has gotten really out of hand. Also, at first glance, I thought it said Unauthorized Barkers and I felt unjustly singled out. And a little proud.

They're models

Example A:  In which runway style does not translate to street style.  These two were tottering along through the slush and execrable sidewalks of the West Village at a pace of one wobble per half-stride so as not to muss themselves and nick up some pricey duds -- that street dirt never comes off, and I speak with great authority on that. Where the sedan chair was, I have no idea, but they were with their handler who was obviously not doing his job. 

Do you have any idea how long I tried to understand the disembodied hand that I thought was sewn, very cleverly and enigmatically, to the male-del's shoulder?  Raise your hand (especially if it is detachable like this one) if this is the strangest thing you've ever seen.  It's the new Addams family line, featuring guest appearances by Cousin It.

Yes, those are Frye boots, and thanks for asking!

But whatever you do, DO NOT stare at her glowing right eye. It's rude.  Under no circumstances should you become obsessed with said orb.  Unable to look....away...can't ... fix... Photoshop... toying... with... me... ghuuuu

Instead, look downward angels because all the good stuff is happening south of the scarf, starting with the asymmetrically toggled tweed Jac (?) jacket and moving briskly on to the trippy leggings that Helmut Lang hand-marbled (probably).  Linger there before saying to yourself (never say this out loud else you be taken for a crazy lady mutterer, especially bad if you are a dude),  There's going to be hell to pay for that slush damage.  But nevermind!  Sweet as those Frye boots are, she can probably score another pair because she works at the company, doing social media.  Say, do us a little solid here and Pin-ter-book-on this photo. And draw a pirate patch over that one eye, ok?

well trainered

Those  r  some custom Nike Air Max 1 iDs she's rocking, accessorized so so correctly with top shelf ultra glam fur, a size Xtra-Fun pompom (again) and a pimped out sense of irony.  I like.  I like so much I almost pulled an imposition muscle rushing up to her.  Carmen Miranda in the previous post and Her Swooshness are not only a mere post apart, the photos were taken within minutes of each other.  Start seeing poms!

Carmen Miranda of Meatpacking

Fruit is out of season -- pompoms are in!  The turban, all knitted and bulked up, with a pompom on top!  Turban meets stocking cap = love.  One would think I'd have seen this in Minnesota, but one would be wrong.

Correction: Yulia in the subway

The previous post was written late at night, which is to say 8:22 p.m. when most of the day shift had gone home. 

During the night, someone kicked me in the miniscule and little-used part of the brain responsible for facts and I sat up in bed and shouted, Yulia!  Surprising no one.  See, I don't remember any hard  J sound rattling her front teeth when I asked her name.  I'm sure she enunciated the lilting and mellifluous Yulia, and the Mankato filter in my brain changed it to the correct pronunciation -- Joooleeuh.  

While we're at corrections,  I did not blurt out anything about her delicate icy beauty.  Goodness, I'm a very good liar professional.  I think I said, "I like your tweed. Coat."

Everything else is true and accurate. Pretty much.

Julia in the subway

 At first, I guessed Julia was one of about a million tall, birch-like, exquisitely boned Russian models in NYC for Fashion Week.  Wrong.  She is a tall, birch-like, exquisitely boned Russian freelance stylist in NYC for Fashion Week.  Here's how ignorant and provincial I am: When she said she was staying for an extended period, I wondered, didn't she find NYC expensive?  Well no, she explained patiently and bilingually,  Moscow is actually more expensive than NYC.  Fresh off of a $10 Corona and a tablespoon of guac for dinner, my mind was blown for sure, and an image of Perkin's $3.99 Wake Up With Lard breakfast special served piping hot on a rocket launchpad sprang to mind.  But it faded because I was more in awe of Julia's tundra fairy perfection...

I'm pretty sure I've never seen such delicate coloring, such incredible bone structure, such porcelain skin in all my days of getting up in strangers' business.  I'm pretty sure I will get sent to the gulag Minnesota for saying that in print.

It also made me feel the tiniest bit less provincial that we headed in opposite directions... and moments later, crossed paths again, like Laurel and Hardy, having both gone the wrong way out of the subterranean world.

lacey!

