Wallet Alert

     Last, but not least, I'd like to remind everyone that A.P.C.'s sale is still going on online. And thankfully (or not, depending on your financial situation) there seem to be plenty of sizes left on some items.

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I Got Greed For...

(Matte black bullet pen, $20 @ Fisher)

     Rather than sleeping, I (in a fit of delirious consumer lucidity) stayed up and shopped for no good reason other than the fact that I love toying with my own desires.

     I've always been of the opinion that any man worth his salt needs an empty book and a full pen with at him at all times, as it indicates both readiness and receptiveness for all matters earthly, spiritual, and literary. Fisher designed the original Space Pen, a writing instrument invented solely for NASA. Faced with the challenges of weakened gravity, blistering heat, and intense cold, Paul C. Fisher created a pen that writes using 35 pounds per square inch of pressure capable of writing at temperature extremes from -30 to 250 degrees Fahrenheit, underwater, and at any angle imaginable.

     Their bullet pen, in the above shown matte black, is a miniaturized version of their original space pen and has been screaming my name for two years. One of these days, I'm just going to plunk down the Jackson and make it my own. Armed with this and my Moleskine, I might very well be unstoppable.

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I Got Greed For...

(School Boy Sweater by Obedient Sons, $84 from $196 @ New Dandyism)

With the recent resurgence of the cardigan, I feel like guys need to really think about whether or not this trend is for them. That's the real problem; guys don't take the time to try and figure out if a trend actually suits their style. If you think it will work out with your wardrobe, then just make sure to keep it classy. Simple lines, neutral colors (or bright solids, if you're daring), and a slim fit will ensure that you look like you're ready for drinks, not a walker.

If I had the cash for it, I would totally snatch this one right up. The restrained color palette utilizes striping just perfectly. I'm usually a little wary of horizontal stripes, but I can't help but imagine this little number hanging up in my closet. And at less than half the original price, this would make a perfect belated Christmas present for whomever you forgot this holiday season.

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Comics, How I Love Thee

(From left to right: The Laird of Wales, Fallon Young, Ryan Beckwith, Shelby Winners, Tim Jones)

John Allison's Scary Go Round is an everyday read for me, first and foremost for its uncanny wit and remarkably charming cast of characters. But there's plenty of design candy, too, as Allison populates the fictional Tackleford with a cast of characters with sense of style as sharp as their wit. Thanks to the ever-expanding cast's series of misadventures, we always have to occasion to visit them in various locales and situations which necessitates an equally broad wardrobe. And honestly, who doesn't want to live in Tackleford?

Oh, and Merry Christmas, everyone.

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Pack My Luggage or...

Work on my beanie. Ribbed edge and then (planned) stockinette ribs to the top. All progress is relative.

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I Got Greed For...

(Surface 2 Air Mountain Sneaker, $125 @ Brigade)

I believe we have discussed (at length) my inability to ignore a well-made shoe. Surface 2 Air never stops wowing me with their consistent design voice and their continual innovation. This Mountain Sneaker has all the makings of a classic shoe. It appeals to every single one of my sensibilities. Well-priced and well-made, I would have no qualms about buying this shoe if I had the money. Hell, I don't have the money and I'm still seriously considering picking them up.

What I love about these shoes is that they're so effortlessly chic. The lacing, though clever, has no sense of being a deliberate affectation. The most gentle of logo branding (and one of the few logos that I don't despise, I might add) finishes it off.

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Precious

(Man in the Moon Spoon, $100 @ Tiffany and Co.)

Perhaps it's a ridiculous idea, but I am utterly in love with silver spoons. Or at least the idea of it. The prestige and sense of worth bestowed upon a life. To treasure a child as though he were the sun and the moon and everything in between.

Complicit in this deep-seated love for Tiffany's fine silversmithery is, naturally, Breakfast at Tiffany's, a movie which has so many meanings and is such a heart-wrenchingly inane look at an inane life that it is absolutely absurd to watch it and not feel as though you have had some strange part of yourself excised and placed upon display. That is to say, it really knows how to tug on a heartstring.

Often times, I kind of think about what I imagine my life will be like and, more often than not, I envision kids in my future. Don't know when or how or with whom (if anyone), but I definitely do see kids in my life. I wouldn't know who to live for otherwise. And these brief imaginings are the collected willings of our subconscious, the life we want but are too psychologically repressed to actually admit any such desire. But in these flashes of somewhen, I always imagine using the silver spoon on Birthdays. For ice cream, maybe?

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How Much I Owe My Mother

Written November 28, 2005:

My mother and I had been making dumplings together for the past hour. She would take the old wooden chopsticks, now smeared with the pork and vegetable mush, and pluck out a dollop of filling onto a dumpling wrapper before handing it to me. I would wet my finger and run it along the edge of the wrapper in a half-circle before pulling the two sides together and pinching the seal into a dainty crimp.

As we continued working, I felt the need to speak.

"Why don't you just stop talking to Yi-ma? You know how stressed she gets you, how bad it is for you heart."

She didn't even stop to look at me.

"Because we're family and you stick by family. That's what you do."

I crimped another dumpling shut.

"Even if they hurt you?"

"Even if they hurt you."

The dumplings tasted better that night.

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Design for Information

I have got to say that there are some deliriously inventive ways people expand the Wikipedia project and the inclusion of graphic art is a definitely a big plus.

The WikiProject WikiWorld is a collaborative effort of several editors along with artist Greg Williams to utilize his different illustrations and infographic designs to briefly summarize Wikipedia articles. The variety of Williams technique, including the depth of his humor and the fluidity of his style, creates an interesting way to look at how art, technology, and information combine in the modern world.

