Fashion: Is there any hope for me?

Here's some more Hadley Freeman for you, this time addressing the age-old question of heels: why, how, why, what, why, why, and–the big question–why? Enjoy.

Yes, We Can!

Here are some shots taken with my cellphone at Rockefeller Center on the historic eve of November 4, 2008. Barely minutes (which I guess would make it seconds) after I took these shots, the little blue Obama-meter started a slow, slow climb (they were really dragging it out) and hit 270 Electoral votes. It paused. People were excited. Then, slowly, slowly (very theatrical, milking the drama, they were) it resumed its ascendancy, and everyone knew that Barack Obama had won the Presidency. And then people were very, very excited.
It's nice to be a part of something like that, every once in a while. Or every lifetime or so.
There were also many tourists there, particularly from the northern-most reaches of Europe, observing the Americans and their election. And a Japanese t.v. crew. Hey, everyone was excited.
The flags were set up around the famous Rockefeller ice rink, which had a map of the country projected (or drawn, not sure) on it with the states turning blue or red as votes were counted.

Bugspotting

A few summers ago, in my old apartment, a dragonfly very similar to this one flew in through the kitchen window. It was large, about 3 to 4 inches long. My cat caught it. I finally managed to get it back out the window, worse for wear, I'm afraid, and I did not feel very confident of its chances for survival.

If I had known about http://www.odonatacentral.org, I would have looked it up and figured out what exactly was frantically flying around my kitchen. To this day, I feel bad about the poor thing.

There are quite a few bug i.d. sites. One of my favourites is http://www.whatsthatbug.com. Take a look at their Bug Love and Unnecessary Carnage pages. The people who run this site are very anti-bug killing, and so I am. Catch and release if you must, but insect murder is only excusable in cases of imminent death - for you, not the bug. And those cases are pretty rare, even in the tropics and places like Australia, where I grew up, and where the bugs are too large to kill with requiring a major clean-up operation afterwards, so why bother. Keep a glass jar on hand for catch and release purposes. Works a charm, it does.

Here's another good site: http://bugguide.net. With all these wonderful insect resources on the interwebs, there's no need to rush madly about with a tennis racket like Woody Allen in "Annie Hall". Bugs are charming and fascinating. Just look at this moth from Mexico: isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in your entire, complete life?

"Why don't boys wear dresses?"

Below is a link to "Ask Hadley," Hadley Freeman's feature in the Guardian UK. Freeman is the only fashion journalist I know of who employs an actual sense of humour when writing about la mode. She's not afraid to take the piss when piss needs–demands!–to be taken, and, with fashion, that's most of the time.

The first bit is about Keira Knightley's odd photo look. Read, but continue on to the real gem, question 2: "Why don't boys wear dresses?" Not only is Freeman's answer spot-on, but this is how all answers should be given to three-and-three-quarter-aged questioners.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/aug/25/fashion.women

(The photo, by the way, is from a fashion spoof site: The Dorcus Line.)

Yes, It Is A Recession

How to Fabulize Your Wardrobe

I was in a café with some friends recently when the French Waitress, employing her Charming French Accent to good affect, approached a member of our group.
“Excuse me,” she said. “But may I ask you a very intimate question?”
“Uh, yes,” responded my surprised friend.
Conversation ceased immediately. We were all all ears.
“Who is your shirt?” asked the serveuse.
My friend gave the name of a designer. The other members of our table, disappointed, resumed talking.
“At least you didn’t have to say Forever 21,” I quipped.
“Or H&M, like the rest of my wardrobe,” she replied.
This little episode set a thought process going in my brain. Why not Forever 21*, but with a twist?

Toujours Ving-et-un

Per Sempre Vent-uno

Immer Einundzwanzig

Sounds...mysterious. Foreign. Stylish. I should write ad copy for a living.
Really what I’m doing is borrowing a technique from the cosmetics industry, where making up vaguely French-sounding names and throwing in a few redundant accents for good measure has long been industry practice. Consider: Hydrience, Prevage, Curél, Pharmagel’s Eye Beauté (yes, beauté is a French word but why not “beauty”?).

Target has long been mocked as Targé, but other options are: Die Zie, La Cible or L’Objectif. I particularly like L’Objectif. It sounds so Central Intelligence Agency.

Consider: La Vielle Marine; Die Lücke; Nove Ovest.** If you’re wearing H&M, be sure to say Hennes and Mauritz–most people won’t figure that out. Or go one better and Swedish it up with Hennes och Mauritz. Uniqlo is already hipster-fabulous. To out-hipster the hipsters means learning a little Japanese pronunciation: Kabushiki-gaisha yunikuro. Better yet: 株式会社ユニクロ.

*Their despicable labour practices is why not, but that’s for another post
** I make no claims as to the legitimacy of these translations¬–but then, neither do many retailers with theirs.

This is a fantastic short film about tailor and business owner Martin Greenfield of GGG Clothiers, which I found on http://racked.com
The beauty of independently-owned businesses and the artform of making custom suits.


Martin the Tailor from Ed David on Vimeo.

Ventilation: A new feature where I vent

Operatic elephant, monkey, & walrus

An Open Letter to PBS

Dear PBS:

We’ve all survived yet another PBS fundraiser. And yet again, by some unfathomable logic, you’ve replaced your regular programming. The shows that I regularly watch were M.I.A. Instead, there were televised abominations. I’d rather have my eyelids glued open while being forced to watch back-to-back “Everybody Loves Raymond” re-runs than suffer through your fundraising fare.

