looks like the end of the road

Actually it's the Palisades up near Tettegouche on the north shore.  Pretty huh?  I was sweating in fear half-mile from the edge. 

As you may have noticed, this is not a street style post and announcements here of any kind have gotten few and far between.  This blog has been going since 2007 -- moment of silence please to honor the fallen grey cells that allowed me to start a street style blog without a camera .............. 

That's enough.  

Anyhoo, I've sort of run out of gas on the idea.  Not that I don't appreciate an eloquent style statement, because I do.  Not that I don't love getting up in strangers' businesses and horrifying people on a daily basis, because I do.  Not that I have anything better to do with my time, because I don't. It's sort of like an unemployed person retiring. It's a lot like that.

Just want to thank my 17 twisted followers for hanging out and apprise you that, while I may post a few things here or there (because I still have some valuable MNstyle business cards), it won't be anywhere near regular.  I can confidently recommend that gigantic bottle of merlot from Trader Joe's  or poking yourself with pins as alternate activities in my absence.  La la and onward.

long on leopard

She's been thinking about doing some modeling.

How I love a white bike with yellow tires! And only three spokes! And a dicey valve cover! And a guy with retro-ish print shirt and ankles all out there.  Shoes, not flipflops, thank you jesus.  Know what would have been better?  If I hadn't been sort of interrogating him about how he assembled this bike as one would a stereo system or a belief system while I took the picture. Because one of us jiggled her hands his head so it looks like Dean is being real nice and smiling and answering my questions at the same time.  Guess I nailed that.  He's a stylist ....huh.... he sure is.

fitted

This is Wynand Hansen — Christian singer, songwriter,  native South African,  fitted shirt wearer,  Buckle watch/shield rocker,  green shoelace threader,  heavenward hair comber, holy big tat fancier, clean plate club member, recently hitched guy and, apparently, patience practitioner.  The part that interested me most was that he was not a t-shirt khaki shorts flip flops schlubber, thus, a care what he wearer.  

We can all breathe a sigh of relief that I've wrung the last ounce of juice out of that stilted construct. I'm a doner.

party your hair

An absolute rave of stuff going on, all of which make my rods and cones jump around and bump into each other, but what I like #1 best of all is the color of her hair that I'm pretty sure was informed by the Jimi Hendrix ode to parenting in the 60s, Purple Haze.  So I made her turn to the side so we can see the many gradations of color. Yes that is henna on her hand and yes that is my valuable card in the other. 

I don't mean to be alarmist but virtually all of my brain cells have suddenly blinked out like a sad Christmas tree fail.  I think the medical term for this is death afternoon.

rocking the gate

It's rare when someone's uniform expresses any sort of personal style but in this case the full-body black and Mick Jagger 'do give a nice Jumpin Jack Flash impression.  As long as you squint your bloodshot eyes and overlook the Asia Security badge ("They're the best," she says, so hey Asia -- employee of the week?).  

It's not my practice to shoot people whose job makes them vulnerable to street style bloggers and other crazies, but as stated in my last post, my mission (from god) was to document those Block Partiers not wearing the festival uniform of Forever 21, jorts and sweaty feet inside cowboy-inspired boots.  See? Her uniform was not the uniform.  I try to shoot irony.  In the foot.

rebel in a white dress

Flowy white dress with touches of lace, check.  Whimsical wishbone pendant, check.  Little bit o cabin moccasins, done.  And with that, our rebel lands a roundhouse kick to both festivalwear and biking convention.  Showing true commitment to an overlooked color in the outdoor industry,  both her bike and helmet are also white.  I personally was a little disappointed in the black tires, but that's just me.  She and her biking bruh were about to get their fest on at the Basilica's nunsense Block Party, where I had gone to skulk around outside with the scalpers, trolling for people, men or women,  not in jorts and cowboy boots.  I would like this woman's style on a bike,  in a boat,  at a fest,  under arrest ... Sam I am... 'Kay but really,  given the soul-crushing conformity going on round about,  her rebel stance was really uplifting.  She often bikes fully kitted out as above, doesn't worry about mussing this one up because it's just Zara, and has a license to do this because she used to be a musician.  But now she's a real estate lawyer, which she said is a different kind of paycheck mental challenge.