More than anything else, this is an affirmation that we aren't descending into the deepest trenches of cultural decline. Instead, it seems like our general culture is learning to absorb more information and to do it in both aesthetically pleasing and aesthetically interesting ways. In centuries past, design was meant for luxury, for symbolism, for artistic greatest. Only nowadays would we ever have need design for information.

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Dear J. Lo,

Listen, mija, I know you're fabulous about 75% of the time (you don't get a pass on that fringe-y shit you wear just because you're 'Jenny from the Block'. Nobody gets a pass on any fringe-y shit). Believe me, I see the Us Weeklys and Peoples in the supermarket checkout lanes.

Let's examine some lyrics, shall we:

"Strangers always got some mess to spread,

But I have learned to flick them off.

Can't walk a mile in YSLs,

I strap them on and I walk it off."

Fabulous. You still got it baby! Defiant pseudo-ghetto lyrics expressing both your individuality and your penchant for expensive footwear? Love it! Wrap it up, slap a bow on it, and stuff it down my chimney!

...Or that's how I would feel, if you didn't choose to package it thusly:

Honestly, girl, what do you want us to do in light of this? The poor numbers you got after two months of sales? Chalk it up to shit like that.

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Giving Up

An appropriate image, as Nancy Pelosi and the rest of the Democrats in Congress have really managed to fuck this one up and turn their backs on their gay constituents. The New York Times had a wonderful piece on how the Matthew Shepherd Act failed to even reach the president's desk, despite a House vote of 237-180 and a Senate cloture vote of 60-39.

In answer to Bush's threatened veto, congressional leaders had cleverly attached it to the latest Defense Authorization Bill, which Bush's ideology would not have allowed him to veto. And yet, fearful Democrats unwilling to appear hawkish and staunch Republicans unwilling to appear liberal managed to kill a bill that would have expanded the definition of hate crimes to include all racial, sexual, and religious minorities and provided some measure of federal response to hate crimes.

Now, I haven't spoken much about this (neither on the blog nor in real life), just because I realize hate crimes are a really sticky issue. It's hard to explain to people why hate crimes aren't special laws meant to raise gays up or put social/religious conservatives down. But if the Catholics were being hunted down (either physically or verbally) by those around them, you can bet that they wouldn't stand for it and would demand immediate protections. The Matthew Shepherd Act and other laws like it do not state that gays inherently deserve special laws protecting them. What we really need to focus on is the fact that gays (and other targeted groups) need these laws because of the very real and very imminent danger that extremists pose.

Thus far, I remain unimpressed by the Democrat sweep of the Congress, mostly because they haven't done jack shit to deserve any praise.

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The Internet Allows for Gross Stupidity

Right now I'm totally lucid and unnecessarily honest.

I found you through Facebook, followed you through Google, and have been silently doing research. You fascinate me, although you obviously are unaware. Angela has told me to be precise and make the necessary accidents happen, but I'm very wary of her advice, mostly because it sounds like something I would say. I definitely find you attractive (why else would I say so?), but I'm completely terrified of engaging you in any way (either directly or obliquely).

Truth be told, I am feeling really powerless and insecure and stupid and obsessive, even though I've spent the last year or two trying to be the exact opposite. And I don't even have anything of substance, which is the most hilarious part. We're connected mostly through willful happenstance (i.e. me poring over Facebook in a random, bored haze) and the circumstances of the Information Age have facilitated this one-sided relationship that I have with the possibility of knowing you.

Really, would you respond if I asked? Would you answer if I called? Would I ever call in the first place? Unlikely, but I feel motivated.

Why can't I be more impressive? Why can't I just sail through the social world and catch your eye? I mean, honestly, I think it would be worth both of our time if we tried to get to know one another. From all signs available, you are smart, well-mannered, eloquent, rationally profound, and just a generally nice person. And you want a relationship. Well, that's the checked boxes talking there. But you don't seem like the kind of person to want something cheap and meaningless that doesn't last past morning.

And damn it, I can make things valuable and meaningful that last as long as I try.

And Angela, you're still erudite and willful. Never forget it.

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Maintain Sequence

Another one?

I guess I like it for formatting reasons, not the least of which is that it constitutes less work for me. It's been fun to feel real, because sound requires gravitas, for which I have taken my mother's recipe.

How obvious is it that I want someone? But how can you want someone when you're connected through the anonymous clumping of technology. Yeah, I guess I could easily click on your profile on Facebook, but what sort of relationship does that make? Is it healthy? Is it fair?

Being online always makes me guilty, some I'm committing some sin by knowing too much, by clicking one link too far.

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Not the Best Idea

Try giving my little amateur podcast a listen.

It's pretty terrible.

But it's about as meaningful as I can be right now.

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I Got Greed For...

Shoes. Oh good Lord, do I have it bad for some shoes. And when it's three in the morning and I'm riding on a brownie-fueled wave of material lust, there's nothing to do but ogle pairs upon pairs of shoes.

(Prada Leather Square Toe Oxfords, $396 @ Bluefly)

Having recently acquired a pair of round toe black leather lace up oxfords, I feel like a square toe would also be nice, as sometimes I feel guilty for not being more conscious of the difference. Honestly, the round toe is fine, but sometimes I desire just a bit more edge, and a square toe does that brilliant. The profile on this Prada number is wonderful, with a nicely proportioned heel and a nice, gentle line forming the foot.

