Archive for the ‘Fashion’ Category
I’m attached to a great textured bomber I got from the Swedish brand COS. It’s a sexy mélange gradient tone. It’s got matte press-studs down the front and raglan sleeves. What I love the most is that I haven’t seen a single person in my jacket yet.
After writing about the black-on-black Varsity coat, that is, of course, when it becomes omnipresent. And now, it could be loosing its lustre. I haven’t decided. Perhaps I’m not keen on how I’ve seen it worn. It’s either too low grade, or… I’m just not convinced. But, with the bomber, I suppose it’s sexier.
I’ve been having a bit of a rockabilly moment. I don’t dress like one, but I admire their style. I find it fascinating how people can be stuck in a modern-day time warp with the quiffs, Levis, exaggerated eye liner (for the girls). I really love it. And though I don’t think this is a style I would emulate to the fullest, I would pull some pointers for sure.
Michelle Pfeiffer and the ganger in Grease 2.
That said, I guess both the bomber and the varsity fall into that whole rockabilly category. Which means, I have no interest in wearing it in its relevant context. And when I say that, I mean, I notice a lot of young Londoners infusing their hip-hop hipster style with the jacket. I don’t like it. But then again, for some reason, I don’t necessarily like seeing guys in purple either.
The only other alternative for me, is if it had a punk edge to it
Image pulled from Ahoodie
I suppose, rockabilly is a combination of 1950s style and punk, but then, that’s just my observation. But I can’t help but think the bomber will be around way longer than the varsity/letterman will.
Stretch cotton-twill and leather varsity jacket by Paul Smith. A hefty £925 price tage. Available at Mr. Porter.
I’m not sure where this fascination with varsity jackets came from. Perhaps it was after seeing the lovely line-up at E.Tauz or maybe, it’s the boy in me, but they’ve suddenly become a priority on my staple list. Ah, that’s it. Though the varsity jacket is as alpha male as it gets. This season’s version boasts an androgyny with muted, monochrome palettes and uber clean lines.
The perfect example of this is the young, feminine featured New York rapper A$AP Rocky. His latest video, Goldie, saw him spice the jacket up with a toque and some grills. But his soft, lean silhouette – he does look rather waif – was reminiscent of your favourite tom girl.
NIKE Destroyer £280. Available at the NIKE store.
Then there’s NIKE Destroyer for women. OK. I did recently post about it. Maybe too recent. While it’s not as smooth as Paul Smith’s version (and a fraction of the price), it is surprisingly minimal (no logos or obvious NIKE branding) which makes this a strong option if you’re into this trend.
It’s a tough call, believe it or not. It is much easier to dress down the Paul Smith version than it is to dress up the NIKE one. Though they’re both very similar with the ribbed cuffs, press-stud fastening, leather sleeves, it’s about the finish and effect in the end. Needless to say, I can’t really justify even spending £280 on a NIKE jacket, of all things, either.
I’ll be keeping a close eye… on both of them.
I’ve been an asshole lately. However, I’ve been one since I learned to formulated words, which was probably around nineteen eighty something. So nothing’s really changed. I’ve been called a bitch, but that’s only because I am a woman. I don’t think I’m a bitch. A jerk – sure. An asshole… wink. I have manipulative tendencies, too. But I’ve also got a heart of gold. Sometimes it’s like gold dust in a person’s hands. And I’m sensitive and compassionate. I cry at the simplest things. Like, an ad about abused animals. Or the joys of innocence – kids. And I’m very, very open to criticism.
However, I feel no invested emotion in oestrogen. And trust me, I’ve come across an equal ratio of men to women with this problem. Especially as of late. And maybe I’ll loose friends, because of this. But I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I have the best intentions. I mean, who knows, maybe whomever reads this will take it as an aim at them, and it’s actually not. There’s about five or more people that have drank from my cup.
At the end of the day, if you’re upset at what I have to say, maybe, just maybe, it’s not me, it could be you. Or maybe it is me? Does it even matter? Maybe we all need to do some introspection in the end but:
“Hold up, before we end this campaign. As you can see, we done bodied the damn lames. Lord, please let them accept the things they can’t change. And pray that all of their pain be champagne.”
