Uniforms

Pretty much everything and everyone happened in the last two months. Like, people died and stuff. You know; Apple dude, Lybia dude, racing cars dude, 82 year old football league owner dude.. oh and just about dozens of campesinos assassined amidst the land conflict at the Aguán Valley in Honduras. But hey let's not get all serious and gloom here because if you do want to get all serious and gloom then you should head to my new Spanish blog I mean lighten up right? By the way a little something called Fashion Season happened!! Aren't you excited!! Isn't that awesome!! Not when you completely missed it!! Though I've been trying to catch up because something really gruesome would happen if I don't. I might get exiled to Nepal and be forced to build barracks out of dried rhino feces or something. TL;DR? Here, have some rhinos.

start shitting my lovelies

So I have once again missed my chance to become a 2.0 diva suprima fashionista bloggelebrity. It's too late, common consensuses have arisen; Raf Simons is our one and only saviour, (Miucca has done it once again)², Marc Jacobs was SO Prada, Celine OMGGTFOHWTS, Ackermann/Dries/Pugh so edgy omg, etc. So let's skip it all shall we? I do recommend following Lindsay Lohan's path through this Fashion Season because I think this time she might've even outdone herself and killed someone. Let's hope not. Anyways I came back from a trip this week to find that most of my clothes were rotting. I've been away for a long time and nobody threw them into the washing machine because my family members believe their arm would fall or something. In the end I saved them by offering naughty children to the Krampus and adding extra detergent but it got me thinking about what I would've done with no clothes. I guess I'd find a signature look to wear every single day and possibly every single night since my pjs were also on the verge of decomposing. What would this uniform be? Here's a look at two iconic fashionable uniforms starting with the aforementioned

Steve Jobs

So fucking minimal America futurista chic right? I love that after he died suddenly everyone knew who he was and claimed to adore him since milk came in cartons, had little apples tattooed, creepy haircuts, etc. I'm therefore surprised when it came out that Steve bought his mock turtlenecks at St.Croix because well, he didn't?

He got them from Issey Miyake -about whom I posted before- and honestly it's kind of a downer people thought this kind of tailoring is sold at some big luxury apparel? Also he was close friends with Miyake. Tsk, tsk, how very disappointing of you tecchies out there.

Bill Cunningham

Basic utilitarian NY sweeper jacket + battered pants and shoes. I mean who cares what you're wearing when shooting Anna Piaggi or Shail Upadhya anyway. I saw Bill Cunningham: New York a while ago and holyshit my life is dull. How about spending your Friday night with Andy Warhol at Carniege Hall watching your ballet dancer friend perform the dying swan? Bill did.

Pockets, endurance, a nice color. Extra points for using a bike as your sole mean of transportation while being the father of street style photography and basically the most important person on Earth.

And then there's black from head-to-toe cray crays like Grace or Alïa. Is Marc Jacobs still doing that embarrassing kilt thing? I might be stretching a leg too far here but I really don't want to touch uncle Terry or Lagerfeld territory. Except maybe for Halloween.

Layer 1: Cousin

Once this very tacky cousin of mine met a man over the internet, a Honduran businessman living in Spain who paid her a trip around Europe. She went to Spain and England and Italy. She wrote me from Venice so I tried to muster an enthusiasm I didn't actually feel, I said "How lucky! May you take a gondola ride under the Arch of Love and be with him happily ever after!" to which she replied nothing because she had no idea what a gondola or the Arch of Love was. A week after she wrote back to me, "This is your place. I can just picture you here, I swear you'd be so successful." to which I wanted to answer that no it wasn't, that it was hers regardless of whether she actually belonged there or the role physical attributes played in it. Instead I forced myself to a quiet, pathetically dignified resignation.


Last year she and I worked together on her Israeli stepfather's cigars company. But anyone in their right mind could hardly call what we did "work", as it involved mostly partying and travelling and bonding with businessmen and rich people. We spent almost four months at beaches, bars, hotel pools, nightclubs, on the road, spending everyone's money but ours. We dealt with Russians, Italians, Cubans, Chinese, Brazilians, Salvadorians, Americans, everyone who would fell for my cousin's meaty curves wrapped in her sultry attires. She was the embodiment of Guy de Maupassant's Boule de Suif, except that she was better at it. She had her ways and they always worked. We would sit in a random fancy bar and in matter of minutes the owner would send us drinks and food and flaming cocktails. Two weeks later he'd be depositing money on her account so she could buy a car. 


That must have been one of the times when I felt the least hope for human kind. Here's this lousy, unintelligent money-driven selfish woman who achieves everything she wants just because she triggers some subconscious response to fertility in the opposite sex. Not that I was so naive before as not to imagine, but being involved made me feel like all of my existential struggles and praise for brilliance were silly and unimportant, that hers is the way things get done in real life.

Mugler Spring 2012

I went through my head with the razor the other day because I am going through a cray cray Britney phase I lost a twitcam bet to Ana. I stopped when I found myself looking like a mix between Formichetti and Ossendrijver.

Bershka sweater + thirfted t-shirt, Nicola Formichetti, Lucas Ossendrijver. 

Among the many nice things I've heard are "Hitler youth", "one septum ring and sailor tat away from hipster", and "ropavejero" which I don't even know how to translate to English. Anyways about Nicola and the Spring 2012 Mugler show. The first segment had these iron ..errrr things?

Kind of like the opening scene in William Klein's 1966 film Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo?, where he mocks fashion by reenacting a show with metal sheets as clothing and the ridiculousness of the cult to Editors in Chief

The sporty section between the following parade of dark and pastel/neon-ish suits was mildly interesting. As in Harry Goodwins looking somewhat like he did on that superb Dazed & Confused November 2008 editorial, "Powerful Sportswear" shot by Mariano Vivanco and styled by *ahem* Nicola Formichetti.

Rest of the spread here. On another subject, I will start posting snips and bits of this prose that I'm writing. Those posts will have a different format to allow easy scrolling due to excessive lameness.