(Sperry Top-Sider Black Patent Boat Shoe, $95 @ Sperry Top-Sider)

Equals parts class and flash, this number combines a classic shoe form and profile with the unexpected, but highly appreciated touch of patent leather. Rather than gaudy, the simple shoe turns into something refined, something you could feel comfortable wearing with shorts to brunch or with jeans to drinks—although the two need not be separate events. Just make sure you're playing something else a little more tame to keep your look tame.

(Creative Recreation Dicoco Lo in White/White Patent, $132 @ Revolving Clothing)

I give the folks at Creative Recreation a lot of shit for how unnecessarily loud some of their shoes are, and not in an interesting way (here's lookin' at you Lanvin). But here, they do something right. A high-top white patent sneaker with a few straps for interest and a good clean line all over. For it's price, a fantastic shoe if you're looking for something white and shiny.

(Puma AMQ Tendon Mid in Black, $259 @ Revolve Clothing)

Hearing Alexander McQueen's name associated with footwear just makes my heart melt. I've always had a soft spot for McQueen and his other label, McQ. Although I find some of their clothes preposterous, I also appreciate the craft and thought that go into his garments. Likewise, this shoe showcases his excellent shoes of color, texture, drama, and construction, but does so without compromising the essential Puma label. The AMQ Tendon is a wonderful study in balance and in co-operation. Were that all designer-meets-mainstream brand collaborations this excellent executed, the world would be the better for it.

And as masochistic as it may appear to spend so much time searching for things I can't have and can't afford, there's a certain satisfaction that only shopping can satisfy. It's the hunt, the search. How can you train your eye if you don't exercise it? You can't learn to be discerning if you don't spend some time looking first.

Besides, typing stops me from eating anymore brownies.

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I Got Greed For...

(James Perse Fine Gauge Tipped Crew, $80 from $160, Revolve Clothing)

I must say that I am absolutely enchanted by this James Perse sweatshirt. I've been looking for a plain grey fine gauge cotton sweatshirt for weeks now (everyone within earshot will attest) and here it is! And at 50% I am so tempted to just grab this. And in my size, too? Jesus is certainly getting less subtle with these signs of his.

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The Savannah, Paper-Writing, and Why None of This Is Your Fault

Unfortunately, the people in the building resemble herd animals more than human beings. This evening, we had the lovely experience of the ceiling turning into the vibrating diaphragm of the building. Above, the sounds of pursuit (very fox-meets-hound) indicated that something utterly inappropriate for the hour was occurring. I really don't try to understand the people who live here. Who leaves their box in the hallway for weeks, as though people don't need to walk through the halls? (I have yet to find a circumstance for which this is acceptable, excepting that you are being held prisoner by some sociopath.)

Alison and I agreed.

I have found myself well on the way, but I'm wanting to finish.

I've been considering slugging down a Diet Coke and seeing if I can stay up and finish this paper (which I had stated was my goal). And it's proving to be a little difficult to focus.

Oh, I hate how I always feel like I'm running out of things. It's like running out of breath, except it's your pride that's burning, not your lungs. Well, your pride is seething, actually, just stewing in its own failure. Reveling in it satisfied this deep urge inside, right next to the button that turns on the thrill of buying a nice pair of shoes.

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On second thought, ignore the coffee offer below. Let's have these instead:

(Clique au-dessus, s'il vouz plait)

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Limited Time Offer

Although I am extremely happy with my current situation (that is, a inhabitable apartment, interesting classes, and supremely satisfying friends), I am also a little bit saddened by the fact that I have no one with whom I can gab over Vogue or Details or Nylon or WWD.

Who wants coffee and magazines? On me.

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A Friday Escapade

A night marked by urgency, but no need to be wasteful with time. We went to the Paramount to see Iron & Wine. Califone opened for them, but we weren't terribly interested.

The ladies next to us were pretty awful, though. They kept getting up and sitting back down, requiring multiple instances of squash-myself-into-my-seat-and-try-not-to-appear-too-irritated syndrome. And then the one next to me kept falling asleep and kicking me. Yeah.

I can forgive it though, as Sam Beam makes me forgive everything. Even all the times that Theresa Broad gave me shit in middle school (but that comes with the awkward process of coming out, so I'll take it for what it represents in the long run), even when I get gipped by the Coldstone people who refuse to make my ice cream unnecessarily huge (if I wanted reasonable ice cream, I would go someone else, now wouldn't I?), and other stuff.

Honestly, he sounds better in concert than on record. Sam Beam is one of those rare musicians that doesn't simply play songs off his records but actually performs them, which accounts for the goosebumps I got. Tavi and I felt like his rendition of "Woman King" seemed a little off, but it's just such a weird, trippy song to begin with that any live performance of it is bound to seem like it's being sung by a siren on Mars in a fish tank. Or something.

I snagged myself a shirt (kids' large!), as did Alison and Tavi. We ate Barney's before, so I was a little sleepy going in, but I quickly perked up as I realized how deliriously beautiful the music was.

I think I should go to bed now, since I have a meeting one of the student magazine editors tomorrow. Oh, to be professional.

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Faux Pas

I would like to think that I've been doing fairly well in my fight against procrastination. But then I'd be lying, which we can all agree accomplishes very little.

So let's say that I've been doing alright, losing a battle here and there, claiming a victory here and there; just a general gentle rocking back and forth between failing and doing marvelously.

In all honesty, I can understand how ridiculous my position looks: I'm slacking off a bit too much in class, I'm not really as involved in extra-curricular activities as I ought to be, and I've been rather lacking when it comes to certain responsibilities.

