January 31, 2009


Quick post, as I procrastinate from other doings. I love this song. Well, I loved the original, and let’s face it, who doesn’t have a girl-crush on Feist? No Broken Social Scene concert or iPod commercial can quite be complete without her. How I came to hear this version was equally charming. Enjoy!


On repeat.

January 30, 2009

I can’t find my headphones, so I think my coworkers might kill me. I’m trying to alternate it with other stuff enough that I can pull off playing this a ton without incurring any wrath. But I love this song today.

I’m not sure why it is I love it so much. I certainly have never been in the situation described in the song, so I’m not undergoing some deep mystical identification with that, but I’m digging the emotion. And her voice. I’m usually not enthralled by the cutesy-voiced girls genre [whenever I listen to Joanna Newsom I have to suppress the urge to hunt her down and smack her soundly for being so odious] but hers is acceptable.

Also on rotation (and to force you to listen to Lykke Li 🙂 ):

Found, sort of.

January 30, 2009

I ve been looking for the word for this thing all week: un inhalateur!! This one isn’t nearly as pretty as the ones we have back home. Oh the bliss to have my face comfortably lodged in the funnel of such a contraption with a yellow and white striped dishcloth over my head. Hmm… There are very few instances when my dad actively took care of me. Busting this puppy out and adding eucalyptus scents to it like his mommy used to was one of them. Priceless memory. I wish nostalgia came in a pill and could cure all ills. If it did, I’d be the healthiest woman alive.

So timely!

January 29, 2009

Hah! Just as I was longing for the supermodels of yore, I find out that Gaultier had the magnificent Ines de la Fressange walk for him in Paris this week.


And now a  picture from the days she was actively modelling, from Chanel:


Early Morning Dance Party

January 29, 2009

I love George Michael. Unabashedly. I also miss the days when supermodels were actually gorgeous, instead of looking vaguely diseased. How better to start a morning when I get to lounge blissfully around than by revisiting these old classics?

(And how amazing is the motorcycle corset in the one below? Thierry Mugler is an insane, insane genius.)

Actually, I’m not sure if these videos are more of a testament to my love for George Michael or my love for Linda Evangelista’s general status as a goddess. So why don’t I give you some George all on his own. Shall I?

Ahh…. perfect, leisurely way to wake up. Perfect sunny morning, time enough for breakfast, and George Michael. Bliss.

(Now if I only lived on my own… but that’s something to be worked on for a later day.)

Popped into my head today, and I couldn’t resist putting this up, in honour of myself aged 15-20. Maybe it’s time for me to have it as my ringtone again.

So bad.

January 16, 2009

It’s terribly un-PC, but I really really want a fur hat.

sw[Garance Dore]

sybille1[Garance Dore again]

and finally, more casually…

badboysshirt[TV Carnage and Street Boners]

Not 100% crazy about that last one, but I like the spirit in which it is worn.

So… off to the vintage stores for me! And I’ll try not to cry as I think of the really cute one I tried on and contemplated buying when I was in St. Petersburg two summers ago.

Sigh… I’m a terrible person. I love fur. I hate the way fake fur feels. Maybe vintage is the answer?

Recently I had two experiences that raised the question of responsibility in the face of strangers’ immediate distress.

The first encounter was fairly straight-forward. I was walking down 2nd Ave in the rain after work one night, having a Very Deep and Serious Conversation on the phone with my mother about the cuteness of a pair of shoes that I coveted but could in no way justify buying. I passed a guy who was clearly out of his gourd, weaving left and right, front and back across the sidewalk in a botched attempt at forward perambulation. I was mildly concerned, as visibility was bad, and he kept swaying dangerously close to the kerb, but he seemed to have a magical ability to steer just barely clear of disaster. Mostly I was irritated at how difficult it was to navigate around his meanderings. Doing a complicated darting dance of avoidance, we arrived at the corner more or less simultaneously. While I waited for my light, muttering to my mother about drunken overgrown frat-boys, he made a feint at crossing the street. His foot caught on the kerb and he fell face-first into the gutter with a horrible crunching sound.

I swore into the phone and quickly explained to my mom what had just happened, vaguely, queasily hoping that she would say the whole situation was terribly unsafe, so I could justify skedaddling out of there and leaving the guy to his crunching sound and his limbs sprawled out in the gutter. Big, unknown, drunk guy and falling into gutters turn out to be quite uncomfortable-making, at least as far as I am concerned. I wanted to play Good Samaritan, but I also didn’t entirely have a burning desire to spend my night in an emergency room with some idiot stranger, or to have something worse happen. Alas for my horrible apathetic side, my mom possesses a strong moral sense and she immediately replied, “Well? What are you waiting for? Get off the phone and help him get up!”

