Pursuits, trivial and otherwise

Salutations!

Feeling a bit better today. I desperately need a new office chair. Hopefully that will fix the ol’ back up right. With a little luck, I’ll be able to find something ergonomic that still has enough panache to fit in with my eclectic sense of home decor.

Last night I went up to College st. to return the keys to Liz and Ian after my stint as plant-and-cat sitter. I ended up hanging around at the bookstore with Ian until closing. We’d brought down the Scrabble board and had a couple matches. I lost both times, but did get in some top-notch words: “czar”, “fauve”, “faeces”. All in all, it was good fun. Board games are such a quaint pastime, especially when they’re being played in an adorable little used bookstore. Maybe I need more board games in my life. I personally own Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly, Risk, Isaac Asimov’s Super Quiz and- the piece de resistance- a jigsaw puzzle of J.R. Ewing fanning himself with a wad of money (with his own face on each bill)! Not like I really need to find more diversions to eat up the hours. But who can poo-poo anything that encourages social interaction and increased crafty, analytical thinking.

Other than that… what have I been up to in these past few days, you ask? Well, I saw Charlie and The Chocolate Factory with Boo and Serge. The best part of that experience (other than the movie itself) was Boo’s demanding satisfaction as a consumer. Standing up to the corporate monolith that is the jumbo movie food court, she requested the presence of the manager to complain about not having lactose-free milk for her latte. Ah, I always admire that young woman’s chutzpah when it comes to standing up for her rights, even when it’s the right to not have explosive abdominal issues late into the night.

I’ve consumed beer and tacos and brunch. I’ve slept and read and talked on the telephone. I’ve had several showers, picked out many outfits and gave myself a haircut (I trimmed the bangs too short, but they’ll grow back).

So, now you’re all caught up. Join us for the next installment of That Old Chestnut when I’ll tell you all about the wacky antics I get up to. Or perhaps I’ll just blather on about some dead fashion designer. Stay tuned!

Would some kind of girdle help?

Howdy pardner,

This is quite unpleasant indeed… My back hurts so much that the simple act of sitting and writing is a relentless, albeit mild, form of torture. Yesterday I was totally unable to do anything remotely productive (lay on couch watching Sex and the City, part one of season six). Today is a tiny bit better since Boo gave me Midol and some watermelon flavored vodka cooler to ease my woe late last night. At least I slept. Unfortunately, I’m not feeling a whole lot better today. That’s what I get for not being diligent about my yoga.

It was my mother’s birthday last Saturday. I would write great and wonderful things about what a stellar lady she is, but my aching back has overpowered my capacity to articulate even the most basic ideas.

I’ll try again when I’m feeling better.

know your retro: Edith Head

“You can have anything you want in life if you dress for it”
–Edith Head



My Dearest Friends,

Despite the fact that I am obviously a most talented young lady, not to mention beautiful and intelligent with an effervescent personality and sparkling wit, it has recently come to my attention that I am a tad unemployable. Oh, I do the odd thing here and there. Sometimes I do some nude modeling for life-drawing classes, which I enjoy because makes me feel like a scandalous Parisian bon vivant from the turn of the last century. In the past few months I’ve been a zombie (part of an army of walking dead promoting a movie), sold tickets at The Clothing Show, and I’m trying to do a little writing too. Unfortunately, a real job seems out of my grasp. Not that I’ve been trying as hard as I might to find one. I guess, and this is a little hard to admit, so bear with me, I am a tiny tad frightened of rejection. Not really frightened, just a bit sick and tired of being told no. After the whole grad school fiasco and being turned down for some jobs that suited my qualifications to a t, I just don’t feel that my poor little psyche can deal with another let down. I know that if I just bite the bullet and apply for whatever interests me, something’s bound to come about. It’s just that… I guess I feel under qualified for pretty much everything I’d want to do. Not that I should- I’ve done a ton of super-duper stuff in my time. However, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that employers aren’t exactly beating each other up to get their hands on a gal who’s highest level of education is an art school diploma and who has ten years of experience in the exciting and lucrative world of performance art.

The person whose spirit I am now going to attempt to channel is Edith Head. First off, I would like to point out how strikingly similar we both look- it’s almost spooky. That is not my only reason for bringing her to your attention. What is remarkable about her is the ballsy way in which she became the most famous costume designer in Hollywood. She was a French teacher who had been asked to teach an art class. Shortly after she began taking some art classes, she responded to an ad in the paper- Paramount Pictures was looking for an artist who could draw and sew clothing. The pay they offered was good, but Edith was not- at least not at drawing. She filled her portfolio for the interview with other students’ sketches; she told the interviewer “this is what we draw in class”. With this subtle twist of the truth, she was hired. It didn’t take Paramount long to realize that Edith was not in fact skilled at drawing. Rather than fire her, she was made assistant to the head of costume design. Eventually she took over the costume department and went on to become one of the world’s leading authorities on style and fashion. During her forty-four years in Hollywood, she was nominated for thirty-five Best Costume Design Academy Awards (and won more Oscars than any woman in history). Not bad for a French teacher who couldn’t draw.

