Enter Cuffington's Fashion Show Contest! Stat! Mush! Go!
I would have loved to read this when I was 16.
No one can deny that Twister is the best movie ever. Wait. What's that? Are you denying? Dude! Come on! Cary Elwes as a corrupt, well funded government storm chaser! He leads a caravan of black SUVs with tinted windows and the best technology but he still can't keep up with Helen Hunt's ragtag crew! It's an F5 of fun! OK, OK, fine, speak for yourself, but I'm so buying this to commemorate it.
Constructively criticizing unconstructive criticism. Amen!
I want to print out this blog and hang it on my wall.
One of my favorite bloggers in the history of blogging, Emi from the now-defunct Letters to Marc Jacobs, has FINALLY started a new blog, which means I can FINALLY stop my daily ritual of clicking the link to her old blog, seeing no updates, and crying.
I'm an Oregonian, so I'm contractually prohibited from using an umbrella, but if I could, I would totally use this one.
To do:
1. Get sewing machine.
2. Get fabric.
3. Learn to use sewing machine.
4. Attempt to make a dress.
5. Do not rip up half-finished dress in frustrated rage.
6. Finish dress.
7. Look half as good as Ambika.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Friday, March 07, 2008
Fashion Mad Libs: A Massive Disservice to the Albino Peacock Population
Finally, I present to you the product of today's Fashion Mad Libs. I stole the original text from none other than Queen Michelle of Kingdom of Style (yes, bloggers are no longer safe from Mad Libbers!). It was originally a perfectly fine discussion of harem trousers, but under our creative control, it has become a profound thesis on amorality and drop-crotch platypi. Brilliant.
However, there is another sartorial offender who seems to be Fashion Public Tower Number One - the harem trouser, the drop-crotch platypus, the weed whacker pant, whatever pseudonym it appears under the reaction is always the same--smelly. The horror is however quadrupled when the offender is caressing the foot of a female. By some reactions you think by wearing them we are doing the whole albino peacock population a massive disservice.
"Weed whacker pants make me sad..."
I know that quite a few well-meaning but late-sleeping (or just West Coast-residing) readers weren't able to join in the Mad Libs fun, so I'll try to get this feature up more often (and maybe in the middle of the day?) to give everybody a chance at grammatically correct entertainment!
Anyway, here's our latest fashion writing masterwork:
However, there is another sartorial offender who seems to be Fashion Public Tower Number One - the harem trouser, the drop-crotch platypus, the weed whacker pant, whatever pseudonym it appears under the reaction is always the same--smelly. The horror is however quadrupled when the offender is caressing the foot of a female. By some reactions you think by wearing them we are doing the whole albino peacock population a massive disservice.
"Weed whacker pants make me sad..."Men in particular, apart from the very purple polka dot bikini-savvy it would appear, find them especially truck-shaped. I'm not really sure as to why this is. Whilst men seem perfectly at ease with a simple pair of loose albumens hanging on the female form, as soon as the trousers have the small added quirk of a merry crotch they go from being androgynously attractive to downright delicious.
However, and call me languid if you want, whenever I see ladies rocking these 'difficult' trousers I am simply filled with awe and admiration at their balls for invigorating in the face of conventional ideas of "amoral" and doing their own thing. Surely other women should at least appreciate that stiletto even if they find the trousers themselves famous?
I'm perspiring mine today as I ponder this. I really don't find them 350 pounds at all.
Friday Fashion Mad Libs!
So how long has it been since our last Fashion Mad Libs adventure?
Allow me to answer that formerly rhetorical question: it's been seven months! Ah, July of '07. How innocent we were! How simple life was! In fact, the internet didn't even exist back then, so we had to play FML through an elaborate chain letter. It was an eight week process. Not that fun.
But enough about the past. Today marks the triumphant return of this popular yet elusive feature. If you've never participated in Fashion Mad Libs on Daddy Likey, and aren't really getting the self-explanatory name, then click here to read the confusing and convoluted introductory post.
I'll wait.
Done? Confused? OK, so the basic premise is this: I shamelessly steal a fashion related article from a classified source (I'm really excited about today's choice), and turn it into a Mad Libs by having you guys replace words with new ones that don't make sense, so it's funny, see? I'll give you a list of the kinds of words I need, and you give them to me in the comment section. For example, if this was the list:
1. plural noun
2. adjective
Then the first commenter would write "1. ovens" and the second commenter would write "2. bloated." Or whatever. It's molto importante (English translation: molto important) to comment in order and number your entries, or else the next commenters won't know where to start and anarchy will ensue and society will crumble. Or whatever.
