Formula And Distinciton

I know I should really leave these fools alone I really should, but like a deranged squirrel who remembers a delicious nut they found years ago and keeps coming back for more there I go.

They have decided they have a vintage line. You know like Ron Herman Vintage only not Ron Herman... But Blackbird. Yeah. And sweatshirts. Not like Free City, but like.... Blackbird. It takes you breath away the way they just bowl forward without thinking you would even notice.

Oh, and they are also "one of a few US vendors" (along with Amazon and Nordstrom) to carry Le Chameau boots. They really won't shut up about that. It's like they noticed everyone wearing Wellingtons a while back and decided to do their own (although not really) thing with it.

Again. If you shop at places like Blackbird, people might judge you.

Wooden Edges No Longer Parallel.

Not Every Time We Reflect.

Day 3.

Some of my acquaintances in Los Angeles would sometimes derisively sniff (yes, somewhat like a pig) when I would tell them I'd be taking my holiday in some random place in middle America (my hometown in other words). I honestly didn't have a ready response other than I appreciated the languid pace of life as well as someone else cooking for me. It also has the added bonus of removing myself from the impertinent questions of such acquaintances, if only temporarily, but I would never mention that, no.

But on reflection, there are a few charms I have to say. The antiquing can be really off the hook. Take a look at the number above. I can't remember how many thousands of dollars they wanted for this, but it was gobs. Meanwhile, my Mom snags me an exquisite Gucci cigarette case for $12. I don't smoke, but really you can put anything in there - like candy! I took a pass on some rather haunting WWII Nazi memorabilia. Just don't see the appeal really besides making people feel uncomfortable. I did pick up a nice coronation mug and may go back for an old French desktop barometer.

The local mall was a jazzy trip. My eyes dancing wildly from the outline of one Wrangler ass to another as I wander through mist clouds of Elizabeth Arden and God knows what else. I'm finally grounded by the sights of an ATM and a nice selection of Ralph Lauren. Nothing on sale and everything in varying degrees of Extra-Huge. Fresh hats. Sales people, every single one of them rocking frosted streaks, linger about and we bail.

Local lunch scene downtown was an eclectic mix of local employees on their lunch hour and country-come-to-town bumpkins with nonsensical bumper stickers plastered about what one calls a tailgate. The food was quite good, but I made a point of looking directly at the wall every time an inappropriately unattractive person walked by. Fascinating patterned sponge paint and they have to be learned anyway.

I haven't even touched the thrift stores, the Hastings, the used book store or the Pier One so this is all just the tip of an enormously dizzying iceberg. Languid pace of life indeed!

To The Cloud.

Why Would I Mind?

Today (well yesterday actually) marks the 75th anniversary of the abdication of Edward VIII. The English King who famously abdiacted in order to marry American social climber Wallis Simpson. I commemorated a date which is very notable and special by indulging another social climber.

I watched Madonna's film. W.E. and I have to mention that I am at the front of the line amongst those who will say that words are insufficient in describing how monumentally wretched this film is, but alas I'm going to give it a whirl because, hell, why not. Someone has to.

To start off, it shamelessly cops the parallel lives storyline that made Julie and Julia so appealing. It takes your breath away how the director assumes the viewer doesn't immediately make the association, but hey, everything else about the movies is entirely different.

There is a casual disregard for historical accuracy which one always tries to ignore in films like this. Even the King's Speech had glaring no-nos one preferred not to mention, but obviously did anyway. But this goes beyond the norm. Messing up even contemporary fiction and placing the famous Sotheby's auction a year too late in 1998. This is so sloppy that I'm racking my brain for some reason for it that I might be missing.

Even the text fade outs at the end, which are suppose to provide factual details about how the story all ended are wrong. Indicating that Wallis "finally returned" to England upon the King's Death in 1972. No… Dumb cow. You didn't even get that right. There was the eye surgery in 1965 and I think something commemorating Queen Mary. Ignorant pig why must you subject the unwilling public to your "art". You are a famous celebrity whore cow!! Not an artist. Deal!!

And the brushing aside of the Nazi thing was just uncomfortable. This is where the film ceased to be merely bad and fearlessly ventured into the realm of the patently offensive, This, more than anything and there are ample things to choose from, in my mind is what truly and finally discredits Madonna as an artist, filmmaker, and human being. Relentlessly awful.

My head is still spinning. It was like an uncomfortably long Chanel commercial. Like Madonna woke up and decided she wanted to make a film like if Tom Ford woke up and decided he wanted to make a film, but decided to ignore anything about the process that is necessary and essential.

The main characters walk slowly. Painfully slowly as though weighed down by the import of their circumstance and the overwrought scoring. Again. It is just awkward.

It is all so fundamentally bad that you almost lose sight of the real deficiency. The primary flaw is the lack of any underlying moral message. Or any message. Other than by blindly forcing your way into scandalous public controversies weird and unsettling shit might happen which one day might fascinate some media whore come film-maker who really likes dressing people up like CoCo Chanel and making them walk slowly on film.

And that is the feeling you leave with. In a way Madonna never has stopped playing dress-up with her dolls. She learned early on that she could get paid for it by doing it in public and it has just been one uncomfortable play date after another. So in a sense she is pretty harmless. Fuck I'm deep.

Like British Chicks.

Howling Into The Void.

There are ways this week could have sucked more I am sure, but just how seems to elude me at the moment.

I woke up Tuesday morning with something going on in my head that I just don't know what. Pressure, fuzz and guck. I emailed into the office and told them that they were not so much in my immediate future. Then I start to take drugs. Orange ones, and green ones, and there are the fluids, the endless succession of fluids spiked with Club Soda and bitters. The recovery was slow, but aided by one period drama after another and a heaping crock-pot of spicy black bean soup I managed to pull myself out of that rat-hole of infirmed lame only to have the lights go out in Georgia. Or Hollywood I suppose, but I got the last hot bath my building was to see for 24 hours and I can honestly say that everyone was better off in the long run.

After the 24 hours power was indeed restored, but once back in the office I learn that the Office Jesus posted to the Facebook that he was sick on Sunday night. I then realize he came into work Monday probably just so he could infect me with his germs. Hatred turns into blurry hallucinations of dismemberment and I decide at this point to stop taking the drugs. I try to send a tweet to Mark Zuckerberg congratulating him on his invention's first confirmed useful application, but I notice that twitter is not really "his deal". Fine.

I'm still rocking a new tote.