This list is interchangeable, really! And could easily have been a Top 25. Selections from these shows can be seen in the 'Spring 09 Wish List' category in the right sidebar
Francoise Hardy's Voila:
Francoise Hardy's Mon amie la rose, 1965: Carla Bruni's Tout le monde, from Quelqu'un m'a dit: Love 1920s Paris? For you, Vanessa Paradis' 'L'Incendie: Julie Delphy's Waltz for a Night from Before Sunset:
Earlier I posted some ideas for men's gifts, as they are typically a nightmare to shop for and the holidays are barrelling toward us (I just realised it's mid-November already, and I'm not sure how that happened).
So, uh, how about this Scottish bar stool for guys who wear kilts? Or like to sit around naked?
I said I'd provide suggestions. I didn't say they'd be good ones.
Via Like Cool
Cathryn Horan of The New York Times posted this rare gem of a photo on her blog. Does that coy grin look familiar? How about the knowing pose? The inherent confidence? No? Imagine the hand is gloved in cut-out leather, the collar is stiffer and higher and the hair is white and tied back. You got it, this tiny fashion genius in the making is Karl Lagerfeld - IN LEDERHOSEN! You know, I did wonder whether this 'costume' is something only seen at Oktoberfest, and whether Germans actually really wear it (like Mounties in Canada - they don't work in that getup, you know!). Turns out, they do! Or, at least they did.
I am dying over the fact that he's wearing a white dress shirt and tie under the braces of the lederhosen. As a baby he probably scribbled a collar and tie on his onesies and requested Diet Coke in his bottle.
Via Catwalk Queen
I prefer treats over tricks, so here's a cat rocking some serious costume clobber at a Halloween pet fashion show in Japan last year, with attitude to match.
But tricks can be fun, too. There's a show here in the UK called Trick or Treat where people (who must be nuts) sign up and at some random point down the road they are chosen to begin their 'trick' or their 'treat.' The show is all about Derren Brown who is "a psychological illusionist with an audacious confidence and rare intuition that enable him to predict, suggest and control human behaviour." He is awesome.
There is one episode I may never forget - he had a young woman believing she had died. It'll give you chills. Here it is:
The difference between London and Newcastle can be summed up like this: You would never see a Geordie bloke wearing a full-length, faux fur coat. In fact, you rarely see a Geordie bloke wearing a coat at all. A London lad, however, just might have a big fuzzy stashed in his wardrobe, ready to fetch on a whim and model along with a fedora, old-school video camera and maybe even a petrified piranha watching from atop a shelf in front of a lighted map-of-the-world mural. The point is, you never know what you might encounter in the city with the whitest mayor the world has ever seen.
Pimm's and Sympathy
As you may have guessed, I just returned from London, a whirlwind trip that lasted only 29 hours and was all about the girls enjoying what one of the world's greatest cities has to offer. I met up with the lovely Bridget of Trends Inc who was in town for the week, on her way to Rome (lucky her), and we tried in vain to find our favourite Danish fashion shop, Noa Noa, at Sloane Square. (It's gone, and it was just a section at Peter Jones anyway, little did we know. My bad). So we consoled ourselves with some tasty tapas at Las Iguanas. And oh yes, there were a few Pimm's cocktails involved in our easement as well. Bridget unfortunately had to take off just as my old childhood friend Julie, who moved to London from Canada this summer, came to meet us. It was time to do it all over. Another tapas platter and Pimm's, please. I regret nothing.
Comtemplating The Later Years
Next was Tate Modern for the Rothko Exhibition. Rothko's pictures are a very personal thing for me, as they are for anyone who fully appreciates and understands his work, but this particular show was especially intimate - the revealing 'pictures' were from the last years of Rothko's life, before he killed himself. The massive canvasses and mounted papers spread over several rooms created a palpable feeling of despair or malicious fury, depending what room you were in (the latter was felt in the room with the Seagream's murals, there are a two particular murals I cannot look at for this reason). His Black on Grey series was his final series, and a telling one. Despite the black, heavy cloud looming, there's a certain comfort, a calm, that resonates from those soft-edged rectangles. For me, I think it's the purity of his expression, those pictures reveal how utterly consumed he was with what must have been unbearable despair and sometimes, it seems, explosive anger. I find great comfort in that sharing of our humanness, pure and raw. What is more exhilarating than that? ...Oh, and I loved how they made us exit through a particular door which dumped us out into the makeshift Rothko giftshop. You know how I feel about that!