In the strained words of the 8th grade softball coach who led me to a record .000 batting average, "The most important thing is to have fun!"
Here is your Mad Libs mission:
Allow me to answer that formerly rhetorical question: it's been seven months! Ah, July of '07. How innocent we were! How simple life was! In fact, the internet didn't even exist back then, so we had to play FML through an elaborate chain letter. It was an eight week process. Not that fun.
But enough about the past. Today marks the triumphant return of this popular yet elusive feature. If you've never participated in Fashion Mad Libs on Daddy Likey, and aren't really getting the self-explanatory name, then click here to read the confusing and convoluted introductory post.
I'll wait.
Done? Confused? OK, so the basic premise is this: I shamelessly steal a fashion related article from a classified source (I'm really excited about today's choice), and turn it into a Mad Libs by having you guys replace words with new ones that don't make sense, so it's funny, see? I'll give you a list of the kinds of words I need, and you give them to me in the comment section. For example, if this was the list:
1. plural noun
2. adjective
Then the first commenter would write "1. ovens" and the second commenter would write "2. bloated." Or whatever. It's molto importante (English translation: molto important) to comment in order and number your entries, or else the next commenters won't know where to start and anarchy will ensue and society will crumble. Or whatever.
In the strained words of the 8th grade softball coach who led me to a record .000 batting average, "The most important thing is to have fun!"
Here is your Mad Libs mission:
1. noun
2. plural noun
3. adjective
4. time period
5. noun
6. adjective
7. famous person
8. noun
9. noun
10. type of tool
11. adjective
12. body part
13. animal
14. noun
15. adjective
16. plural noun
17. adjective
18. adjective
19. adjective
20. verb ending in “ing”
21. adjective
22. noun
23. adjective
24. verb ending “ing”
25. adjective
Thursday, March 06, 2008
High Fashion Haiku: Paris Fashion Week Edition
I'd be pissed off tooif I couldn't eat during
Girl Scout Cookie time.
Girl Scout Cookie time.
This hungry model brought to you by Alexander McQueen.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Monday, March 03, 2008
L.A. Story
A word of caution: If you're the type of person who is offended by things like starfish with vagina mouths, then you might want to skip this post. If you are not, then you should read this post, move to Oregon, and be my friend. Thank you.
So, my accidental blogging hiatus (it began with a genuinely large amount of schoolwork and ended with a weekend of Bosnian pitas, costume parties, and two trips to Eugene) has given me many opportunities to tell many people about my LA adventures, and pretty much everyone I've told has reacted with a slightly forced guffaw, nod, and subject change. But I promised you that I'd share so I'm going to share, damnit! At least you can force a guffaw in the privacy of your own home this way.
First, a bit of backstory. My friends Lindsay, Meg, and I flew down to LA last weekend to visit our friend Rachel, who recently moved there for grad school. I could write thousands of words about the awesome unique person that is Rachel, but for the purpose of this story, we'll focus on this one fact: Rachel hates Passion Parties.
For those of you who have made it this far in life without encountering a Passion Party (congratulations!), allow me to explain. A Passion Party is like a tupperware party, but with sex toys. There are a number of companies that put on these parties, always with names like Pure Romance, Naughty Delights, or Secret Temptations. The basic format involves a "Passion Consultant" teaming with the party host to put out pink decorations and dainty food, and then, when the host's friends arrive, to dispense company-sanctioned sex tips and try to sell them vibrators and glitter lube.
I know a few people who live for these parties, but Rachel hates them with a Passion (tehehe I couldn't help it!). Since Rachel's birthday was a week prior to our visit, and since we are the best friends ever, Meg, Lindsay, and I decided to throw her a freelance Passion Party.
Before we left, we went to a sex shop and bought a number of naughty products to pretend to sell to Rachel. We also went to Fred Meyer and bought pink streamers, a vat of Kroger personal lubricant, and some Wet 'n Wild (never has the name been more appropriate) glitter pots for the craft portion of the party.
We wrapped up our supplies in a pink box, stuck it in our checked baggage (we didn't want to have to explain our motives to the TSA, especially since I was warned on my last trip through airport security that humor is prohibited), and boarded our plane.
Somewhere between Portland and California, we realized that we absolutely needed to have a sex guidebook and companion catalog for our Passion Party. I ripped out pages from my notebook and we spent an hour drawing a bunch of confusing sex positions with names like "The Praying Tetrahedron" and "The Flying Walrus" and writing out hott sex tips (example: "Try sucking seductively on a chicken bouillon cube--no man could resist such a savory temptation!" We were laughing madly and screeching things like, "How much should gravy-flavored lube cost??" and if I had been another passenger I would have hated us.