But Elaine and I were talking and I realized that I've given myself a few good kicks in the pants, but it's not enough. Making goals is nice, it makes me sound lofty and diligent, and it's very easily done. But making goals is too abstract and too far removed for me to take myself seriously. And phonetically speaking, I'm leaving -een for -enty, quite the linguistic betrayal to suffix that has served me so well.

So here it is:

• Catch up on all my reading
• Make study guides for all my tests
• Write my Shakespeare paper
• Begin finding freelance writing/designing jobs to build a portfolio and assemble clips
• Look for internships with a fashion related firm in the city (Angela has suggested Ford SF)
• Rewrite my resumé

And here comes the dizzying feeling of impossibility and the fear of rejection. But I think I've decided that I'm kind of fed up with my fair of failure. If I fail, I fail.

Ugh. Now to say it with a little more feeling.

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Mother Nature's Sun

From the front, the Logan from Noon Solar looks like a pretty standard messenger bag: 3 interior zipped pockets, leather zipper pulls, Bavarian vegetable tanned and dyed leather. And at $412 it's a pricey, but not necessarily putting it into the stratosphere in terms of price point. But when you turn it around:

A weather-proofed solar cell connected to a lithium-ion battery allows for iPod and cell phone charging on the go. And it works even if it's turned towards you. I'm rarely on board with a lot of the modern fusions of fashion and technology (Zegna comes close to earning my approval, but some of the looks are still a bit too spaced out), but this seems like just such a smart idea. 

According to the makers, a 6 to 8 hour sit in the sun will provide a full battery to juice up your music or your calls. So whether you're actually out in the sun or just propping it next to a window, you'll always have a little extra battery for your electronics on hand.

And I have been on the lookout for a new bag...

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I Got Greed For...

YMC Belt Boot ($392, Oak)

I have been craving these bad boys for FOREVER. Well, any belted/strapped/kick-ass boot, really. Chris over at Suptertalk has a pair that he constantly wears and everytime he shows them off, this deep pain rings in my heart. If anyone knows a pair that are reasonably priced (so that I might lay claim to it for my Christmas present from the parental units), please drop me a line!

Truly, I've become obsessed with finding a good pair of boots. Not just boots you slip on just to trudge through the day. I want something that I can stomp in and make that bridge between Moffitt and the Chancellor's House shake. And when my new iPod comes and I upload my CSS/Beyonce/Blur/Waitresses mix on it, that's exactly what I'll be doing.

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Superawesome

Army of Mushrooms

I had totally forgotten to post about the "©Murakami" exhibit at the Geffen Contemporary at MOCA. Angela and I went over Thanksgiving break, which was a lovely break for me from Die Familie.

Paul Schimmel did a fantastic job with the exhibit's set-up. Upon first entering the museum, one is greeted by a buxom transforming woman soaring overhead, a towering monolith of lustrous metal, two hyper-realistic figures in sexually explicit poses completely devoid of sensuality, and mushrooms of every shape and size. Although Angela and I wound up going through the exhibit backwards, it was still extremely fun to wander backwards through his art, almost like some trip through pop art history.

A few of the smaller rooms were plastered from floor to ceiling (well, to the top of the wall, seeing as there is not real ceiling) in brightly colored patterns, compartmentalizing the various motifs that recur throughout Murakami's works and literally forcing us to immerse ourselves in the colors and shapes of his universe.

Murakami's dizzying cast of figures, from the enormous Gero-Tan to the hilariously juxtaposed Kaikai and Kiki to the ever metamorphosing DOB bring a sense of surreal narrative to the world. All of his work is an excellent study in contrast. His paintings featured highly detailed and calculated cartoon art rendered with painstaking precision, but placed upon flat colored surfaces, deliberately obliterating the carefully crafted dimension of the foreground subjects.

His sculptures were equally impressive, showcasing a mind working in full three dimensions while still considering the demand for visually direct and metaphorically flat art in such a commercialized society. While the Inochi statues showcased a morbid obsession with the grotesque and awkward side of human nature, Hiropon (which I had gotten a chance to see earlier when it visited the SFMOMA for its "Pop Art" Exhibit) and My Lonesome Cowboy were evoked laughter for their absurdity and solemnity for their pointed critique of modern culture.

Angela and I debated what souvenirs to take home (the Kaikaikiki Co.-printed shirts were $69!), but the fully-operational Louis Vuitton boutique proved to be a much greater attraction for the more financially-stable museum patrons; there were tons of people purchasing the ridiculously interesting LVxMurakami bags. Say what you will about them, but they are pretty damned interesting and you can't call them a boring bag.

In the end, we wound up leaving with the same mug, a nice modestly small mug with two flowers printed on opposite sides. Considering that all it cost me was $5 for admission, gas money, and having to fight with the weather as to whether or not it would be necessary to wear my coat, it was pretty damned fun.

Now I've got my sights set on "Stylized Sculpture" at the Asian Art Museum.

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A list of delayed reactions:

• It is painful to sit in a car with a long-term couple for a cross-state drive.
• Feeling good is little more than a matter of making sure you take a shower whenever you feel gross.
• A book tends to make more sense when you aren't somewhere on Pluto.
• I like essay writing under tense circumstances.
• I need more practice at a lot of things.

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A Great Converging

So yeah, I guess I would say that the major discovery of the week has been my sheer indolence. I mean, I used to be way more critical of people who spent all their time loafing around, but I'm not much better.

