Twilight Ode to Yogurt

I love you so fucking much, yogurt.

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Well.

     I have no ambitions other than to finish.

     That's pretty much it.

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How Am I Supposed to Feel?

     Catching up with Return to Cookie Mountain in a spartan room. Recently stripped walls and empty halls and not much else. There's also the knowledge that I'm going to be living out of a motley collection of trash and Ziploc bags for two weeks. And the unrelenting sensation that there is a swarm of insects within my mattress and that the only thing stopping them from greedily feasting on my veins is a few sheets of plastic.

     I told Connie that I didn't experience my usual post-purchase bliss after picking up some Fiorentini + Baker boots in the city. It was a bad sign. Anytime that shopping fails to evoke some sensation of joy/elation/nigh-orgasmic happiness typically indicates that something is very wrong. And I still can't quite wrap my head around the series of events that have been so very unfortunate. I'm relying upon my recent aid to a could-have-been fatal car not-quite-accident and my forbearance with this current trial as some sort of good karma orgy; that is to say, I am in the thick of so much shitty shit that the cosmos probably — indeed, must — cut me some slack in the future. I'm thinking about this whole ordeal as a sort of karmic investment.

     My Thanksgiving is not going to be a Thanksgiving. It's going to be me sitting in old clothes on an old couch in an old apartment that just won't let me go. Angry letters and lawyer threats have failed to extricate me from my landlord's grip and all I really want to do is eat an entire pizza by myself. Oh wait, I already did that.

    Nothing in the recent past has done nearly as much to convince me that I absolutely, positively must leave this place by any and means necessary. The faceplates stuck to the wall with a lazy slash of paint, the circuit breaks that break at the slightest provocation, the dishwasher that fails to wash dishes. It's like Godot designed my apartment to be the least livable space possible. It's only by sheer effort that the three of us had managed to transform this place into something even remotely resembling an apartment.

     There's nothing cathartic about this. This is why people get old. This is why people have high blood pressure. This is why people grow cynical. This is why people get into credit card debt. This is why people dream of buying, not renting. Just when you've dug to the bottom of the barrel, past the first three layers of frustration, dissatisfaction, and complete, mind-numbing anger, then you realize that there's actually a wormhole that leads to a whole parallel dimension of bullshit. Of bullshit apartments and bullshit building managers and bullshit things like bedbugs. I remember somebody telling me this was adulthood or something. Yeah, right.

     This is just bad luck.

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FORGET GUILT.

FORGET EVERYTHING

HEDONISM IS KING.

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Youth is over-rated.

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He Said, She Said | Vol. I

"I get so confused. Everyone in Condé [Nast] dresses so fucking well...except the girls at Glamour."

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     Somewhere along the line, someone told you that chic is about being fashionable, about being trendy. And that is a boldfaced lie. When someone is chic, they are not fashionable, they resist the very notion of fashion. When someone is chic, they declare independence from the tyranny of fashion. What does fashion have to do with being chic? Fashion is our need for newness, for luster. But being chic is our need for constancy, for definition.

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~The principle aspect of my personality.~

Over-indulgence in my own interpretation of the universe.

~The quality that I desire in a man.~

An appreciation of the need for weakness.

~The quality that I desire in a woman.~

Zeal for independent thinking and living.

~What I appreciate most about my friends.~

Their patience.

~My main fault.~

My lack of understanding about my own impact on others.

~My favorite occupation.~

Exploring.

~My dream of happiness.~

A new city every year.

~What would be my greatest misfortune?~

Blindness. I would miss the sight of letters and the warmth of colors.

~What I should like to be.~

A man consulted for his opinions.

~The country where I should like to live.~

France, Hong Kong, or America. I need to be in a place that feels self-important.

~My favorite color.~

Grey.

~The flower that I like.~

The bud. I'm enamored less by the flower than by the promise of the flower.

~My favorite prose authors.~

The ones that make me believe they are more right than I am. The ones that make me doubt my interpretation of things. A few off the top of my head: Hesse, Woolf, Ishiguro.

~My favorite poets.~

Those unafraid to speak as they wish to be heard. Whitman, Pope, Eliot.

~My heroes in fictions.~

Batman. The repressed sexuality of it counts for a lot.

~My favorite heroines in fiction.~

Electra. I think she's a concept of feminine heroism that is completely foreign to my universe. And I can't help but be entranced by it.