– Kanye West, Otis
An oil on canvass by John Currin
I’ve been having some discussions about sex with a close friend of mine. It’s ironic, because technically, there are other, more ‘liberated’ friends – and family – to talk to about my sex life with. And I do, but none-the-less, it is, technically, easier to talk to someone in the same boat.
While talking about this particular pursuit though, the exchange made me realise, as much as we might get on fantastically about work, fashion, etc., there is a clear divide on matters of the flesh. I am sure when people talk about black Caribbean upbringings, the stories resonate. Perhaps it is universal, but I say from a black Caribbean perspective, because I am a black Canadian of Caribbean descent.
My family, is big and beautiful. I felt a lot of love. But I did not grow up in a household where I felt comfortable talking about sex. And though you may think ‘who has?’ there is validity to this. I sought sex from a very young age, though I didn’t actually have it until in my early 20s. But I had this ideal in my head, because of what I saw within my family growing up. My father, being a gigolo, was bad. To be married and in a committed relationship was good. Sex was something between married people – or close enough. The idea of having a boyfriend in your teens wasn’t acceptable. Not that I could be stopped, but if it happened, I ran the risk of being an outcast. I had two very close cousins, one, closer to my age, who was considered bad, and one, three years older than me, who to this day, still sees me as a child, was considered good. I was close to both of them, but I wanted to be like the latter. Because you want that approval, so you try to live up to it. Which meant, that when I had my first boyfriend, I wanted him to be, the only one.
But it wasn’t going to happen. Barely being able to take care of myself, being with a rather experienced Italian man 12 years older, it wasn’t feasible, in my case. I was gutted by it then. The second boyfriend, five years older this time, black and a university graduate, had his own set of issues to deal with, and buckled after being put on a pedestal. The third guy, though somewhat of a drifter (my age, a semi-pro basketball player) was better. But I had to show some restraint because it was a prolonged affair. It wasn’t until the fourth guy, that things made sense.
I believe that it was with him, that I had a sexual awakening. There were hardly any boundaries. And by the end of this liaison, not only had I felt used, I felt lost, dirty and ashamed. Which lead to my celibacy.
I have met many men along the way. But even though there have been opportunities to break my celibacy, I wasn’t attracted to them enough, the feelings were not mutual, or there was a certain level of perfection (on their part) that was lacking.
I didn’t realise it until it dawned on me. I live in London. I am attractive and I am going to turn 30. There is no one to point the finger. And I can do whatever I want. Why be mentally enslaved to some morals that have not helped me in any way? In fact, these standards I believed I needed to live by may have actually hurt, rather than helped me.
I am not saying it doesn’t work. It is a reality for most. But, if it doesn’t work for me, maybe I need to try something else. Maybe you need to try something else. Maybe it is time, to break the chains and be you.
My friend, is older than me. And I know, when she talks about being instilled with morals, she is not meaning to be exclusive. But, the point is, it doesn’t make a difference. You can be instilled with all the morals and beliefs, that is not going to change your predicament. And this problem, as it is, is living with a sheet over your eyes. You control your destiny. When it came to the fourth guy, I spent many years being angry. Then, I found myself being him, five years later. Lusting over younger, superficial people. And why wouldn’t I take advantage. Why shouldn’t I? I realised, that while I spent a long time living by ‘morals’ instilled in me, those morals produced a generation of children – including me – that are socially inept. I respect the ones that didn’t go by these convoluted morals and just lived their lives. A good friend of mine (a guy, and I have also been talking about the idea of casual sex), confirmed my feelings by pointing out most people would love an arrangement where they didn’t have to feel tied down. I would love that, which is why I found myself attracted to male models. Carefree, is good when it is needed.
I used to get asked about marriage and children all the time. To be honest, I really don’t know. But I know that in order to even entertain that notion, I need to live first. Because marriage can be like death if you don’t know what the fuck you’re getting into it for. And my life has just begun.
I tried to be what I thought a black woman should be. Now, I just feel disconnected from that idea Instead, I should and should have been out having fun. Strip clubs, dollar bills and all. Luckily, I’m me now. It’s time to get busy.