I rudely did not ask the guy anything.

oh look, she has ethnic hair

See, because ethnic means colorful, right?  Or does it mean rayon? At the State Fair, ethnic food is Jewish, i.e. challah bread.  Oy.  Remember the goddess of stone fruit?  That is an allusion to a post several years back in which a woman was wearing harem pants, Hindi sweat pants, and holding a bag of descended testicles that looked like nectarines. If I remember correctly. I dredge up this bizarre story because, again, we find goddesses sporting the spoils of a trip to Costa Rica or Target.  Maharubycrown on the right,  colored her own hair in a semi-permanent state of hotness that is so Run Lola Run... Oh there I go with an ancient reference again. That's the way I roll and these two rule.

someone not wearing fringed chaps at Brookside

Luckily the old orbs were still sending signals to the brain when she and her people seated themselves because I discerned immediately a difference from the locals that keep Brookside Bar & Grill's portapotty economy humming along.  For one thing, she did not jingle when she walked.  It was nuances, my friends.  I know what you're going to say -- Aren't those beads representing the molecular structure of MSP from Harley Davidson's spring 2011 collection?  Oh my gosh, don't embarrass yourself.  No.

She was so darn chic, I felt compelled to get up in her business.  Come to find out, she raised her children in Marine and then moved to Minneapolis where people are less likely to make hemp washcloths and have DIY plumbing.  Having just spent a happy 4th of July on the St. Croix rescuing intoxicated kayakers, she and her people popped into Marine for old time's sake and a bit of commemorative artery busting ala Brookside.  I think, I know, what did it for me was the shirtdress, gathered at the bottom and worn as a shirt not a dress, but the whole scenario here -- a full day with family, in which firearms were not (yet) deployed, sun, wind, water,  acts of bravery -- and her hair looks fab, accessories are still accessorizing, sassy bikini is worn on the inside instead of the outside,  white clothing without ketchup or bird poo on it, a long sleek sophisticated silhouette that speaks more of Mykonos than Marine ...  How does this happen?  Just another glad mystery I contemplate as I scrape the bird poo off the back of my jorts.

Aveda looks good

These two Aveda employees are walking billboards, in the best possible way.  Pretty A'ing chic, no?

U-S-A U-S-A

The shirt, he go boom.  The shorts, he go boom boom. But the licorice whip laces, he go a-boom boom boom.  This was after the US scored the second goal and before we got carried away and let whoever tie it up in the last 9 seconds, so everyone was like, It's so great we don't bite (ha) at a sport we didn't invent, thus I think I'll get wasted.  Well not everyone.  Some of us were keeping it classy. I was given to understand that the shorts have found employment beyond just World Cup Soccer and job interviews, so it's not like he wasted that $459.  I always say, if you're gonna gird yer loins in stars 'n stripes, keep the accessories manimal.

who invented stripes?

She's working the door (no, that's her job), working the stripes, working the mane, working the read-my-lipstick, working the snug ankle booties, and come to find out, working her mom's closet.  You heard me. She's home from college for the summer and borrowed this whole shebang -- hair, stripes, everything -- from her mom.  Which makes me say, Right on mom. Also, right on daughter, for getting a job.  And somehow looking super Danish.  Which I associate with healthy living and good design.

Pay no attention to that reflection. It looks so German.

I like my math + econ majors with a side of style

You wouldn't know it from this photo but her head had recently exploded due to a math final, and it was causing her to wonder about, nay dread, the next 27 years of graduate study in her chosen double major of math + economics.  Questioning is healthy, and we can see that she has not given up on life -- hopelessness is not occasioned by tasteful accessories, I can tell you that.  

I try to be helpful when I run onto young people from Hong Kong, far from home and in a fragile condition, so I validated her feelings and said, yes, her chosen career path sounded like a living hell but it was not too late to change majors.  I think Robert Downey Jr. said it best -- if you can't be a good example, you'll just have to be a horrible warning.  Or maybe that was Prince. I was wearing a helmet at the time.

mother-of-the-bride and other diseases

I searched "mother of the bride dress" and this came up, which -- ridiculous --  what do you do with the axe at the reception? 