~My favorite composers.~

Philip Glass, Mozart, Mendelssohn, and those guys who did the Safety Dance.

~My heroes in real life.~

My mother and father, for their courage in seeking a home on the other side of the globe.

~My heroines in history.~

Marie Curie.

~My favorite names.~

Malarcus. A butchered rendition more genius than the original.

~What I hate most of all.~

Willful ignorance.

~Historical figures that I despise the most.~

Traitors, although you don't see much of that nowadays.

~The military event that I admire the most.~

A soldier's first step into a war-zone.

~The gift of nature that I would like to have.~

The ability to draw. I'm always frustrated by my inability to translate my mind's eye into my hand's pen.

~How I want to die.~

Surrounded by a small, but close circle of people.

~My present state of mind.~

Restlessness.

~Faults for which I have the most indulgence.~

Vanity and pride.

~My motto.~

None of the ones I've tried to stick to have worked for me yet, so I'm still looking.

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Misadventures in Fashion #1

(Scene opens on an Ann Taylor; track lighting, sales racks, 40-something sale associates and all. L. diligently browses the racks while I absentmindedly flip through a couple of marked down shirtdresses.)

Me: (looking around) You notice anything, L.?

Her: (not looking up) No...what?

Me: You're the youngest person in here by about...30 years.

Her: (turns away from rack and looks around) Oh shut up.

(The two stand around while L. continues going through the racks. She stops abruptly.)

Her: Let's get the fuck out.

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     Conversations with Connie about clothes might start off in the realms of vision and imagination, but they always wind up firmly rooted in the pure practicality of the matter. Case in point? My much beloved and much desired Surface to Air Cargo Bag and this awesome heat-sensitive, color-changing tank top from Anzevino and Florence have turning over in my mind.

     Now, is $78 a lot for a top? Yes. Is it a lot for a tank top? Most certainly. I certainly know there are better deals out there on jersey tank tops (Urban carries them for $10 each), but cut of it looks great and drape-y and the color changing bit is absolutely cool and looks absolutely beautiful. But how do I value those extra qualities? The market says I should value them for $68 more than the ones from Urban and I agree. But why? Why do I find myself aligning with the number that the market has mysteriously* produced?

     (* Okay, it isn't such a mystery. It's a combination of research, drafting, advertising, fabrics, production, and also the brand's "value". I acknowledge the various elements of the industry and the variety of intersecting functions that are necessary to create, market, and sell a single product, much less an entire collection. )

     So I find the top desirable, so I desire it, and so I'm okay with paying $78 (not that I have...yet). But what if someone else doesn't think that's reasonable? How am I supposed to explain myself? We obviously don't look for the same traits in a garment (me: fit, cut, fabric, design / them: price, availability ), so I can't argue that it fits my criteria for a "good" garment. This is the sort of dilemma I encounter whenever someone asks me about my spending habits. The problem I find most often is that people find me unreasonable for my willingness to spend a larger quantity than average. They think that I am unable to settle, that I'm trying to create a gap between myself and others, but that has nothing to do with it.

     You don't think I'm reasonable? Fine. I don't think you're reasonable because you wear Crocs and you're over the age of 5. We'll just have to agree to disagree.

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STOP THAT and WAYWT? Serious Spring

      Rarely do I ever offer direct admonition. It's not something that I feel like I can do very well. And rarely do I ever feel like I'm in a position in which my opinion really matters, but I can't just let this one go.

     Urban Outfitters has decided it was necessary to re-create the Alain Mikli custom numbers that Kanye had made. Say what you want about him, but Kanye has swagger in spades and can rock those shades, even if they're a ridiculous idea. But to do them in these obnoxious colors for people who believe that "nu-rave" is a real thing? I think I've already seen a few floating around the campus (which is ridiculous the moment you stop and think about it) and i only worry that it might get worse. I refuse to provide a link, lest I aid in Urban Outfitters pushing more of these unsightly things into innocent people's hands.

     Urban Outfitters, stop that. Stop that right now.

     On a lighter note, the day was lighter.

(Zara shirt, random cashmere scarf, Opening Ceremony jeans, thrifted leather lace-ups)

     It was a good day for rolled panted. I wish I had some cropped trousers for this outfit and a better shirt, but hopefully Connie will be bringing back some nice bright shirts for me, which just requires that I buy some nice cropped khaki pants. Maybe it's time for some brown boat shoes? Or some other variant of loafer?