I guess it goes to show that the right confidence and attitude can open just about any door. Faith, dedication and good old fashioned bluffing are strong weapons to have in one’s arsenal. It is with this in mind that I try to gather up the nerve to venture forth and try to make something of myself. Not sure quite what, but most certainly something.

Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man

Greetings darlings,

Here is an excerpt from an e-mail I sent to a friend of mine a while ago that makes some worthwhile points I would like to pass on to a wider audience:

If I were to compile a list of my least favorite things about summer, the way most men choose to dress in the heat would be near the top. I know that everyone likes to be as cool and comfortable as possible, but flip-flops should really be reserved for the beach- as a rule, men do not have nice enough feet to put on display on our city streets. Tank tops are also an assault on those of us with more sensitive aesthetic sensibilities. Black socks and shorts…? I don’t even know where to begin listing the reasons why that is a combination I could do without. In fact, I’d say shorts in general should be kept to a minimum. Isn’t that why God gave us khaki pants? There are garments casual and light enough to be worn in summer without subjecting everyone to an onslaught of knobby knees. Perhaps I am just a snob and I should just be happy to let folks do whatever brings them maximum happiness. But my passion for fashion is just too strong. And what’s so wrong about just wanting people to look nice? It’s not like it’s impossible- white trousers just mean you get to spill less red wine in your lap than someone wearing cut-off sweatpants. It’s summer, for heaven’s sake- why drink red wine in the first place? I say we should all just put on something made out of linen, get out the chilled white and enjoy the warm weather without dressing like a grubby child or a retired Floridian…

I’ll stop my rant now. I’m getting a little carried away.

(wow... this is the second time I've bitched about black socks and shorts so far this week. Must be a sign.)

know your retro: Ossie Clark

Well, hello there,

Here is my obsession of the day: Ossie Clark. His fashion innovations from the sixties and seventies are enough to make me weep. I started thinking about these clothes when my mind suddenly drifted to the David Hockney painting Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy, a portrait of Ossie, his wife Celia Birtwell (who designed textile patterns) and their white cat. This had always been one of my mother’s favorite paintings, and I think there’s still a small framed print of it in my parent’s living room. (I now have it as the wallpaper on my computer.) To me, this portrait, somehow simultaneously casual and formal, has always represented the ultimate in cool and hip domestic living. Painted in 1970-71 when Ossie was at the height of his fame, it looks as though the couple are just hanging out on a lazy afternoon- he’s nonchalant, holding a cigarette, his bare feet disappearing into the shag rug, she looks as though she’s been distracted on her way out onto the balcony. Yet the painting also has elements of a formal portrait; the subjects, except for the cat, are gazing directly at the viewer, giving the scene a greater weight than just a relaxed, spontaneous moment frozen in time. It’s that disaffected glamour that makes me so damn intrigued by the Clarks.

I knew that Ossie was a fashion designer, and I knew that he was very much associated with the time-period of clothing history that is my current fave, but I couldn’t recall what his clothes actually looked like. So I googled him: Pantsuits for Mick and Bianca! Snakeskin jackets for Eartha Kitt! Big flowing peasant dresses with giant floral prints! Mon Dieu, c’est vraiment trop! These are the clothes I’ve been dreaming about. If I all of a sudden won the lottery I never enter, I would go on an e-Bay rampage to fill my closet with his creations- and perhaps a few Halston pieces to complete the look. So, now I have discovered who’s responsible for that outrageously fabulous style. Hats off to you, Mr. Ossie Clark!

Unfortunately, the tale of Ossie Clark is not a happy one. Though he had spent the early part of his career outfitting Brigite Bardot and Liz Taylor, he fell out of favor when the punk movement came around. He got divorced in 1974, developed a drug habit and went bankrupt in 1983. Eventually he took up Buddhism and got off the drugs but got back on them to ease the pain of chronic stomach ulcers. In 1996 his 27-year-old Italian lover Diego Cogolato stabbed him 37 times and bashed his head in. What a phenomenally tragic way for such a bright star to die! I guess no matter how high you climb, you can still go out penniless and murdered by an insane gay Italian.

But let’s not dwell on the sad parts of Ossie’s life. Let us remember the brilliance of his early days, back when he had the world in the palm of his hand and a white cat perched on his lap.

no cat soup for you!

Greetings, my pretties,

Hooray! Yippee! Huzzah!

Darlings, you will never guess the good fortune that fell into my lap yesterday. I found an air conditioner! Oooh, my little rabbit-hole of an apartment is now ever so cool and comfortable. What luxury! So nice to not stick to the sheets at night and wake up in a pool of my own sweat.

Where did I find this air conditioner you ask. Well… when I first moved into this apartment, I noticed what appeared to be an air conditioner under the sink. Since I moved during the winter and last summer was unseasonably chilly, I just plain forgot about the gosh darn thing until Sunday evening when I was poking around under there looking for something entirely unlike an air conditioner. Suddenly I remembered that the big metal box that had been taking up valuable storage space actually served a purpose. A purpose I am currently taking advantage of.