So I narrowed the search to "52 yards of light-grabbing polyester faille in a color called Migraine that will stand, walk and talk on its own after I'm incapacitated by a couple cocktails,  cover yet manage to accentuate every piece of cheesecake I've ever eaten, with some sparkle because this is an effin formal occasion, and for god's sake put a frame around my ample bosom assets"

Nailed it.

Boy,  I'm picky though.  I want something that really says Special Occasion,  like the first night you spent in jail.  So back to the Dollar Store drawing board.  I'mma make an inspiration board of stuff I like. You can chime in too, but don't be offended if I blow off your "suggestions."  If it doesn't involve chicken cutlets*,  forget it.

*This term was introduced to me by daughter #1.  It's the industry name for raw chicken-colored sticky nipple covers for use under sheer clothing that negate the purpose of sheer clothing.  Despite the silliness, or because of it, I'm in love with chicken cutlets.

On with the horror the horror inspiration...

Alright, this has been helpful but let's dig deeper, really let loose... It's a process, people, sheesh.

new face of Target?

Meet Jasmim, a multicultural model with Vision who just did a photo shoot for Target.  She's just black enough, white enough, maybe hispanic, pretty enough, tall and thin enough to make everyone and their uncle say, Heck yeah, gonna get some Merona into my life. 

But hear me oh judgers who think her life is a whole lot easier because of genetically gifted femurs:  Fat people, short people, people with moles, dumb people, those with noses like tubers and a smile like the state of Oklahoma -- THEY ALL HAVE IT JUST AS HARD AS SHE DOES.  She spent whole decades of her life not caring about her size 0 hips and her perfect teeth, but rather fixated on her 1000-watt hair. And not liking it. She's looked like this since she was 16.  She's 31, and just turned pretty.  Liking yourself is a long hard road, as anyone who has caught their reflection in a window and thought, Damn I didn't know Barry Manilow was in town*, can attest, but that's what makes Jas and you me so much more than a pretty face.

*Strictly an example pulled out of thin air that has not happened to me.

green

We interrupt this intensely green experience with a matched set of chestnut hair and briefcase, both pretty intense in their own right. We were receiving some sort of electrical charge from the glowing grass Sims set we found ourselves in, reachable only by bike. It was mildly pleasant.  Her honey of an ombre job is in fact hair what's left of a whole head of blond, making it officially The Best Growout In The World. She scored the tenured leather bag at a garage sale. Verdant jodhpurs led me to ask if she did any riding, which she does -- and she pointed to her bike.  While she has a going career ahead of her as a sassyperson for Ireland,  she's nonetheless putting in the final minutes of high school at the Performing Arts High School where she is a jazz pianist and vocalist.

white

Man, she is going to mess me up.  
But before I get out of her business,  I want to call on all runners to take a trip back to 2000 or so -- those split shortie shorts?  These are the longer version, which I love because they're chic rather than appalling, rendered by Zara in Dairy Queen vanilla.  I think we were standing directly under one of those holes in the ozone. Judging from her expression,  I'd say the harsh light was not doing my eye bags any favors. Which is one of the horrors environmental scientists  have not even begun to talk about. 

jeez, I ran into this nutritionist from Winnipeg on the subway

 

Oh wait...

 

Anyway, she softened the whole nutritionist thing (yah, probly) by hyphenating with -model,  so I was like all cool and didn't bring up saturated fats at all.  Her pants are waxed, her sandals chained and her bag fringed. Which reminded me to get knicker-ready for my appointment with the beach next day early.

stalking in the rain

This satisfies my one requirement when I go to NYC, which is to walk fast behind someone and take a jiggly unauthorized photo whilst dealing with a fistful of questionable halal food, a steamer trunk/handbag that may or may not hold another outfit like in first grade in case there should be an incident, a king-size subway map and platforms + cobblestones with a high likelihood of leg-snapping injury. It's what's known as stupid a New York moment.