I received the best comment of my life right here on this blog. I’m not fuckin’ kidding. When people say these amazing things about talent you apparently have, it’s hard to digest, to be honest. I spent a couple of minutes trying to absorb it. I wasn’t sure if it was real or not. But fuck, it must be. I’m half-wasted talent. I say that because I’m horrible with deadlines, I sell myself short. I was told by many people I wasn’t good at what I (was trying to) do. And I guess, I considered talent to be when you can do what you do day-in, day-out and get endless praise for it. Kind of like Sarah Nicole Prickett. Which is ironic, because I don’t think she wants to even be seen as some kind of model example. Truth is, you can’t really model your life after someone else because that same person you wish you were probably spent a lot of time hating themselves.
I remember my little cousin’s friend saying to me “Oh my gosh! You’re me in five years!” That was five years ago. I took it with a grain of salt then. But I roll my eyes at that cringe-inducing comment now. That’s the lamest fucking comment anyone could ever say to anyone. But someone saying they hope to read a book about your life and they wish they had your talent, that’s fuckin’ amazing. Because it’s humbling. That makes you realise something that you probably never realised you had. It’s not about the Pulitzer Prize, though that is nice. It’s about people inspiring the people they don’t know they’re inspiring… at all. Who knows, maybe that kid that made that comment will walk away and cultivate something from within their soul, and they’ll unconsciously pass that down to someone. And then the cycle will continue. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realise that whatever you’re doing is worth it in the end.
I won’t get into personal issues, you know, family, friends, lovers, whoever else, who ever tried to cock block. Because at this point in time, that shit is completely irrelevant.
That said, go Nicki Minaj.
Once upon a time, I liked a black guy similar to Donald Glover. Well, I don’t know how similar, but they tend to be a ‘type’. He’s the type of black guy that’s not your typical black guy. He’s a black who’s around white people. Not because he wants to be, but that’s just his normality. But with that comes the inclination for white women. It’s one of those strange situations where, you will both meet, and probably be really good for each other, but, it’s not gonna happen, because if he’s not into Becky, there’s about 10 Becky’s into him. But, in the ideal world, in my dark twisted fantasy, it would be a pretty normal encounter. You know, a good-looking couple (not to mention stylish, funny and pleasant) feeding off of each other’s brilliance, getting specialty coffees at some cafe in the city, hanging out in pubs. You know, doing things typical white people do… No biggie.
That’s what I call WordPress. Fuck. People kept telling me they couldn’t link to my blog and when I went myself to check, it like, disappeared! At that point I was like ‘fuck it’ because it wasn’t like I had time to write anything anyway (which is ironic, ‘cos I write all the time). But when I kept getting domain renewal notices (basically wanting to me to pay for a blocked blog), I couldn’t help but send the people in WordPress Wonderland a somewhat annoyed, but short, email. The response: my blog was categorized as ‘spam’. Right. So let me get this straight. I’ve had this blog since `09, never had a problem, and then it just somehow, someway gets flagged and no one behind the pearly gates even bothered to contact me? Lucky for them I have a Tumblr account.
Anyway, I am not a blogger. So I consider blogging a luxury at this point in time. But I’ve been power-tripping a bit lately. I told HSBC they were a bunch of pimps and prostitutes (they closed my bank account ahead of the scheduled closing date). I told the lazy leeches at the Royal Mail they’re postage scam artists (I was expecting first-class post that came on fourth-class delivery), I told a truly wonderful male friend he had a vagina complex and I’ve spent hours daydreaming about ACNE, Givenchy (of course), Donald Glover aka Childish Gambino (it’s been confirmed that I have an actual ‘type’ – especially if they’re black. Nerdy, brown skinned, thick-rimmed glasses prone, hoody wearing, you’re it!) and a sea of living and breathing Adonises. Yes, statuesque hard-bodies with nice faces. I guess nothing’s really changed, has it. But the former (and quite possibly the latter) can be interpreted in two ways: I’m bitter, or I need sex. Hopefully neither. I shouldn’t need sex, I am sex.