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.