I do not want to see:

1. Irish dancers in any configuration
2. André Rieu in any configuration
3. Peter, Paul, and Mary in concert
4. Any musical act from the 60s reunited in concert
5. Sarah Brightman
6. The Three Tenors
7. Anyone lecturing in an extremely earnest manner about staying young & living longer & with more money & feeling better & being happy because we "deserve" to.

No one should ever have to see or hear (especially hear) Sarah Brightman. PBS, if you show Sarah Brightman again, I am going to report you the U.N. Human Rights Commission.

I will not send you money when you continue to replace Nature on Sunday evenings. If you want money from me, show Nature at 8 p.m, regular programming. Or show more Nature. I want elephants, monkeys, and walruses, not their operatic equivalents.

When PBS fundraises, they target Boomers. This is the only possible explanation for the re-re-re-re-re-re-repeats of shows featuring Pete Seeger, Petula Clark, Jimi Hendrix, Roy Orbison, and “My Music: My Generation–The 60s.” I think Jimi Hendrix was a genius. I like Roy Orbison. But no one who watches PBS needs to see these tired old programs again. Especially Boomers, who already spend too much time wallowing in nostalgia and trying desperately to maintain a semblance of their long-vanished youth.

PBS, you are alienating an entire generation–mine–which will one day, when the Boomers run out of money after they’ve spent all theirs on plastic surgery, Botox, and gas for their SUVs, be your fundraising target. Think about this.

But perhaps I am not giving PBS enough credit. Perhaps they are employing a level of reverse psychology too sophisticated for me to grasp: they want to annoy me. They’re hoping I’ll become so annoyed that I’ll pay them to make The Three Tenors go away.

Okay, PBS, you win. How much will it cost to ensure that you never, ever show The Three Tenors again? Ever?

Name your price. I hope you take credit cards. And I still want the free tote bag.

Bad Woman

This here is a skull that's part of the collection of a certain Ivy League university in New York City (not naming names, of course). Rest assured, this is a real skull and not a cast. The words "Bad Woman" are written across the top (along with, unfortunately, now-unreadable text). Who was this woman? Who knows. Maybe she was a thief, a prostitute, mentally ill, diseased, or just poor. Or intelligent. Or stubborn. Or all of the above. For whatever reason, her skull was deemed worthy of preservation and thusly labeled.

Keep in mind that the aforenotmentioned University only became co-ed in 1983, so she probably gained "admittance" before the rest of us. (I don't know when she joined their collection).

Examples such as this make me glad that, as misogynistic as the world still is, I'm alive now and no one will write "Bad Woman" on my skull once I've passed away. Unless I say so, dammit.

If being intelligent and stubborn equals a Bad Woman, then the writing's already there.

*Many thanks to Amanda for taking this shot for me*

Monkey Magic!

Miss Love

Miss Love died early in her 92nd year.
Scientific inference: Love + no marriage = long life.
(Miss Love is interred in Edgartown, MA.)

A Double-Header

Thanks to my brother Marc for taking this shot.

orKids

Hospital Romance

Newspaper writing from 1911. Why I love archives. Click to enlarge. Worth reading.

Boo!

These are photos taken of some "roches gravées" (petroglyphs) on Basse Terre, Guadeloupe. These rock carvings were made by Arawak Indians, an indigenous tribe that occupied the islands around 300-400 C.E., and which has disappeared (apart from DNA, perhaps). To find this particular location, my traveling buddies and I drove in circles for half an hour, walked down a dirt road, climbed over a fallen chain link fence, hiked down a steep and twisting rock-strewn path before we reached the river with the rocks. Well worth it.

A Short Introduction to Doof

Allow me to introduce Doof. Doof is a word, a concept, and a fact of life. The more observant readers will notice that Doof is “food” spelled backwards. And that is exactly what Doof is–food in reverse. Non-food. Anti-food, the dietary equivalent of anti-matter.
How can we recognize Doof? Here are some guidelines and questions to ask oneself before committing any Doof to one’s digestive tract:
1. Colour. Found in nature or a test-tube? Note that the pictured Peep is flourescent pink. Similar to flamingos and perhaps parrots. I don’t eat parrots. Or flamingos. Do you? Do you eat parrots? Why?
2. Ingredients. How many are there? More than 10 and it’s well on its way to Doof-ness. Do you even recognize them? Can you pronounce them without moving your lips? Any of them? One? If the answer is yes, are you a chemist?
3. Style vs substance. Nature does not give us “perfect” shapes (see: Oreo cookies, fish crackers), or “perfect” colour (see: maraschino cherries, margarine). Do the decorative assets triumph over nutritional value in the food product you are about to devour?
4. Purpose. Do you really need to eat this? Honestly? Is it from a prison vending machine, and the only option? Are there vending machines in prison?
5. Packaging. The ratio of packaging to food is often an indicator of Doof-ness. Peep packaging is overkill for a product which could be thrown in a bag. But then it wouldn’t look as nice.

Doof. Remember: just because it’s edible doesn’t mean it’s food.

Da Head

I have nothing to add.
(except that this shot was taken by my mahvelous friend Beth).