Thug Wife
On the walk back from Tate Modern we passed some beautifully lit trees along the Thames, and a graffitied skateboard area where there was a group of very young and very loud teen girls, I'm guessing from Croydon as the accent is quite distinct, taking pictures of themselves. Speaking of graffiti and Croydon, I thought of Goldie Locks and tried to do an attitude shot, and wound up looking like a one-legged Silent Bob:
Tea and Liberty
Back
at Julie's flat in Putney, a light and spacious place with a nice,
homey feel that is due to her sweet personal touches, we crossed paths
with her advertising copywriter neighbour, the one with the fantastic
coat collection (first, above). I think he was a bit shy about being
identified so we'll just call him 'Vance'. Or Niles Crane. We (or
rather, I) pretty much badgered him into showing us a jacket he bought
from Liberty, and that's how the fashion show began. He acted shy but
he wanted to share. It's not possible to keep a treasure from Liberty
to yourself and he certainly succumbed. Hell, he mentioned it in the
first place. Speaking of Liberty, we found our way there yesterday after Julie's excellent orientation skills
lead us to Noa Noa, hidden to the unacquainted, at St. Christopher's
Place, where I picked up two mesh underskirts in slate blue and palepink, brilliant for wearing under dresses that might do with a little enhancement or a big of extra length.
As for Liberty, time was limited as I had to get on the road back to
Newcastle soon, but we had time for a quick browse of a tiny fraction
of the jawdropping goods on display in the massive Tudor Revival
building, before stopping in the tea shop for a proper girls afternoon
tea - with scones, of course. The champagne high tea would have been a
fantastic treat, but that's for another day when time is of no
consequence. And neither is money. I look forward to that day. When it's coming?
The Sick Train (Read this only if you find toilet humour funny, and aren't eating)
Once arriving back in Newcastle, I got on the metro to go home. A Saturday night on the train is always interesting,
and this was no different. Having only eaten a banana since our tea, I
grabbed a cheeseburger and fries from a burger chain I dare not
mention, and one that I had to be desperate to patronise (nothing else
was open and I wasn't lugging my bags anywhere at that point). I
stuffed the "food" into my bag and my train arrived within minutes. I
noticed people were bypassing one of the entrances and stupid me
thinks, "oh, I'll go through there, it's not crowded", only to step on and see
a MASSIVE pile of puke to my right (ALL piles of puke around here are
massive. It's true. I've seen far too many). I sit as far away as
possible with my back to the revolting spectacle and exchange grimaces
with the two already sitting in the area. The woman said "This is what I get for going through South Shields."
Ouch. I haven't been to South Shields and this doesn't encourage me to
visit. After the two get off the train, I'm alone, reading my Grazia.
There's no one around me, and I forget what's behind me (it didn't
smell, at least where I was sitting). So I take out the cheeseburger and dig in. A few stops later a guy gets on, sees "it", does the "AUGH!", stops short, and sits near me.
I'm suddenly aware that I'm eating a greasy cheeseburger on public
transportation in the vicinity of a giant puddle of sick. I slowly
lower my hand beside my bag to hide it and chew the remaining bits in
my mouth discreetly. I was thoroughly ashamed, and still am.
But that's not it. Three kids get on, two girls and a boy who
could not have been older than 14 years old, and one of the girls was
green. She's looking at the floor as if in a hazy, agonised state. She
moves forward awkwardly and walks to where a boy is sitting several feet away,
passing the offending sight which must have seemed a late foreshadowing
of what was to come, sat down and let fly all over that poor kid (who
I'm assuming she knew. Either way, this was not his night.) Despite my
maternal instincts niggling at me to lecture the three of them about
under-age drinking (I still would never), I felt sorry for the other girl who seemed sober
and instead of laughing, or leaving, was truly sympathetic to her
friend. So I gave her the only tissues I had in my bag - a package of
bright, fairy-printed tissues that my mother-in-law gave my daughter.