And I would say that you're to blame, and you know what you are and what you do and why we have to speak on terms like this. But I'm not angry, because it is a mutual sort of thing, and it's natural that two separate, discrete forces in the universe must lend just as much as it borrows. Then what is the nature of this relationship? Why do I eat fire and why does it eat me and why are neither of us particularly concerned with the inherent danger of such an arrangement?

But the problem is that it wasn't very much arranged. To say that I arranged these circumstances—put my bed here, put my chair there, read this book then, drank this soda yesterday—would be correct. But to say that the everyday flow of fate is predetermined by my very actions, that, indeed, the next steps I take are connected to the last ones I took seems to be simplistic point of view. It's much more accurate to say that the natural happenings of life arrange themselves. Take the sand in an hourglass. As they fall, they don't say, "There. I shall occupy that place and name it and take it and make it mine forever." Instead, they close their eyes (or would close them, had they any) and fall. The fall itself is the blessed thing, the natural warping of a soul's fatespun thread as it is woven through time. Felix culpa! Beautifully, the grains fall one after another, arranging themselves not through some patterned, rigid order from above, but by the natural, simplicity of falling.

To intellectualize it further does nothing to enhance our appreciate of the fall. As writers, we cannot be satisfied with how sharply we have honed our mind's knife. We must reassemble that which we have so precisely taken apart, transforming it, transmuting it from what it was into what it could be. Possibility, the imaginative faculty of which we alone bear witness, must be our creed. Once we embrace this realization, the future becomes a hazed cloud of odds, a crapshoot of whether or not to be. But this, too, is beautiful. Jeder Engel ist schrecklich.

Soon we will see the infinite expansion of the canvas, the never-ending poem, the song written for sixty horns, the meandering of the stroke upon the subject. And I look forward to this, because this is how I feel more comfortable embracing the world. Before, they called it detail, called it division. But this division is inflation, is duplication of the very natural and extrapolating the "perhaps" to its further limit. I don't think there is a nobler pursuit for the artist than this.

I feel this way because of the world around me. It, too, has not decided upon its own path. It has merely tumbled through countless possibilities to arrive exactly where it is.

And I don't want to link this to the now, because as far as I'm concerned, this should have always been the goal; it just hasn't become explicitly possible until now. So I think I'm going to seize this chance and hope that I make it out alive.

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Thanksgiving

The holidays imply booze. They don't require it; there are plenty of teetotalers who enjoy celebrating with their families.

But wine is just too perfect a match, too compelling an element to be excluded. Cheery red cheeks from wood fires and wine. The wood fire has since been modernized, logs replaced with scorch-free imitation. The hiss, so indicative of the gaseous release, precedes the hesitant scratching of a match head.

It's finally become an exercise of how early we can open the bottle without feeling tacky.

Extended ninety degrees from the afternoon, we begin.

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For You

Ryan reminded me—inadvertently, I'm sure—of how frustrated I am with this whole deal. And I don't think I made it clear to him exactly how this works. Although I'm not quite sure either. The only thing that's real right now are the few strands of hair long enough to enter my peripheral vision. It's in front of my face. And I really can't extend my consciousness much further than that. I've attached myself to anything and everything, hoping that it might travel away and take away a bit of my tiredness, my disappointment, my unrequited self. And I stuck myself to a million things with a billion strings drawn straight from the substance of my heart to something trivial and unnecessary (if you look at the grand scheme of things).

There are things that I really haven't asked myself very seriously. Actually, I have asked myself these things, I just haven't answered myself very seriously. I've avoided it. I've skirted it. I've traced the perimeter of the questioning with my finger and I've found my way around it, through the least existentially honest means possible. If you despise me for this, then I agree. This is not appropriate, nor well-mannered, behavior.

And for that I really ought to apologize.

But I can't. Because deep down, I really feel like you ought to apologize. Not you, but you. Because I tried really hard. I tried harder than I've ever tried in my life. There were times where I thought I should have given up, but then something inside me refused. Something inside me told me that this was worth it, that all my effort was going towards something meaningful. Something with substance. And the fact that I'm not saying these things, using the past tense, and making some conscious choice about temporality...well, it obviously means that you didn't think the same way I did about this.

I really tried. I gave so much of myself in the name of trying. And maybe that's why I feel like this. Maybe I've already given too much of myself. Maybe I'm less than what I was before all this happened. It certainly feels that way sometimes. Does that mean I can blame you? No. I don't think I can blame you. Because that would be creating some system of value for a sentience that really transcends it. My spectrum would be a false measurement of an immeasurable quality. Or quantity.

So now I feel bad. Now I feel like I'm putting things where they don't belong. Now I feel like whenever I open my mouth I might break something. And now I'm afraid of breaking everything. I'm afraid of upsetting some great cosmic balance that I can't sense with any of my ten senses. I round up for the sake of trying. I round up for the sake that things cannot be left at odds. Not here. Not with you.

Yet they are not even. But certainly they cannot be odd. So I would wonder about whether or not this really made any difference. Whether or not there was a Spain or whether or not this throb was true or whether or not you should make this true and not say such things to me. For these are breaking me, these things you say.

A "maybe" is just as bad as a great fang sinking into my shoulder and rendering this hand unable to write. But yet I write for that very fang, which has so deeply lodged itself into me that it is the only thing I have left to write about. I wish that these scales were turned, for I want to know what you think about what I think.

So this is still for you, but for me. For me to know whether or not I am anything anymore anyhow. For me to fill in the vague outline of a figure left by a terrible upheaval.

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Subtle

In recent years, I've been doing more supposing than guessing.