Six kinds of lace and texture caused me to lurch forward and inflict myself on this woman who I think has an important role in the Apparel Design program at the U.  She may or may not be the Queen of the Department -- too many glasses of wine moons have passed since I took the photo to report with any sort of journalistic accuracy.  Be that as it may,  I can still say with absolute authority that j'adore the sexy blouse + Wolford tights + sharp alligator print shoes.  Isn't it just the truth that you appreciate in others what you could never on god's earth pull off yourself?

how to wear a statement necklace with a t-shirt

See? It's easy.  We were crushed up against some candy bins by the combined 4 million psi of effort fashionable people at Cynthia Rowley's House of CuRiousities and Free Sparkling Wine, so I got a real close look at the amazing candy-like chunks of turquoise strung on a Brooklyn-sized chain.  Then wearing this minerals-by-the-pound piece with an artsy t-shirt and prairie-style denim shirt? Well,  some things, like 8-foot-tall models in black light lipstick, are there for the purpose of photographing.  Just like the wine was there to be drunk.  You'd be remiss if you didn't click n drink.  But this woman's look was the sort of quiet treasure I hope to find hiding in plain sight at these events.  Also, we'd had so much bodily contact, I felt like I should either buy her dinner or take her photo.  It was great for me -- how was it for you?

this is Cynthia Rowley

 

I think Cynthia was talking to Cher.  Are designer store openings like the end of a football game where the team dumps a cooler of water on the triumphant coach?  Because Coach Rowley is ready to partayyy in her rubber ravewear -- let the fluids fly where they may. 

 In keeping with the stoned  Magical theme, the second floor of the shop is sure to get the saliva flowing -- it's a CuRious (see, the C and R are capitolized thus Cynthia Rowley -- you're welcome) candy store.  I was hoping for more naughty bits in jelly form, and I did eyeball some eyeball lollipops, but mostly just refined sugar and red dye #2 in its usual permutations.  Which makes me wonder about the business thinking behind this allocation of half of the very spendy retail space for products that have been banned from public schools and roundly (ha) vilified by doctors, dentists and Upper East Side moms.  Maybe Ms. Rowley senses a backlash by artificial color-denied children raised on organic freshly juiced wheatgrass and quinoa chaff for dessert.

Like bees to an open can of Mountain Dew,  Rowley's bash drew fashion's buzzmakers, people whose hair needs no introduction,  Lynn oh-you-doll Jaeger and bleached boy-banged Kate Lanphear.

oh, there were clothes too

 I was a little verklempt and awestruck by the whole haute-mosphere: Now let's go back and look at sternums clothes.  Loving the modern insert tab A into notch B blouse above and the fairy dust memory of a fall pants, but do not understand the gangsta chain. Were we talking about zoot suits? No, we were not.

 Again with the tiny bubbles or fairy dust or skin disease. I'm beginning to feel like I'm tripping traveling through a Magic Forest, noticing exquisite detail like xylem and phloem and iridescence of the kind normally associated with college.

 The tie-dyed and quilted coats and jewel colors -- I smell patchouli.

 

Shiny. I reach out to touch the amazing basketweave quilted leather but found the guy with the tray of champagne instead.  Pretty soon I had an out of store experience. 

Cynthia Rowley opens an Upper East Side shop

 And I had Obsessive Photo Disorder, as did the other 6,923 gawkers weirdly snapping photos through a French door. In the fashion biz, that's called Magical Realism. Or BS.  Luckily, I've been to Trader Joe's on a Saturday so you'll notice how adroitly I got to the front of this bunch of pantywaists.

 Look at the hair on the back of this guy's hand!  I'm kidding. Look for the dude with the tray of free champagne!

 They put some black-lite lipstick on this model and told her the Russian chick with the fake boobs got the Marc Jacobs contract.

 Heart.

 The creative director for Cynthia Rowley solved the French door problem by having the models mingle.  As much as I'm absolutely knocked back by this stunning woman's stare like a butterfly on a board, I'm also crazy for the girl scrunching by on the left in her technicolor leggings.  Interactive fashion at its best.

It's like you fell on your knees in a dream. Also what the holy f*** is going on in the background? Are someone's glasses being abused?