What clinched it for me was the chrysanthemum-inspired black lace overskirt.  Also the super shot of her achilles tendon. And the fact that I was on my own for a few minutes in this otherwise highly scheduled trip.  I find, others do not like to be around me in this mode.  Street stalking is best enjoyed alone.  Like teriyaki flavored beef jerky.

someone from Naperville, IL bought a shiny jacket

Six kinds of shine going on here which I tried to ameliorate via vigorous Photoshop, but alas.  Nevermind.  Here we are, with 97 million other people, waiting for the 2 or the 3 or a great big NYC rat, and this woman's beauty shone through. After revealing that I was from Minnesota by way of Northbrook, IL,  she was horrified opened up and said she was actually not a super cool New Yorker from birth but rather a super cool person from Naperville, IL where she bought this shiny coat because no one else from Illinois ever would. And I can confirm this. No one from Illinois would buy this satin shiny coat with stealth hidden snaps. Too slick. Too overt. People from Illinois buy tweed and khaki and Land's End raincoats in colors like Valium or Dank. Oh boy, I like a generalization.

In my defense, I tried like the dickens to show you that her shiny shoes are in fact shiny wingtips that were originally like $1,300 but she found at a sample sale for...

and then we were interrupted by some hideous tourist asking for directions, oh my gosh. As if. And I never found out what a super deal she got on these wonderful shoes.

She works at Ralph Lauren sketching children's clothes, so probably Ralph Lauren will slap some cash on me for tagging them here. Ralph Lauren. She did not blond herself -- someone else did.  Which is why she looks freakin boss.

Below is the picture I did not take of the perfectly attired hipster I sat next to on the flight to NYC...

He was a French/Philosophy major from Reed College who subsequently spent 8 months in Lyon perfecting his French/upper lip hair and was on his way to a PhDaddy's postdoc in Brooklyn living with friends in Bed-Stuy and working in the Village as a barista.  Who am I to judge, right?  Chairman of the bar, is all.  But he was sweet and delightful and I made him pronounce Lanvin and Canne over and over and over. The key to French pronunciation I discovered is to speak quickly and without emotion or moving your lips, only your glottis.  He was wearing some awesome black jeans that I took to be waxed but found out they were in fact dirty, by Portuguese company, Loreak Mendian.  When you say this with correct pronunciation it sounds like you may not choke to death on your hair ball. Here is a photo I did not take of their glottis clothes...

discrimination

how to wear a Trader Joe's shopping cart

I can pretty much pinpoint when this photo was taken:  After my opening excuse -- that I have a street style blog -- and after she replied, "No way!"  but before I realized her response might have been real honest-to-effin-gosh disbelief that someone sporting a snot spangled down jacket, running tights/gray body paint that end awkwardly midst knee and cankle and a Division III Cross Country hat for the sole purpose of covering up a forehead pimple could utter the words street style blog without being smote for blasphemy.
Be that as it may....
I think you can tell that dairy red is the overarching theme here.  And I was naming all the red things, as if this was a surprise to her (damn why didn't someone tell me I have poppin lipstick on) when suddenly I spied the lavender fingernails which caused smoke to billow from my ears hat. See so much more of that (fingernails) below.  I may have referred to the rolled jeans/white pumps combo as Rockabilly.  Give me a solid, people... was I right?  Let me rephrase -- was that the correct style category? 
I discovered she is the an editor of Minnesota Bride... No, no, of course I did NOT try to interest her right then and there in my own upcoming involvement in the military-nuptial complex. My gosh, how brilliant unprofessional.  I am not even trying to suck up by saying she could be a hand model.

a couple unauthorized photos

 Of the web of life in the 70s....

and an orange waxed jacket with graphic design pants.  I don't know how Bill Cunningham does it. I guess New Yorkers are more accustomed to seeing someone, possibly a private investigator, kind of clandestinely taking their picture.  I always want to assure subjects I don't have a criminal record, and I'm simply going to disseminate this photo of them wearing orange (aha!) all over the internets.  I wonder if Bill Cunningham has ever been roughed up, and his camera stomped on?  Because that has not happened to me.

more happy natives wearing flowers

I'm going to admit, some of these I shot.  This was the smoothest segue I've yet had to share my very favorite fashion photography in the whole world -- the mofos of the Omo River, described by German photographer Hans Silvester.  Silvester spent six years in the area documenting what he said was completely unstaged but astoundingly complex body decoration, a tradition he said developed when his stylist paid the natural canvases in guns and alcohol because the locals had no mirrors so could only tell if the bird nest was on their head straight by the approval or mockery of their peers.