I promise not to abuse my privilege and will not operate said a/c unit during the peak hours of energy consumption. I will use it only enough to prevent the cat from melting into a pool of feline ooze.

On another note, today is my father’s 65th birthday. I can hardly believe that I myself am old enough to have a 65-year-old father. When I think of men that age, I think of Bermuda-shorts-with-black-socks wearing fogeys taking their grandchildren out for ice cream. My Daddy dearest is not the type to take up golfing nor go on senior’s cruises. And he certainly won’t be bouncing any of my children on his knee any time soon. In fact, he looks healthier and happier than he did five years ago (getting involved with the church and a low-carb diet can work wonders). Regardless of the fact that he isn’t showing the signs of age, it is still his birthday, and I do wish him a very happy one.

Oy! It's So Humid!

Darlings,

It pretty much goes without saying, when you receive an e-mail from a Handsome Young Jewish Man telling you about a party hosted by Heeb: The New Jew Review, you pretty much have to go, even if it means leaving the cozy embrace of downtown. As hard as this might be to believe, yours truly got on not one form of public transit but three and ventured into the nosebleed North of beyond uptown to check out what was going down at the “Heeb Hop”. Because a smart girl is always prepared for any emergency, I’d forgotten both the address of the party and the cellular telephone number of the Handsome Young Jewish Man sitting on my desk at home- always a wise move when going to a neighborhood one is unfamiliar with. Since I did remember the name of the street the party was on, I figured I could probably find it if I set my Spidey-sense to “fun” and wandered around until my high heeled sandals led me to the location. Either that or get hopelessly lost. Fortunately, as soon as I stepped of the bus, I ran into the H.Y.J.M. who was walking to the party with his sister and sister’s sister-in-law.

I had not been to a party in a house that large since that gaggle of homosexual hairdressers whisked me off to an after-hours bash at the home of a rather wealthy eccentric a couple of years ago. I kept feeling like the owners of the house were about to show up and tell all us kids to get off the property before they called the cops. Goodness knows who's home it actually was. I'm sure it was a nice couple on vacation with no idea that a multitude of God's most chosen people were getting down in their livingroom.

So... who exactly goes to the New Jew Review party? Well, it was a crowd that I don’t usually spend a lot of time with. Very button down business casual. It was like the parties of my adolescence, except everyone was late-twenties-early-thirties-ish and most likely drove nice cars paid for with money earned from good jobs. My personal peer group tends to be a little lower on the scale of upward mobility. In fact, the only person I knew at the shindig, other than the H.Y.J.M. was an Asian fellow who’d participated in my last performance art project. The irony of gravitating to one of the only other non-Jews present was not lost on me. Guess my Gentile-radar was functioning at full capacity.

And, oh my darlings, it was humid! So humid in fact that it was virtually impossible to tell if it was raining, or if the air was just so warm and wet that it felt like it was made out of water. The dense congestion of human bodies did nothing to alleviate the condition, but the drizzle was a welcome break from the summer drought.

After my thermos of vodka ‘n’ soda had been consumed and before the band that had been threatening to play started up, the H.Y.J.M. offered me a lift home. We walked over to his parents’ house where he was parked and then headed southward to more familiar territory (well, more familiar to me- since his parents live up the street and around the corner, I’m pretty sure the H.Y.J.M. knows his way around that part of town reasonably well). Thank you to the folks at Heeb magazine for giving something to do on a Saturday night, and a reason to further explore the residential areas of this fair city.

mad dogs and englishmen...

Oh My Darlings,

Truly, could it be any hotter? I was out in the yard, tending to my poor frazzled plants early this morning. By quarter to eight, the heat was so intolerable that I was forced to retreat back in to my cool, dark subterranean bunker of an apartment. I am a prisoner of the weather. For days I have tried to stay indoors as much as possible until the sun goes down. Not that it makes much difference- it's still hot enough to churn one's stomach in the middle of the night. Still, there's less risk of sunburn and I feel about 30% less likely to wilt like an overcooked piece of asparagus in the post 8 p.m. time-slot.

Yesterday I did actually attempt to venture out into the harsh summer world. I met up with a friend who had press passes to some schlocky blockbuster. Although the idea of spending a wee scrap of time in the air conditioned glory of the movie theater seemed brilliant, getting there was far from fun. Armed with my new green parasol, a bottle of water and a selection of hankies for wiping away beads of perspiration, I put on my oversized sunglasses and marched out the door. Oh, the trials of rush hour public transportation in the raging blaze of a dog day afternoon! The lingering headache that took up residence in my poor little brain began to buzz like a cicada. I sweated right through my orange and pink muumuu. My nose was assaulted with the smells of a thousand varieties of grossness. By the time the streetcar reached the subway station, I was so woozy that I was almost sure that I would get on the wrong train, pass out and wake up in some far-flung region where the city blends into suburbs. With tremendous luck, miracle of miracles, I managed to arrive at the right picture show right on schedule. I did feel a tad like the puddle of wicked witch after a sound dousing, but the theater was cool and the movie contained non stop explosions- just what the doctor ordered.