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"What Should A Writer Do?" He Asked

     If you were to ask me, I would say that the moment that every writer should strive for is the moment where he recognizes how sheer the cliffs are that he must scale. I mean, when you come across the bulk of existence, of literature, of art, you are a tiny, infinitely small speck. And I believe that the greatest truth about the self is found only through the unconscious recognition of these differences in size. And as the moment approaches and you slowly get closer and closer to the surface of this great monolith that Man has made, your neck cranes further and further back in some silly attempt to comprehend the size of it. And the first step up this bulwark is when the writer first writes in acknowledgment of how unknowingly high he must climb. I can't say if and where the cliff ends, I have no idea how many blind gropes up the craggy mountainside it will take. But that on the top of that cliff, one may see out until forever.

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Glam Design Contest SMACKDOWN

     Oh yeah, bitches. It's time for round two. Glam hasn't invoked enough of my wrath (my love? my time?), so we've got an another set of would-be designers trying to shove their work down our throats. But you know what? It didn't leave half as bad a taste in my mouth as last time. And I've had plenty of rotten shit down my gullet, so that means a lot.

     Well, slap my ass and say I was born yesterday, but Janey's creation is a very interesting, very Proenza Schouler-esque dress. Except it's got a little more richness in color. The choker-like construction creates an interesting silhouette, considering the structure of the bodice. Janey certainly is bringing plenty of New York style to this contest. I'm not totally sold on that ribbing (pleating?) along the waist, but I'm actually rather pleased and would not mind seeing this win.

     At first, I was going to say that this was a pretty cute, laid-back dress ideal for spring and summer. The color blocking is refined and the palette itself is rather sophisticated. Brava, Kate, brava. You've created a—wait a minute. Using "patchwork quilting" you put together "silk charmeuse, organic cotton, and linen squares"? No, Kate, you did not create a tour de force, as I was about to say. But congratulations, you have managed to create Frankendress. A hideous amalgam of too many fabrics, too many (disjointed) textures, and embedded a stained-glass window in your model's abdomen. Also, I love the Louboutin's that look like torture devices. Your heels actually are torture devices.

     If Lau intended for this to be a yellow silk dress with a sheer double-layer over the top, then I'd be in love. If, however, she just forgot to simply erase the abdomen of the drawing underneath, then that's stupid. Fortunately, I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. It's an interesting use of transparency and layers and I'm always a sucker for a yellow dress for spring. Also, love the contrasting colors along the bodice top and as straps.

     There's conceptual, and then there's Lejla's hot mess growing next to a freakishly large fruit. "Hay-colored silk"? Since when do I want a dress to be the same color as animal fodder? The collar would have been interesting had it's volume been played up against something more body-conscious. As it stands, I now have a strong urge to rip this off and cut off about six of the seven million yards of fabric Lejla wasted to make this sin against nature.

     Remember how we talked about not being stupid and drawing "inspiration from the Orient"? Well, not is so many words and in using offensive terminology. But you know what I mean. Well, Linda has dipped into the dark, double-edged magic of "ethnic inspiration". I applaud the thoughtful reinterpretation, with its smart color choices, excellent proportions, and the under-stated bow in front. I barf at the "train" and the pockets. Now, I object to the train because it's tacky, but I object to the pockets because I have a very dark dislike of them. I know you ladies love the functionality, but let's be honest here. Most of the time, pockets ruin the proportions and/or lines of a good dress. Yes, they don't destroy the outfit, but they are, ultimately unnecessary. I mean, aren't you carrying the James Jean Prada bag with you anyway? Why do you need pockets?

     Okay, I'm not usually a fan of "sporty" dresses, but I might have to make a partial exception. I mean, Melinda isn't completely off the hook here. The bib front? A completely contrivance. But the lined hood combined with the interesting hem and just enough sleeve to invoke activewear creates a very interesting look. The silhouette would also be pretty flattering to a lot of women, too. But please. The bib? You should have just gone for a button-up neck.

     Was there a memo I missed? Did Ferrero-Rocher become an acceptable raw material for a dress? Okay, fine Shana intended them to be roses. But since when are roses muddy brown? Also, please stop with the cuff. Stop trying to prove to me that your dress is "on trend". Instead, take away the eighties hair and earrings, shave off a bit of those roses, and then we'll talk.