I hope that isn't just a thing that happens as you get older. I'd hate to start reckoning.

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Really, there's nothing that I seek but consistency. Not constancy, because I guess that's a bit foolish. I want things to be coherent, in the sense that things make sense. Although logic isn't always the best means of achieving any type of coherence.

Truth be told, I'm a bit demanding. Which I understand can be annoying. I demand a lot out of people and our relationship.

The idea is that if you and I are sharing some kind of relationship, whatever the degree of involvement and whatever the manner of relation, we really owe it to the other to be our best, don't we? Or, to let them know what our best is, even if we don't embody it every single day. (It's tiring to focus like that all the time.)

I hate this post.

I want to just digest it all and while my inners rumble, I want my outers to give some brilliant display.

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In Defense of Pop Culture, Whereby We Discover An Open Room

So, I love the new Britney Spears. When I say this, I am indulging in gayness that I typically try to avoid. You must realize how deep I had to reach to be so open about my admiration for the absolutely inane but impossible catchy power that is Britney Spears' pop music.

Blackout, if nothing else, represents everything that is good and wonderful about pop music. That being said, being such a supreme incarnation also means that it is deliriously bad. Well, only in the ways that pop music typically is bad. Thus, what we have is a really good record that is simply of no real artistic value, at least not in the sense of serious musical experimentation and exploration. But in this case, there are alternative criteria of value that we can apply to a completed work. The truth is that Blackout epitomizes the consumption, the random sexy dance-y fun that we have come to expect out of our pop culture.

While I do tend to despise the rather obvious line between high and pop culture that artists such as Britney Spears tend to bring in relief, this album is such a precise and exact distillation of pop culture that even people with their musical noses in the air should be able to appreciate this album for the refinement in pop sensibility that it so deftly displays.

In this sense, Britney Spears makes us re-examine the very line that I said she so clearly marks out. What we find is that the more we analyze that border, the hazier and hazier it becomes. When does fringe between mainstream? What does it mean to make that transition?

Would it be that terrible to throw away that black-and-white value system. Maybe we should stop trying to cram things into a critical framework that clearly does not properly capture the range of intentions, techniques, and effects of any produced work. I argue that the various dimensions of art make it impossible to properly define what constitutes "art" at all. But this should not impede our recognition of art. What I am saying is that we should not let our inability to define art stop us from promoting the creation of art.

Remove the stigma of pop culture, strip the glowing façade of fine art. The removal of the scale is necessary, because by believing that such a scale exists, we confine our own artistic abilities to the range of such a scale. In short, by bounding off the work of others, regardless of motive or means, we stunt our own growth.

Properly produced wine is formed through the fermentation of sugars by bacteria. Eventually all the bacteria will begin running out of sugar and will slowly be poisoned by the very alcohol that they helped produced. So too, must the diametric scale of art eventually destroy itself, forever devouring its own tail as head reached head, and the paradox of simultaneity crushes the whole mechanism with its own weight.

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I Shouldn't Say This, But

The following, in relation to this:

Angela: Naomi is pretty though.

Me: A bit like Vanessa Hudgens. But a bit less wholesome. And a bit more personality. And not naked. (pause) Definitely not naked. That's a big difference. (laughs) I'm terrible.

Angela: I KNOW! I KNOW! No, that's what I was thinking of.

Seriously. It's impressive.

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Fine

So I just sucked it up and bought the damned full-length peacoat. No regrets here. Especially not after the 30% coupon. And free shipping, might I add.

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Mark Us! For We Give You Good Grace

Standing there, I realized what had really happened. There was a flash, as though the past refused to be past and wanted to remind me of what it held in its grubby little paw. Jaws set straight, the edges of bared teeth rubbing ever so slightly.

Here, this seat was like some porcelain throne to a thing that he had banished to the far recesses. But though far, they were not impossible. It did not matter how they arrived; such formalities are meant for scientists. He remembered the deflated mallet sitting, dejected, upon his floor. It was tucked next to a bottle containing an empty ghost and a book containing a living one. The signs were still littered all over the room, his face. The white walls he now faced set things in greater relief.

That was why the sight tasted so strong.

I jumped back into place, abandoning the distance that stretched out like leather wings. Oh, now I am stealing another's soul. I feel ashamed.

Yes, shame. It burned like bad vodka, good whiskey. It burned in places that I did not know could burn, places where fire sprouted in cherry wisps that licked the stagnant early morning air. It left no scar. Shame never does. Never did. But I covered up the naked form, hoping that the red hot eyes would have no pores from which to peep.

I can run my finger through the air and I know exactly what shape I trace, what shape I trace with eye and tongue and endless thought. Outline formed, I fill it. I fill and fill and fill, from places deep and rocked with waves. And so the outline becomes a model, fit for nothing but a speedy, ruthless burial.

A dry throat indicated some regret. It was not mine to make, to mold. Perhaps mine to murder, but that was a presumption upon too many people's parts. I wish that this would detach. I wish for crystals to form and creak as they jut out. If my wish were to come true, they would breath out and expand into a thousand tiny broken postures.

They would not stand erect.

They would hang their heads, skew their spines, limply lay their limbs, thrust out their tongues, and remark that a portrait was fit to be made.

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Grey + Beige

Anyone who hears me blather all the time will know that I've been on the hunt for a nice slim-fitting, thick coat for fall that is slowly smothering the Bay Area with wind, rain, and fog. I found these three coats (that are actually in my size) at Revolve, all from Shades of Greige. I like to think of these as über-basics—the type of stuff that you can wear for (hopefully) forever but will never really look off trend without being boring as all-get-out.

