I’m not much of an online or mail-order shopper. I’m more tactile and want to actually see and feel the things I’m considering buying, rather than just looking at a professionally lighted and retouched photograph. This is especially true when it comes to clothing. Thus, I don’t make many mail-order lists. Not a large pile of catalogs here at Casa O’Pine.
Yesterday, I received a men’s clothing catalog. And the cover caught my eye and forced me into the book. Not because I was smitten with the clothes or even the model, but because the whole thing had me saying, WTF? Is this a practical joke?
I’m still not entirely sure some hipper-than-thou entity isn’t having a go.
The catalog is dedicated solely to the work of one designer, a Swiss man named Edo Popken. Sounds like a joke already, right? Popken’s tagline: Cosmopolitan Successwear.
(stifled snicker/snort. Not so stifled snicker. Bwah-ha-ha!)
Seriously? Did someone who was not a native English speaker translate this, or write this? What the fuck does it mean?
There’s a reasonably handsome man on the cover, wearing a cheap denim-ish blazer with a cheap looking, gold threaded crest on the pocket. No wait, it’s too shiny for denim. It looks like a synthetic wool now. Still cheap. Our Cosmolitan Success is sitting in the dining room of a hotel, one of those small touristy European joints. The kind you get on a package deal. He has a tulip glass in front of him filled with what appears to be the combined leftovers of his pilsner and his dates’ white zinfandel (aren't you going to finish that?). There are some random peanuts in a white Styrofoam bowl near his hand.
As you flip through this mess/waste of paper, it is always the same model. But wait, there’s a picture of Popken himself. It’s an awfully small photo. He’s wearing hipster glasses and . . . hold on a minute . . . could it possibly be? I think Popken is his own model!!!! I’m not positive. Although I’m thinking of drawing some hipster glasses on one of the larger photos to see of that confirms it. At the very least, he has some serious narcissism going on in his model selection.
As I thumbed through, I was completely shocked and appalled. This shit is cheap, cheap, cheap looking. It’s shiny. It’s garish. It’s ugly. And he’s created his own logo/crest (which is writ LARGE on his garments) that involves stylized lion holding a giant sans-serif E. I think it stands for “ewwww.”
Man, who did I piss off to get put on this list?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Poison at the Tonys
I hate to admit it, but I'm not a theater queen. Or is that Theatre Queen? Regardless, I'd rather watch vacuous blondes parade around in bikinis, vying for "scholarships," celebrating "opposite marriage" and "the Irag."
So, the Tony Awards sort of never make it onto my Tivo schedule. But something in the the reportage of last nights ceremony caught my eye this morning. Brett Michaels injured himself by running into a piece of scenery. At the Tonys. Apparently the Rock of Love ain't so tough.
But WTF was Brett Michaels doing at the friggin' Tonys? Was he part of some stunt casting for the revival of Hair? Was Constantine Maroulis giving blood that day?
No, apparently the organizers of the Tonys brought the band of hair called Poison in for a performance. Michaels said he guessed that the show wanted to add some "edge." Umm. They could have brought in the shaving gel called "edge" and fit the bill more appropriately. Poison hasn't been "edgy" since . . . okay, Poison has never been "edgy," unless by "edgy" you mean "noisy" in that way that high school juniors use volume to drown out the drumbeat of their own testosterone and lack of popularity.
No, my guess is that the Theatre Queens who actually put on the Tonys thought it would be ironic, like pink flamingoes were in their day, or hot oil treatment by Alberto VO5. Speaking of which, I'm guessing there were more than a few catty comments about the state of Mr. Michaels' tresses. You know how those Theatre Queens can be. (maybe I'm more of one than I thought.)
So, the Tony Awards sort of never make it onto my Tivo schedule. But something in the the reportage of last nights ceremony caught my eye this morning. Brett Michaels injured himself by running into a piece of scenery. At the Tonys. Apparently the Rock of Love ain't so tough.
But WTF was Brett Michaels doing at the friggin' Tonys? Was he part of some stunt casting for the revival of Hair? Was Constantine Maroulis giving blood that day?
No, apparently the organizers of the Tonys brought the band of hair called Poison in for a performance. Michaels said he guessed that the show wanted to add some "edge." Umm. They could have brought in the shaving gel called "edge" and fit the bill more appropriately. Poison hasn't been "edgy" since . . . okay, Poison has never been "edgy," unless by "edgy" you mean "noisy" in that way that high school juniors use volume to drown out the drumbeat of their own testosterone and lack of popularity.
No, my guess is that the Theatre Queens who actually put on the Tonys thought it would be ironic, like pink flamingoes were in their day, or hot oil treatment by Alberto VO5. Speaking of which, I'm guessing there were more than a few catty comments about the state of Mr. Michaels' tresses. You know how those Theatre Queens can be. (maybe I'm more of one than I thought.)
Friday, June 5, 2009
Stupid Goes to Washington (National)
Nothing like an airport to mine for los gentes estupidos. As I come through security, they are wanding a buxom blonde, who looks like a cousin of Dolly Parton dressed up like a sorority girl. As they pass over her right boob, the wand squeaks.
“That’s me!” says the prepbilly. Ahh! A PIERCED preppy hillbilly. NIce.
The wand squeaks again on it’s journey past her left boob.
“Me again.”
I don’t wait to hear the rest, but gather my things and go to the lovely seats provided to put your shoes and accessories back on. But wait! Here comes the entire prepbilly clan! Turns out she’s a mom! Not exactly surprising given the fact that she’s a yokel and over the age of 13, but ya know, she WAS wearing some decent jewelry.
“You know,” she began, in her post-patdown briefing, “they have this thing back home in Tulsa that scans yer whole body and produces a picture that’s practically pornographic.”
Her offspring stare back, not surprisingly, slackjawed.
“YOU know,” she says more emphatically, “at the Tulsa airport. They have a machine that takes a picture of you that is practically pornographic!” Tulsa. That explains a lot.
Her daughter, probably almost of birthing age herself, says, “That’s gross!”
(NOTE: My standard response when anyone says that something sexual is “gross” is “not if you’re doing it right.” That was the thought that popped into my head.)
The son decided he needed to chime in, offering his expertise to the already heady mix. “I thought it just showed what was under your skin.”
I thought I heard grandma humming some tune on the banjo. Maybe Battle Hymn of the Republic.
You can take the family out of the holler . . .
“That’s me!” says the prepbilly. Ahh! A PIERCED preppy hillbilly. NIce.
The wand squeaks again on it’s journey past her left boob.
“Me again.”
I don’t wait to hear the rest, but gather my things and go to the lovely seats provided to put your shoes and accessories back on. But wait! Here comes the entire prepbilly clan! Turns out she’s a mom! Not exactly surprising given the fact that she’s a yokel and over the age of 13, but ya know, she WAS wearing some decent jewelry.
“You know,” she began, in her post-patdown briefing, “they have this thing back home in Tulsa that scans yer whole body and produces a picture that’s practically pornographic.”
Her offspring stare back, not surprisingly, slackjawed.
“YOU know,” she says more emphatically, “at the Tulsa airport. They have a machine that takes a picture of you that is practically pornographic!” Tulsa. That explains a lot.
Her daughter, probably almost of birthing age herself, says, “That’s gross!”
(NOTE: My standard response when anyone says that something sexual is “gross” is “not if you’re doing it right.” That was the thought that popped into my head.)
The son decided he needed to chime in, offering his expertise to the already heady mix. “I thought it just showed what was under your skin.”
I thought I heard grandma humming some tune on the banjo. Maybe Battle Hymn of the Republic.
You can take the family out of the holler . . .
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