     Okay, here's the good news, Stacey, your name isn't an irritating irregular spelling of a common name and your dress isn't a hackneyed attempt to invoke florals. Actually it's a rather interesting take on the magnolia's distinct coloring and petals. But I don't think it's a very successful wedding dress. It's a little too editorial for a wedding, if you know what I'm saying. Also, "hidden side zip"? Do you mean, "ill-fitting mess"? Be smart and just put a zip in the back so that it's easier to fit.

     All in all, not that bad, girls. I didn't wind up spending half the time trying to not regurgitate my Thai house noodles, which, by anyone's standards, represents a great improvement. Keep it up, ladies, my gag reflex thanks you.

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Art of Darkness

     I saw this ad for an online design competition being sponsored by American Express and run by Glam over at Connie's and decided to just snoop a little. Lord was I in for a shock. The majority of these are ugly as sin. Not just because some of these folks clearly aren't fashion illustrators—that's an understandable result of a competition open to anyone and everyone—my problem is that these folks are the semifinalists. I thought about just leaving it at that, but I seriously have to go through these one by one and rip them apart.

     Monique decided to take inspiration from a "candle from the Bahamas". Well, this explains why this is a big, hot mess. I think this girl just decided to throw on as many ideas that she associated with "pretty dress" onto one sketch. Plunging neck? Check. Asymmetrical back strap? Check. Low-cut back? Check. Contrast color star? Check. Oh please. Maybe instead of taking "time out of her classes", she needs to focus a bit more.

     "Elaborate"? "Eco-minded"? What is that little thing running down the middle? A bib? Well, you might be throwing up all over yourself if you're wearing this, so I can understand the need. And I bet a ton of people voted for her just because she claimed that this was "made from bamboo". Pssh. I'm from the Bay, girl. I know some real sustainable clothing lines and none of them look this bad/boring/bad. And can we talk about those ridiculous feet? I understand that it's hard to draw shoes, but anybody with a real eye can see that Alexandra still clearly endorses the idea of bound feet, which I don't think is very fashion forward.

      I appreciated Anne's attempt to distract me from her boring, boring dress with her model's legs. I know how far a good pair of stems will get you, so I understand what she's trying to do here. Unfortunately this does not change the fact that her dress is basically something that you can buy from any of the following establishments: Forever 21, Target, H&M, Charlotte Russe, Wet Seal, et cetera. A draped neckline and high hem do not a hot dress make.

     Too easy. Next.

     Not bad, Carrie, not bad at all. Your appeal to my Kate Moss-centric sensibilities definitely earns you a point or two. Your styling, however, leaves something to be desired. Short skirt? Flapper inspired look? Please, don't hurt yourself stretching. I know it must be difficult. The layered skirt, ruched bodice, and asymmetrical strap/collar create some visual interest. I won't be too hard on Carrie because, unlike so many others, she actually tried.

     Let's get a few things straight. This is about clothes. I don't know how much time you spent drawing your model's face, but more importantly—and you really ought to be taking notes here, Christina—I really don't care. Droopy cowlneck double-knit dress? Gross. And what the fuck is that on the dress anyway? Did you just make a screenprint out of a piece of your grandmother's couch? And you added leggings. It's like serving a shitcake with piss frosting and a big bowl of frozen vomit on the side.

     Now Jessica, I know this is going to be hard for you to understand, but I'd like you to follow along with me very, very carefully. I'll say this slowly to make sure that you get everything. There. Is. A. World. Outside. Palo. Alto. I understand that it's hard to envision a place where everyone doesn't have legs that go on for days, where people don't feel the need to tie their hair into a pony-tail and throw it over their shoulder every day, where the median income for a family is actually less than $117, 574 (I know, take a minute with that one, Jessica). But just because you don't know about this world outside doesn't mean it isn't there. So please, don't pillage some Asian culture with your "Kimoyes" dress in an attempt to make a dress that everyone's seen in a million iterations already.

     I never thought we'd get here without me becoming physically ill, but Mary's little number might do the trick. I have been increasing my caloric intake, so this just might be the solution. (I kid, please no angry e-mails. I already eat like a cow. Now get off my nuts.) I think you should try patenting your "triple keyhole neckline", Mary, because I really don't think anyone else has (or ever will) try out that little trick. Did I also mention how deliriously high Mary's model is? And how closely she resembles one of my elementary school teachers? No. Well, she is and she does. Also, the length of her arms may be an indication of knuckle-walking, because Lord knows that my arms don't reach down past my knees.

     Folks, if we work together, we can stop bad fashion from happening to good people. Or, in this case, bad people happening to good fashion. Because then all you're left with is ugly people in ugly dresses making everyone else feeling uncomfortable.