First up is this rather traditional looking peacoat. They don't have the black in a small, but I actually like the grey better with this length. The pockets look nice, but I'm not so sure about the fit. It does look a little boxy, but that's what you would expect out of a full peacoat.

 

These two cropped coats (same cut, different color) also caught my eye. As I skinnier guy, I worry that the full-length will cut my proportions all funny. I do like the look of the buttons against the wool on the black version, but the grey is also nice. One fault is that the cropped coats don't seem to have as much detailing (like the pockets) as the full version.

I'm tempted to just pick up two of them and return them if I don't like it, because Revolve offers free shipping and supposedly their returns are "no hassle".

My wallet is whimpering in fear.

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Respect for...

The original. William Shakespeare (c. 26 April, 1564 - 23 April, 1616)

"Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones."

-T.A., III.i.4

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Today

Moleskine during Hejinian's lecture about the uncanny as explained by Freud and utilized by James.

I think I'm getting sick. I've been sniffling all day, which was particularly awkward during English.

HEJINIAN: Uncanny...blahblahblah...heimlich...blahblahblah...repression...blahblahblah...castration...

ME: *SNIFFS IN REAL HARD THROUGH NOSE*

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Roberto Cavalli for H&M

Thoughts coming in

I've been keeping my ear to the ground for news about Robert Cavalli working for H&M. It certainly was a surprise to hear that he had been the next designer selected to do a capsule collection for H&M. Cavalli, with his endless animal prints, Eurotrash sensibility, and Italian disregard for typical restraint has made him a darling for media-getting celebrities. But how well does that really translate into a mass market?

I am not one to be close-minded when it comes to fashion (Alison and Tavi kind of laugh at how eagerly I throw myself into my magazines), but I did have certain reservations about the idea. Would Cavalli really know how to cut for real people who did not have publicists and stylists and personal trainers? His ready-to-wear has never really been that notable and his accessories are usually pretty run-of-the-mill, over-the-top stuff attracts people who are attracted to shiny objects. Which is to say, that he makes shiny objects. Or stretchy. Or print-y. Leopard print-y.

There are other people doing trenchcoats right now at pretty okay price points that are far more interesting than this. Mediocre fit and not a particularly great color either.

I feel the suit cut isn't as flattering as other suits right now. The lines are a bit looser than I feel H&M's target audience is looking for. Shoes are nice, if plain. I'm wondering what that shirt looks like underneath.

I do not understand this knit. Other people have done chunky knits better and in far more interesting ways. There are better alternatives, even at the price H&M will probably offer this. Again, the shirt does prove intriguing. It'd be nice to see more collar variety introduced into the masses.

I don't know how I feel about a one-button, peak-lapel suit in navy. Especially if that the navy isn't really lustrous, and the photo makes me doubt that it is. Same shirt collar as 3, but in a monochrome. I will concede that this suit is much better cut than the previous one.

I'll be surprised if it's real suede. Perhaps just treated canvas? I don't know. The shape is nice, but some of the lines feel a little off.

Is anyone else getting a slightly feminine vibe off of these? I don't know. The height of the boot and the construction seems to set off the heel. And in my book, men's shoes should not be emphasizing the heel.

Those look like French cuffs. If so, I might be compelled. The tie appears to have some sort of printing on it. Animal print? Oy.

Do I hate it? No. Do I love it? No. Do I see reason to keep watch? Certainly. Although I am a bit confounded by certain choices in terms of fit and color, I don't think this isn't without merits. This  is certainly a type of style that is not commonly made available to the average Joe, which is a nice thing. I believe that this is an honest (if not completely successful) attempt to democratize fashion.

But my real hope is that designer collections like this will make the general public more aware about what's going on. I'm not insisting that everyone try to be a trendsetter or follow the designers with every season, but a general awareness of the present fashion scene does allow for one to avoid making an awkward faux pas.

Criteria
Concept — C; It's an average collection of average clothing.
Wearability — B; Odd cuts hurt this grade, but dressy ready-to-wear at a reasonable price is never a bad thing.
Design — ?; Without really examining it, I can't really make any judgment call here.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

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Well, Dragon?

Shakespeare and tea.

It's a lazy, productive kind of Sunday afternoon. I think I'm going to re-do my nails. In-depth grooming is best performed on a Sunday, mostly because you don't feel the real need to accomplish anything.

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For Purposes Pertaining to Private Persons' Identities, This Shall Remain Untitled

Sometimes you are not meant to be asleep.

You begin with "the" and end here.

Sometimes you are meant dance to the rapture.

If you need instructions,

Then you need to seek,

One of Pendell's allies.

And meet me on some metaphysical battlefield,

We shall make some Antietam,

Well, shall we? Um—

I am sorry, I am not well today.

I have—um—hairs—airs—I'm in disarray.

You should go seek that ally.

We don't need to talk of that battle.

We can bury our dead,

Whether dream or plan or virtuous hand.

The soil shall sprout

—Lilium candidum.

I will grow the flowers while you search,

Now you,

Search.

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Utterly Inappropriate

So Roísín Murphy has a new album coming out, Overpowered.

What can I say? This is a woman whose cover for the single Overpowered is her in one of the Viktor & Rolf light-fixture dress from the Fall 2007 prêt-à-porter show.

P.S. I will be incapacitated by DANCE.

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Avarice

There's a definite need to get this all out of my system so that I can focus on more important things. Or at least spend time procrastinating about important things. Or at least productively procrastinate about important things. Okay. Fuck that. I'm just probably not going to do any "important things".