Fortunately as I was assessing the situation, and realising the impossibility of my lifting him on my own, another big guy approached from the cross street. I managed to rope him into helping me hoist the drunkard to his feet. Aged Frat-boy’s nose was swollen and bleeding prodigiously—obviously broken. It dripped a dark red streak down his chin and onto his shirt, fading slightly as it was diluted by the rain. I shrunk away from it, hearing the voice of my inner neuroses chant dire litanies of blood-borne illnesses. My delicate upbringing decidedly did not prepare me for the ugly side of intoxication– broken noses and drunken falls into gutters are not my scene. He refused my attempts to call him an ambulance or a friend, insisting that he was ok, and so I and my burly assistant manhandled him across the road and down a few block to the apartment he insisted was his. After some conferring, we deposited him at the door, scrambling to put the key into the lock.

I was saddened that my initial reaction to his fall was the ugly recoil of “I could be hurt or inconvenienced in some way,” that seems necessarily to inform a lot of reactions these days. This time I got involved, but there have been many times when I hesitated, because the person seemed crazy, or the person seemed inconvenient, or in a truly terribly way, not quite important enough to make me become involved in their story and actually devote the time to doing something human and kind.

The second encounter was one where the person was potentially in greater need, but I didn’t help. Six days later it’s still bothering me.

I was in Duane Reade on my way home from the gym, buying an energy bar and nail polish. When I went to stand in line to pay for my purchases, I saw a middle-aged man at the check-out counter, trying to explain something to one of the cashiers. He had a sad, sagging face and stringy greying hair. He wore an old trenchcoat and ratty clothes that gingerly trod the line between eccentric and homeless. I could see that he had some sort of Med-Alert bracelet on his sleeve. Stuttering horribly, he was trying to convey to the cashier that he might soon require medical assistance. He was going to go outside and see if the fresh air would help him, but if the cashier saw him fall over or anything, he should get ready to call 911 and ask for help.

As he explained all this, every muscle in his body shook terribly from a uncontrollable palsy.

He tried to take some card out of his wallet to show the clerk, but had to use his left hand to guide his right into his pocket, the tremors were so bad. In the process, he shifted his standing position from where he had been braced against the counter, and began to sway dangerously in all directions, as if he were about to fall over. At this point, I became scared for him, and tried to meet the eyes of the person in front of me in line, hoping for something… guidance? She stared fixedly ahead, seeming to pay no attention to the situation. The cashier reacted similarly, rolling his eyes at the inconvenience. I was watching in horror, but somehow found myself unable to step forward and intervene in some manner. I had my phone out in case 911 actually did need to be called, but for some reason couldn’t find a way to get myself so involved that an extreme situation might actually be avoided.

Eventually, the man, trembling worse every moment, made his precarious way outside. I heard him explaining his plight to another person who worked in the store. Once I made it outside, there was no sign of him.

I’m still troubled by the fact that I didn’t step up to help him, and I’m not quite able to pinpoint what it was exactly that made me freeze. I hope, had something actually happened, that I would have been able to react appropriately. In the past, I have been able to do so, and that gives me hope for similar future situations. The fact remains, though, that I’m not sure what I was scared of. I’m not sure if it was just the fact of illness– if there might be vomit involved, and how I would deal withthat. Maybe it was the fact that he was so disheveled. Would I have intervened for someone who looked more respectable? Someone younger? Older? A female? I also am scared to consider how much my own personal comfort factored in. It was late, I was tired and hungry, and my legs were sore from the gym. I was in my sweaty clothes and wanted to get home. Helping some random invalid could mean potential hours of inconvenience… or mere minutes to ensure he made it outside. Why did I remain uninvolved?

I know that ruminations of this sort can be seen as quite banal to others’ oh-so-jaded eyes, but I am truly troubled by my reluctance to react in the face of others’ need. I don’t mean this in the sense that I have to respond to every plea for help, and give money to every beggar that I see on the street, but these situations were cases of individuals who were unmistakably, immediately in need. In my paralysis, I’m not entirely sure what separates me from the woman in front of me in line who just shut everything out. True, I intended to react, but “almost ain’t is,” in the pithy words of my grandma. It saddens me to know that assistance isn’t a given, and it scares me to know that there are people who have chronic conditions who must trust in others’ noble impulses. Hopefully I’ll react more appropriately in the future, but I’m really not sure how I’ll know how to define the hows and whens of appropriate action.

Shorter, more lighthearted post tomorrow, I promise.

January 7, 2009

In honour of good times good food good company, a musical tribute to one of my most beloved friends

Not particularly safe for work. But deeply entertaining.