     Also, sorry for the bad Conrad pun. Just couldn't help myself.

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Rogue Rouge

     You can thank (or blame) Dries van Noten for my next haircut. I just need to track down where Monica is and get her to do this for me. Too bad I lost the e-mail she sent me. Fuck. I really don't want to have to start over and find an all new stylist.

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Getting Ridiculous

Why are we sitting here doing plot summary? Why are acting like we don't know what literature is? I graduated from high school with the express purpose of never having to do any fucking plot summary ever again.

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I Swam Laps Today

     Looking over things I've written in the past, I realize now how uncomfortable I am whenever I write. Not that I don't like it. I just realized that the process of creation has always unsettled me. It carries a sense of responsibility. Whenever I set pen to paper or sit down to my computer, I pledge my time and energy towards the pursuit of some interesting thing, some representation of subject. Accuracy has never been a goal, simply because I don't have that streak in me. It'd be much safer to say that my habits have tended towards the reflective, towards the simultaneous goals of division and unity; the former for analysis and the latter for appreciation.

     In the past, I thought that art of any kind was meant to explore possibility, to dissect the ratios of thought and life and weigh them, without judgment, against one another. But now I feel that the purpose of art is to make life livable. I want to delve into that, but now isn't a good time for it. Right now, I'm trying to think about what I want to do. But I really feel limited by what I can do. I don't really know what I can make out of all this, but I know that it should lead somewhere. It might not be a direct line. Maybe the course will be mapped out by little explanations, jotted down one at a time when the moment strikes.

     Still uncomfortable, though. I'm always worried about how quickly a set of thoughts lose relevance. I'm comforted by my momentary attempts to "look at the bigger picture", but I've been constructing my life bit by bit and I've found it nearly impossible to write with any foresight whatsoever, other than blind foresight, eagerly reaching out into the void. A fancy game of craps. I think I'm uncomfortable with writing because I'm uncomfortable with being permanent. It's hard to write something and say to yourself, "Well, there it is. I wanted to do it and now I've done it." Then you have to leave it alone. You can always re-visit it, but it's done.

     I'd like to find something I feel enough passion about that I can write about endlessly in a directed manner. Something that I can focus my attention on long enough so that I don't have to worry about the questions of permanence. Maybe I need feel some permanence before I can expect any measure of it to show up in my work.

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Miming

    Thank Michael, if you want to thank anyone at all. Different people are bound to react differently.

1. I think about clothes more than I think about girls. But that's a very obvious revelation.
2. My room is littered with old receipts, magazines, notebooks, and empty plastic bags.
3. My net attendance of parties in 2007 was not a figure that I followed; honestly, I didn't count. A couple bad ones, but overall, party quality has been on the rise.
4. My DVD collection is: Drawn Together Season 1, The Devil Wears Prada, Amadeus, and Rainy Day: Rain's First Live Concert. This collection is obviously stifled by my lack of space and does not include DVDs purchased and stored at home.
5. The last thing I searched on Wikipedia was the live-action Dragonball movie. Folks, I'm concerned about this. Emotions are mixed, I can tell you. Stephen Chow? Exciting. Justin Chatwin? Uninspiring. James Marsters? Interesting. Emmy Rossum? Confusing.

     This was a bad idea. But at least it's a completely one.

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Unequivocal Equanimity

     I got started talking about art with someone. The who, when, and where makes little difference. But he had showed some of his graphic design off. And I had made comments. Honest comments. I said that I felt one wasn't very aware of proportion and scale. I said the techniques in a photograph looked forced and unnecessary. And he was a little upset at this. Then I asked him,

     "Isn't the expectation of showing your work to get honest opinions?"

     He seemed a little baffled and it did little to console him. It really discouraged me that someone cannot reconcile the concept of honesty with the concept of possibility. That is, the possible of a good reception and the separate and equally distinct possibility of a bad reception. I can't possible tell you good things without telling you bad things. That would be—and let's say it together—dishonest. The act of displaying your own work, things that you have spent your time and energy fucking creating, means that you want someone to objectively view your accomplishments and to critically analyze it. But to go around and act outraged at a constructive criticism is absolute bullshit.

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Duh

     "Stephen Colbert's show is a spoof of Bill O'Reilly."

     Journalism 141 has provided me with the single most obvious commentary upon popular culture that I have ever heard.

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