Awesome wool military-inspired jacket from Brown Sound at Urban (here). J'adore the subtle print, the collar, And big buttons. Oh I am mad for big buttons. Unfortunately, at $179, I don't really think I want to work it into my budget. My non-existent budget. It really reminds me how much I love fall. Trying to work my trench and my coated denim jacket more fully into my wardrobe right now. But I still do need a greater variety of coats. And a charcoal grey wouldn't be a bad idea.

A poly/wool blend vest for $19 at Forever 21 men's (here), on the other hand does not seem like a bad idea at all. My only concern is that stuff from Forever tends to be a terrible fit for me, and I want a vest (or waistcoat, if you insist) to be very well fitted. I've found plenty of great looking vests, I just need a great fitting one.

In terms of footwear, I'm looking for a desert boot, like the classic ones from Clarks (here). But at almost $94 and in suede I'm not so interested. I know that Clarks makes a leather version, but it has a different kind of construction that I don't like nearly as much as the classic clean cut desert silhouette.

I mean, so basically my life has come down to coveting.

Covet, covet, covet.

And how do we learn how to covet?

Damn. I just want some more Jodie Foster right now.

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Darling

Donald Sutherland.

If for nothing else, watch Dirty Sexy Money for the blisteringly great job that he does as Tripp Darling.

Please.

The parts of your brain that process guilty pleasures and snappy dialogue will thank you.

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Make More, Not War

So Ezra Pound just reached out of the grave, grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted in my ear: "What you've done is not enough! You have done nothing to move us past where we were! You have pulled us back to the eddies that we struggled for so long to escape!"

And then I wake up.

And then I don't know whether I should be proud of ashamed.

Blue, brown, are orange grumble from the sweater on my bed, threatening to attack if not properly folded and returned to the sweater shelf. The objects of modern life have begun to make demands and it's usually a good idea to listen. We take the dictation of dollars, hoping that after we're done and we have the time to sort out our notes, we'll get a chance to make some sense out of it all. They possess a rhythm, humming with the certain energy of physical desire fulfilled. Their numbers, though not the ones we intend to compose when we write, govern us, with statistical wrath.

I cannot navigate my room, because it has ceased to be a room.

A curator could make a museum out of these found things; found and bought and cherished like a child.

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Respect for...

Klaus Nomi, performing "Cold Genius" from Purcell's "King Arthur"

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I bet the best thing you can possibly do with this boot is to wear it out after a recent snowfall.

J. Crew Leather MacAllister Boot. $138.00 (www.jcrew.com)

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Das Haus der Geister (das so ehrlich alt ist)

It does not matter whether it happened or not. It was written, and that makes it real enough. Any other conclusion is preposterous and drawn from wild theories and unreliable senses.

Sometimes people worry themselves into cold springs. They sit and sit and groan, like icy pistons pressed too close into themselves. Theirs is the path lined with nettles, grown from flowers that they cast in the front of their course. Sad self saints. So slowly. So slow. And these people forget that they are the saints, they forget their wings and their robes and they forget what it is to bleed sunshine.

Lo, let the sunshine be bled, like some great gory watering of the celestial field. It shall grow, develop, mature into old age, like a comfortable rhythm of rhyme. And the great Scythe shall be rendered blunt, by the flood of bled light, red light.

And still sometimes people worry themselves into cold springs.

You know what this sings? It sings, yes it sings.

Of things.

Of things to be foretold, wheree'er the winter's cold.

Too many tribes for ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, one tongue.

And sometimes cold springs still themselves into worry people.











And from there, we may proceed towards less important matters.

The product of much time spent knitting brows and needles together. It's grey and fringed, all done by hand. I haven't actually measured it out yet, but I'm guessing it clocks in at around 8, maybe 9 feet.

I added a discreet button loop and a metallic vintage button to keep it wrapped around me when it gets windy. It's also just a nice bit of hardware introduced into something that never has any.

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Fortissimo

Shall we try again, old friend? Shall we maybe give it one last whirl before we're willing to retire to couches and gardens and the obscurity of contentment?

Maybe. Yeah. Okay.

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Rusty

I haven't been writing, not out of a lack of thought, but out of a lack of effort. I've had a million things about which I could write and gush and rant and study and bemoan and et cetera. But I haven't. And that speaks volumes about my own self, not about my subjects.

I've visited Thailand, which (in a laundry-list and very unromantic fashion) included riding elephants, seeing snakes, eating food, buying clothes, tossing coins, drinking wine, sitting on planes, and generally taking advantage of vacation time. But yet I haven't felt any compulsion to jot down a single word about all that. Years ago, my head was packed to the brim with thoughts and ideas and every thing I wrote down felt like a sad attempt to recapture some of the dizzying parade stomping through my mind. Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe.

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Just thinking...

Waging a war and fighting a war are two vastly different things. It is the men in the suits, in the offices, pushing paper and writing up legislation that wage war. It is the men in the fatigues, in the insurgent-filled cities, dodging bullets and avoiding IEDs that fight war. Ann Coulter's now infamous remark about the mothers who lost their sons to the war in Iraq just seems to highlight this difference in my mind:

Her argument is their protests are antithetical to the ideals and goals of the United States. But those mothers never said a word against how the war was being fought. No sane person would say that our boys overseas are not fighting as best as they can. Instead, they were angry with how the war was being and continues to be waged. This is not merely rhetorical sematics; this is moral and philsophical semantics that call into question the very nature of our democracy.

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