let's plow

ever since seeing the film pretty in pink when i was maybe eight years old or so, i felt a strange yearning to both emulate and marry jon cryer's character. this is a funny quirk of mine, much like my obsession with bob dylan, which sporadically finds me immersing myself his lyric books and wearing my denim vest a little too often to be considered fashionably acceptable (think dylan via "subterranean homesick blues", every day). something about a tucked collard shirt, vest, black skinny jeans and ankle boots really gets me going. if i see a man dressed like so, regardless of what his face may look like or how offensive his scent may be or hell if homeboy's pushing 50, i am still drawn in like honey to the bee. i just adore a jaunty fellow. perhaps i subconsciously feel that dressing like this myself will attract a like-minded individual. honestly though, i feel it is less of this and much more having to do with my affinity for androgyny. but i digress...

i've never been quite sure how duckie's character is supposed to be perceived by audiences. it's a bit confusing to me as from the get go he's presented as the nerdy, overly eager pest. yet from the get go i myself am swooning, only endeared by his love-sickness, his colorfully high pitched voice, his broke-down home and his dirty white shoes.

i know this is a sentiment felt somewhat by all viewers, as it is all a part of his charm. but this, for me, is my ideal. neither andrew mccarthy (just awful) nor james spader (bleh) could hold a candle to the duck-man. so is this unusual? is the viewer supposed to be attracted to blane...so bland and so painfully beige? are duckie's relentless attempts to win andie's heart supposed to evoke a feeling of pity? i believe so, though i can't quite grasp how. it must be, as rumor has it that the initial conclusion of the movie consisted of andie and duckie together. this ending was apparently trashed after john hughes experienced terrible test screening responses due to upset fans rooting for blane and the worry of more grandiose implications that success in cross-class relationships were neither good nor possible. balarchy i say!

anyways, the whole new wave of women's fashion this season repeatedly finds me nostalgically referencing the john hughes films- i believe the styles are supposed to reference the nineties, and they do, but sometimes i feel it's even more so the artsy eighties. the over sized draping collared shirts, the cut-off light wash denim, the busy florals, the lace up ankle boots, and my favorite resurrection- the boater hat.

my inner duckie has been coveting one of these numbers in a very major way- i mean how clear is this reference? the perfectly circular rim? the round-lens sunglasses? i like it, i like it a whole lot. and i bought it, yes i did, from my favorite nasty gal vintage, where i would spend all of my moneys if i had a wealth from which to spend. today, however, i did splurge on a pair of vans purchased from my place of work, karmaloop.com. vans really kicked it up a notch this season when catering to the ladies, and i find them to be a very fine choice indeed. can a broad be considered dapper?

lovely dollfaced lily cole.

that's a beauty

yep uh huh

check out the man repeller y'all.

hace calor

i've never been one to really complain about the heat, because surviving each new england winter for me is an incredible feat in and of itself. it entails many long nights, groaning under mountainous blankets, chain-drinking hot tea, being a general recluse and awfully bad company, and abandoning my sense of fashion by contemplating the purchase of a sun-lamp visor. some may think seasonal affective disorder is a crock of hooey; however, i seriously beg to differ. i myself have and will continue to reach all-time lows during the heinous season. i am not referring to the remarkable abundance of whining and complaints, but rather, the chronic fatigue, volatile and entirely arbitrary outbursts of tears and/or emotional instability, and complete and utter helplessness...sylvia plath style.

but blessed be that spring time comes and i riseriserise; i am re-born and start to- you know, feel things again. to feel things is a good thing.

and so, 96 degrees you say? bring it on, bring it hard.

during our summer excursions down to the glorious beaches of duck, north carolina, my friends would jest about my ability to withstand a profuse amount of sun exposure. in fact, i was ridiculed for hitting the sand so soon after an early morning breakfast, and remaining there until sundown. while the pink-skinned others slept late, bathed, read their light summer literature and picked their asses, i moseyed on over solo. i seek maximum heat; i want to drink it up, store it. like a chipmunk reserving acorns for the long winter to come, i blindly aspire that the more vitamin D which i successfully absorb, the farther into the approaching season i will remain sane. this marathon basking is what i coined, during the summer of 2007, as "mission melanoma."

i have never been accustomed to or dependent on chilled interiors; growing up we did not enjoy the luxury of central air. during the truly unbearable summers i.e. the record-breaking heat wave summers during which my mother might catch a news story about a dehydrated pet dog dropping dead or the elderly suffering sun stroke, my father would install one window unit in one of the bedrooms. this just meant sweating in other parts of the house, and running to the bedroom to stare blissfully into the face of our lone savior. it also meant that i spent the majority of my days in the basement, pressing my bare feet to the cold floor tiles. needless to say, my malfunctioning fan which currently blows warm air my way is still what i would refer to as "refreshing."

what i'm having the most trouble with is not coping with the heat, but enduring the extreme air-conditioning at my workplace. it cranks throughout the day, and i maintain goosebumps for nearly eight hours. this, only to thrust myself out onto the sweltering boston common, is so debilitating- so shocking to the system. i find myself wanting to collapse right there beside the homeless man in boots who blesses me each morning. and so it goes, the oppressive tomb that is park street station and all of the noxious body smells and my knees buckling as the mexican musician sings me canciones tristes.

and the little ranchera inside me wails.

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i promise i'll be back, that is, once i've weaned off the david lynch and am able to formulate coherent sentences again.

schmeh.

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