She went over to help the girl clean up (good luck), and when I got up to exit the
train at my stop, I saw the new addition: Another massive pile of puke,
this one decorated with fairies and daisies.
How I would have loved see the reactions to that. If I wasn't already about to launch myself.
The last time I took the metro home after arriving back from London,
there was a drunk kid of about 18, walking up and down the carriage
singing Show Me the Way to Amarillo at the top of his lungs, and quite well, actually, while carrying around a very long broomstick.
Aw, it's good to be home.
Look at him. That 'do, those highlights, that leather, pocketed vest, that smirk. You can't help but laugh at the laboured spectacle that is 'Bruno'. Sacha Baron Cohen's fashion-loving alter-ego made another appearance at fashion week, this time in Paris. (Okay, it was over a week ago but I just read last week's Grazia and found out!)
After causing a raucous on the Milan catwalk a couple weeks ago, Bruno took an assumingly reserved seat just behind the front row at the Stella McCartney show, and mostly behaved himself (well, he didn't storm the runway, anyway).
According to Grazia magazine, while wearing a red thong pulled above his leather trousers, he (oh geez) sucked on a tampon and pushed through the front row for a better look. (I have no idea what significance that act was supposed to have.) Far from watching quietly, he clapped along to the music and gave a solo standing ovation. He was also observed showing "wild approval for some looks, disdain for others". When Stella McCartney came out for her bow, he moved his hand to indicate he deemed the show okay, but not great. Hee hee!
So, the question is, did Stella McCartney invite him? It would seem so - when she was asked about the prankster's presence she exclaimed "Bruno? I had no idea!" And then she laughed. Obviously he was invited, you don't want Stella's daddy mad at you.
Has it just been that long since I've seen this - I have absolutely no recollection of those real-life diner scenes in the middle. Um, yes, it has been that long. I was rocking huge hair when this came out. Don't laugh! It was 1985. I didn't know any better.
Via current.com
Are you tired of your dog's eyes falling out from years of collecting debris on his daily walks? Can't help but notice how he squints from the bright midday sun as he's dragging dead pigeons and discarded KFC snack-pack remains (same thing) out of the brush? Good news! He doesn't have to suffer anymore now that Doggles are here! They're anti-fog, so the only time Cuddles will bump his fluffy little noggin on a parked car is when the frames have slipped over his poor, fragile eyes - but they're shatterproof, so at least the Doggles won't get damaged! And they come with their own carrying case which will fit right into his cute little fanny pack (what dog doesn't have one?). ACT NOW and receive a BONUS $20 VOUCHER toward canine therapy sessions.
Via Like Cool
I had recently come across Yearbookyourself.com and it sounded like great fun to see yourself sporting hairstyles from the past, but I put it off for another time. Then today I got an email from my friend Kerri with photos from her try-on session and I was laughing so hard I had to take a look. I didn't plan to spend a good part of my afternoon seeing what I look like with horn-rimmed glasses and hair that would drain the sexy out of Angelina Jolie, but I couldn't help myself. (And it's free!)
In chronological order, here's me as a teen through the decades: 1960, 1966, 1978 and 1996 (though that one could definitely pass for late 80s). Speaking of the 80s, those templates are so hideous they are actually frightening (much like my actual yearbook photos). Try it, you'll see! Guys can do it, too, with their own set of vintage ego-busters. Feel free to share and let us have a few laughs on with you!
Oh! And here's a tip, once you've got your photo in one of the templates, you can further manipulate it by putting your mouse near the bottom of that window and the editor will appear again. Have fun!
Artist Shannon Wright seems to have a thing for "exuberantly healthy human urinary tracts", and as such has created a wallpaper design featuring the organ. I'm just glad she chose to depict healthy ones. You probably wouldn't want to hang this in your kitchen, but it's a good one for a urologist's office, though they don't tend to be too fancy.
Via Boing Boing
Sacha Baron Cohen wreaked havoc as he stormed the runway during Milan fashion week as his alter-ego 'Bruno', a flamboyant Austrian model famous for clashing with rednecks on Baron Cohen's Da Ali G Show. Wearing a ridiculous get-up consisting of a massive cape-like sheet, and several items tied to his body - including a suede boot and a handbag decorated with pom-poms - the comedian boldy interrupted the Agatha Ruiz de la Prada show. Oddly, he was not tackled (that measure is reserved for PETA during Fendi shows) and allowed to walk the runway before being led away by security. A man, seen above, did attempt to haul him back upon his entrance but 'Bruno' wasn't having it and continued on to strut to some cheers from the crowd. And that man doesn't look too bothered (see below).
