Some people call Los Angeles the Place Where Trends Go To Die. They might be right, after all, we are the city, I’d wager, with the most Ed Hardy/Christian Audigier, Juicy Couture, Chrome Hearts, and what-have-you consumption. The town where the Fergies and the Britneys and jesus christ the fucking Kardashians are the most-likely-photographed socialites; most likely wearing any number of horrendous items from the aforementioned outfitters. We are also the city where the most affluent among us drive mammoth cars — useless, gleaming Range Rovers and Bentleys (which, I might add, they drive themselves, which never fails to confuse my sense of what’s what).
Like many an Angeleno (this feels like a stretch, but tax return-wise and for the sake of argument, let’s say it’s true), I’ve come to realize that the best part about Los Angeles is its Choose Your Own Adventure quality. See what you want, skip what you don’t; L.A. is like the salad bar at Souplantations: your life, with all the fixins.
That being said, I refuse to be one of the many Los Angeles residents who, while rushing to defend it, also tote the semi-requisite attitude of “Oh, well, yeah, I mean, it’s no New York…”
For while Los Angeles may be the Place Where Trends Go To Die, trend-wise New York is a veritable Hall of Mirrors. In The City this weekend, I noticed the way in which New Yorkers find and reproduce a fad endlessly. If you’ve ever had a flea infestation, you’ll know what I’m getting at here. One year’s cat-eyes and baby backpacks is another’s “it”-bags and appletinis. Eventually, like the Roman Empire, its axis of influence is spread too thin and the trend ruptures and dies.
So suffice to say this year’s (really though, last year’s) baby backpack is the gladiator sandal (which turf wars aside, is what this post is about — don’t you love blogging?). I have personally been struggling with this trend for several months now (Sunshine! Another Los Angeles advantage!) — for every good option, you have to byass 50 hideous ones; my desire to find a pair that is both “daring” and “flattering” is challenged by the fact that these things are pretty much designed to make your legs look as utterly homely as possible (especially the daring ones!). And shall we all just agree that, unless you’re sporting last year’s Balenciagas, the to-the-knee thing is a completely fruitless exercise in looking cool?
Wading through the reflective echo chamber of the island of Manhattan is Loeffler Randall, who, it seems, hasn’t come up with a bad gladiator option yet. Each pair is simple and wearable– no more than one buckle — but each also posses an eye-catching quality and enough design detail to carry you through till fall. Seriously, collect all 4. I intend to.
When people come to my house (well, mostly Sarah and Julia), they often accuse my living room of resembling a doctor’s office, minus the impending use of shiny instruments.
I have a magazine problem. A big one. They’re everywhere. And I hoard them like these guys, never really sure when they’ve run their course and it’s time to toss them. So stacks develop — sometimes they’re suburban ranch house-like in dimension, but other times they take on skyscraper qualities.
Imagine my surprise and happiness when The Selby (which if you aren’t checking regularly, you should start) posted photos of objects in Julia Roitfeld’s New York apartment and I saw that the daughter of Paris Vogue Ed Caroline also adorns her space with swaying piles of reading matter. Stacks and stacks of magazines. And books. Awesome. At least I’m in good company.
The first time I saw mention of the trouser company Bonobos I laughed out loud. They know not what they do, I thought. How could anyone be so stupid as to name their company after the mammal second only to humans in lasciviousness? (Besides dolphins, I suppose.)
But no, they know exactly what they’re doing, and it’s fantastic. Reading the about pages (yes, there are several), you eventually come to regard founders Andy Dunn and Brian Spaly as your hilarious and over-informed fraternity brothers (even if you weren’t in a frat and are not currently male, such as I). The site is laced with tongue in cheek humor (customer service reps = ninjas), which serve to elevate what is otherwise a pretty bone-headedly straightforward idea into compulsive want-to-buy-now items.
The pants themselves actually do look fantastic. The motto doesn’t lie; they are awesome fitting trousers. At least the headless horseman they got to parade around in them on the website looks great. The pants come in five different fabric styles and five main styles, conveniently broken down by occasion. Keeping not only a male attention span happy, but mine as well.
I was just reminded of this gem courtesy of Mr. J Amendolara, when I happened across Christopher Walken’s re-telling of (although it does feel like the first time doesn’t it?) The Three Little Pigs… Enjoy, dunskies!
Well ladies and gents, it’s memorial day and I’m off (or, if this automatic post poster is functioning correctly, I’m already there!) to Small Point, Maine.
In the spirit of callusy hands, swatting mosquitos and dusting off the house for the summer (oh and 2-D design), check out this great silkscreen print from the mavericks at Brainstorm. You should get one. Or just get me one.
I have to write a post about this great song by local L.A. band Fol Chen. I mean, so yeah, I love narrative-driven songs, fine, but this one is just so evocative and awesome — cannot be beat. It makes me want to run back to Palm Springs (there this weekend, more to come on that later!), hole up in a [pepto pink?] motel and wait out the sunlight with a refreshing spritzer.
Was it in protest, you ask? A strike of silence? Amputated fingertips rendering you incapable of typing?
So yeah, it’s been a while. Here I am again. I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long to get back on the horse, as I don’t have many scrutinizing readers… make that any readers [Hi Mom!].