By the time we stopped in Oakland for our layover, our cheeks were streaked with mascara and our tray tables were strewn with probably forty pages of perverted content. Since we had to wait on the plane anyway, it seemed the perfect, turbulence-free opportunity to design the cover art and logo. We settled on Sensual Sensations for our company name (slogan: "Leading you down the path to pleasure"), but we needed a logo, a mascot, that was totally unique, totally unforgettable, totally disturbing...And so, Sally the Sex-ay Starfish was born. She was sultry, she was memorable, and she had a vagina for a mouth. Rachel was going to hate us.
I drew her on the cover of the catalog and we nearly died laughing. But then something caught our eye and we stopped. We froze. Somewhere on the plane, the pages of SkyMall rustled in the wind.
A Catholic priest was walking toward us.
A number of thoughts rushed through my mind as I watched him amble down the aisle. Mostly, Are you serious? I mean, I'm not sure that I'd ever even seen a Catholic priest before. My debut really had to be now, after a solid hour and a half of unquestionable sexual deviancy? He had to pass up all those perfectly good seats in the front, and come closer and closer to us, to me, to my tray table stacked high with graphically rendered sex acts? He had to be hovering over our seats, cramming his holy briefcase into the compartment above my head? Are you serious?
He plopped down in the seat next to Meg.
I instinctively threw my body over the pile of Passion Party paraphernalia, hugging the papers to my chest and trying to suppress the greatest laugh of my life. Meg was convulsing with giggles and tears, trying desperately to look normal and failing. Lindsay, a former Catholic in the window seat, had curled into a fetal position and was rocking back and forth, sputtering, "I can't do this! I'm freezing up! Oh my God, I'm freezing up!"
It was probably the best moment of my life.
After an eternity on the Oakland runway, the plane finally took off, the priest finally took out a book, and through a series of whispers and hand gestures we decided we had to finish the Sensual Sensations catalog, two feet away from the holy father or not. I think we succeeded in being sort of subtle. Except for the time I asked too loudly if I should draw sprinkles on the dick donut, and the time we dropped the oral stimulation page on the ground under his seat, and, yeah, we failed completely. We're going to hell.
On the bright side (shouldn't every declaration of "We're going to hell" be followed by "On the bright side"?), the Passion Party was a complete success. Rachel was alternately horrified and amused, and, as an art major, I think she really appreciated Sally Starfish.
Since I just wrote a thousand words on the priest story and I promised my boyfriend five days ago that I would unpack my suitcase that's still sitting in the middle of the living room, the rest of my LA experience will have to be summed up in grand bullet point style:
p.s. Meg, Lindsay, and Rachel: You guys are the best.
So, my accidental blogging hiatus (it began with a genuinely large amount of schoolwork and ended with a weekend of Bosnian pitas, costume parties, and two trips to Eugene) has given me many opportunities to tell many people about my LA adventures, and pretty much everyone I've told has reacted with a slightly forced guffaw, nod, and subject change. But I promised you that I'd share so I'm going to share, damnit! At least you can force a guffaw in the privacy of your own home this way.
First, a bit of backstory. My friends Lindsay, Meg, and I flew down to LA last weekend to visit our friend Rachel, who recently moved there for grad school. I could write thousands of words about the awesome unique person that is Rachel, but for the purpose of this story, we'll focus on this one fact: Rachel hates Passion Parties.
For those of you who have made it this far in life without encountering a Passion Party (congratulations!), allow me to explain. A Passion Party is like a tupperware party, but with sex toys. There are a number of companies that put on these parties, always with names like Pure Romance, Naughty Delights, or Secret Temptations. The basic format involves a "Passion Consultant" teaming with the party host to put out pink decorations and dainty food, and then, when the host's friends arrive, to dispense company-sanctioned sex tips and try to sell them vibrators and glitter lube.
I know a few people who live for these parties, but Rachel hates them with a Passion (tehehe I couldn't help it!). Since Rachel's birthday was a week prior to our visit, and since we are the best friends ever, Meg, Lindsay, and I decided to throw her a freelance Passion Party.
Before we left, we went to a sex shop and bought a number of naughty products to pretend to sell to Rachel. We also went to Fred Meyer and bought pink streamers, a vat of Kroger personal lubricant, and some Wet 'n Wild (never has the name been more appropriate) glitter pots for the craft portion of the party.