Baron Cohen and his team used fake passes to fool security guards into letting them into a backstage area. Apparently they tried it again Thursday, but were kept out by the tightened security. The prankster is in Milan working on his next film Bruno: Delicious Journeys Through America for the Purpose of Making Heterosexual Male, which is due out in May.
I feel sorry for the designer, her show was ruined. Didn't Sacha Baron Cohen know this is fashion week for Spring ready-to-wear, not Fall/Winter???
Here's the video (followed by more pics), though there's not much to see:
Via Huffington Post
It's just that easy, ladies! Thanks to one of Japan's latest 'innovations', you can fill out that bra while enjoying your daily cuppa. As the label for Boin Boin breast enlarging tea convincingly claims, "Do the best for target silhouette - attractive silhouette from today". You heard it! From today!
And don't stop there, you can practically guarantee bouncy bazooms by munching a few F Cup Cookies along with your tea. If there's a cup size we ladies dream and hope for, it's definitely F.
Just to err on the side of caution, I wouldn't serve these to the man in your life. Hmm...I don't even want to know what concoctions they've got for male enhancement. Big Fun Wang Cola?
Above, an out-of-place Pamela Anderson sits the front row for the Vivienne Westwood Red Label show, and yes, that's a real person beside her. Rumour has it it's her new pal Michael Jackson. If so, I'm guessing his whole head finally fell off and this was the best he could do at short notice.
Next is Kate Moss, who had a good time as always at the parties and had to be held up as she made her way to a waiting taxi, accompanied by a relatively more conscious Allegra Versace (I'm sorry, for some reason I just had to include this):
So, of the major London fashion scene players we've got Kate, Aggy, Daisy, ...which leaves Alice Delal and a Geldof or two, also at the House of Holland party. Here's Pixie (second), whose massive (Linda Farrow? NHS?) glasses give her a very Anastase look. Loving the smile, I didn't know she could do it:
No, Wayne Rooney wasn't caught playing away. Sky News
reports that after dropping the star footballer's wife Coleen as the face of their
George campaign earlier this year, Asda has reconsidered expensive
celebrity endorsement in favour of real people from the private sector,
such as doctors, nurses and teachers.
The supermarket giant conducted a
poll of consumers and found that 79.1% of British women "do not pay any
attention to what celebrities wear". Um, right. That's why Kate Moss
for Topshop is about to launch it's fifth collection. Because British
women don't care what celebrities are wearing. Are Vogue
and Grazia aware of this? Panic time!
Right: nurses featured in the new campaign
Here to save the day is Katie Price 'aka' Jordan. John from Zimbio reports that our horses no longer have to be boring and go naked (although doing so did just fine for her career). Thanks to her new equine clothing line, they can look just as ridiculous as the former glamour model and exploiter of everything close to her (now including barnyard animals).
I do love the leg wrappings, meant to look like knee socks. And the pink painted hooves? Darling. If only you could add a few inches without risking a broken leg. But why not try, Katie? You know she thought about it. If you lift up the coat, no doubt there is a frilly pink thong underneath.
Is it just me or does that horse look genuinely frightened? I'm with you, friend. I really am.
Photo by Flynet Pictures
Since the Cookie Monster arrived on the scene, few can say they've rocked the blue hair so fabulously. And of those, even fewer are correct in their assessment. And then there's Jacqui. On a lesser human being, the wig, Hawaiian lei, and foil tiara would look cheap. On Jacqui, it's high fashion.
There is no move she won't - or can't - bust on the dance floor. The robot, the running man, the worm. She'll walk like an Egyptian and keep up with the Grease soundtrack medley without missing a beat, or lyric. Her innate ability to engage others on the dance floor leaves gay men feeling confused, women in awe, and straight men just a little gay. At any given time there's a 1/4 drunk rum and Coke left on the table, for she must dance. And nothing, and no one, can stop her. And who would want to? We salute you, Jacqui. Happy 37th.