Unfortch,  the people of the iPhone could not simply enjoy the enchanting result of Silvester + a boatload of ochre, regardless of how it came about.  No.

Anthropologists are crying. 

Range Rovers full of tourists descended on the remote area of Ethiopia waving money and video cameras, and the centuries-old tradition of enacting minutes-old colorful primitive rituals for money has been documented exhaustively.  The very beautiful bending boughs of nature immediately exchanged the strange bits of paper and shiny metal for guns and alcohol.

Now I'm a little worried about the innocent natives whose image I captured, waving my camera and a piece of paper.  They are gonna be so PO'd when they discover my business card cannot even buy them a Grain Belt.

natives in ethnic dress

Here are some friendly natives sporting the everyday dress of the land that they've pimped a little bit -- blue shoelaces and jacquard jacket, or jacketard, which is not to be confused with...anyway... -- identifying them as of the Banana Republic.  
I'm pretty sure the galleries of outback Laos even now have an exhibit of khakis, plaid button-downs and Italian made shoes with leather soles and coordinating women's look defined by a big shiny neck stretcher.  The exhibit gets huge authenticity points by displaying the costumes on the strange white people, and staging a ritual performance three times a day in which they demand bottled water and 400 thread count sheets in a loud voice.

how to wear a Chanel jacket

Boom.

dapper guy starts seeing flowers, and is a little freaked out

This 6'3" man was really really overwhelmed by the power of floral arranging.  He was definitely not touching them.  The insouciant coordination of hat band, hoodie and big boy pants is beyond charming.

spotted at Target

Photo op in aisle 27.  This, my friends, is wardrobe coordination on a professional level.  Precise, pragmatic, comprehensive and not without a sense of humor, this impeccable ensemble still commands respect after a full day on the job, shaping young minds.  That's right, she's a pharmacist teacher.  She's used to dealing quickly and calmly with people who run up to her with sticky hands and wet pants. And I, for one, appreciate it!

As much as her sartorial fluency made my day,  the fact that she is sharing the endless joys of color, texture and proportion with other impressionable people, well, I just get a little teary, that's all.  Raise your hand if you agree.

Best antler buds and Doc Martens and poppin socks of 2014!

Oh man, I'm out on a limb here, but naysayers -- and there will be -- sit down.  When I see little bleached buds beginning to form on the upper corners of the noggin and footwear gloriously free of salt stains and laces (every time I look at the word laces, I see feces which is absolutely not indicative of a problem because these kicks are feces-free too), all friendly and rounded and six kinds of Marlon Perkins about the toes with snug side panels of swingin London elastic, well,  I just go ahead and lay my cards on the table.  A two, a three and a four.  That's something, right?  
See how the blue ankle adornment keeps it from looking like she has legs that end in soup spoons?  Brilliant!
I'm stunned, stunned I tell you,  by the difference the smooth unbroken landscape of leather makes!  I get an itchy rash when I see the the usual Doc design, inspired by a stitched wound.  Brings to mind the 90s when I was doing acrylic on an industrial scale and Mr. Yuk hair.  Boy, glad that's in the past, right?  Right?  She said she got these boots yesterday these boots made it all the way through the winter, as if winter was also in the past. Ha. Ha. 
Anyhoo,  I like them so much I was thinking... She's small.  I could def take her,  push her over, wrestle the boots from the socks, leave the socks as a gesture of goodwill and make off like ... like Newman with a mullet.  But her boy friend was stage right and I would have had to embarrass him too with my mad boot-removal skills. And that's wrong.

multimedia presentation

Boy, are you ever lucky I was out and about before the monsoon, because I ran into artist Anna Miller who wears sock art and leather representational earrings and and a really beautifully layered bob that she got just recently at Moxie, in St. Paul.  But here's the best part -- being an artist, she sketches her outfits and a tri-panel graphic diary on her blog:  sketchyattire.blogspot.com.  See?  A pencil rendering of this very same incident.  And she pencil-shopped my eyebags!  I like art.