We wrapped up our supplies in a pink box, stuck it in our checked baggage (we didn't want to have to explain our motives to the TSA, especially since I was warned on my last trip through airport security that humor is prohibited), and boarded our plane.
Somewhere between Portland and California, we realized that we absolutely needed to have a sex guidebook and companion catalog for our Passion Party. I ripped out pages from my notebook and we spent an hour drawing a bunch of confusing sex positions with names like "The Praying Tetrahedron" and "The Flying Walrus" and writing out hott sex tips (example: "Try sucking seductively on a chicken bouillon cube--no man could resist such a savory temptation!" We were laughing madly and screeching things like, "How much should gravy-flavored lube cost??" and if I had been another passenger I would have hated us.
By the time we stopped in Oakland for our layover, our cheeks were streaked with mascara and our tray tables were strewn with probably forty pages of perverted content. Since we had to wait on the plane anyway, it seemed the perfect, turbulence-free opportunity to design the cover art and logo. We settled on Sensual Sensations for our company name (slogan: "Leading you down the path to pleasure"), but we needed a logo, a mascot, that was totally unique, totally unforgettable, totally disturbing...And so, Sally the Sex-ay Starfish was born. She was sultry, she was memorable, and she had a vagina for a mouth. Rachel was going to hate us.
I drew her on the cover of the catalog and we nearly died laughing. But then something caught our eye and we stopped. We froze. Somewhere on the plane, the pages of SkyMall rustled in the wind.
A Catholic priest was walking toward us.
A number of thoughts rushed through my mind as I watched him amble down the aisle. Mostly, Are you serious? I mean, I'm not sure that I'd ever even seen a Catholic priest before. My debut really had to be now, after a solid hour and a half of unquestionable sexual deviancy? He had to pass up all those perfectly good seats in the front, and come closer and closer to us, to me, to my tray table stacked high with graphically rendered sex acts? He had to be hovering over our seats, cramming his holy briefcase into the compartment above my head? Are you serious?
He plopped down in the seat next to Meg.
I instinctively threw my body over the pile of Passion Party paraphernalia, hugging the papers to my chest and trying to suppress the greatest laugh of my life. Meg was convulsing with giggles and tears, trying desperately to look normal and failing. Lindsay, a former Catholic in the window seat, had curled into a fetal position and was rocking back and forth, sputtering, "I can't do this! I'm freezing up! Oh my God, I'm freezing up!"
It was probably the best moment of my life.
After an eternity on the Oakland runway, the plane finally took off, the priest finally took out a book, and through a series of whispers and hand gestures we decided we had to finish the Sensual Sensations catalog, two feet away from the holy father or not. I think we succeeded in being sort of subtle. Except for the time I asked too loudly if I should draw sprinkles on the dick donut, and the time we dropped the oral stimulation page on the ground under his seat, and, yeah, we failed completely. We're going to hell.
On the bright side (shouldn't every declaration of "We're going to hell" be followed by "On the bright side"?), the Passion Party was a complete success. Rachel was alternately horrified and amused, and, as an art major, I think she really appreciated Sally Starfish.
Since I just wrote a thousand words on the priest story and I promised my boyfriend five days ago that I would unpack my suitcase that's still sitting in the middle of the living room, the rest of my LA experience will have to be summed up in grand bullet point style:
- We toured Rachel's new art studio and it was so cool that I want to copy her and get my MFA. (Maybe I could use my drawing of Sally Starfish to get me into a top art school?)
- It was wet and cold the entire time, which was great for "You Oregonians brought the rain with you!" jokes, but not good for Oregonians who didn't bring coats.
- I have never seen so many designer handbags in my life (we're more into Timbuk2 up here).
- We ate at Joan's on Third only because Mindy Kaling recommended it on her blog and we all got the same $12 sandwich only because Mindy Kaling recommended it on her blog and it was delicious.
- However, we did not see Mindy Kaling and therefore she is still not my new best friend and therefore my life is still a meaningless failure.
- We did see Jason Schwartzman in a boutique at the same time we smelled a bad smell so I've been telling people that Jason Schwartzman farted.
- Because of that last sentence, I have probably been blacklisted by Francis Ford Coppola.
- I literally bumped into Kirk from Gilmore Girls, which was a huge thrill, but all my friends are GG haters so they didn't care.
- On the way home, we missed our plane while standing in line for it, which is another crazy story but I'm tired and I have to go clean so too bad.
p.s. Meg, Lindsay, and Rachel: You guys are the best.
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