Viktor & Rolf Chop It Up

February 6, 2010

Rihanna thinks she soooo cool with her trendsetting self, but yet she went and chose the safest peices of the bunch from Viktor & Rolf’s Spring/Summer 2010 collection. So boring, RiRi.

Take it from a pro and listen: When I walk down the street, I want people to immediately assume my clothes have been attacked by termites. Maybe a woodpecker. And definitely a hack saw.

You, though? Fashion fail. If you’re trying to get on anybody’s radar this year – anybody that matters – you’re gonna have to step it up. Seriously. I don’t think we saw enough of you in 2009.

*sigh* Amazing. I definitely need to start taking some sort of hallucinogen.

Advertisements

Or at least, they shouldn’t.

As bad as my Spanish is – and believe me “not fluent” is like an understatement – I don’t think I’ll ever feel such the strong need to overcompensate (and prove my Boricua-ness) that I buy this hoodie. Nope, not me. Not for a penny. And not for $413, either – which is what Dolce & Gabbana actually priced it at.

Because you know what I can get with that kind of money?

Rosetta Stone. Both the Latin America and Spain editions.

And I’ve got an inkling that that will assist in being a bit more convincing than this ass-pink sweater.

Quote me.

Dressing My Inner Superhero

October 14, 2009

“A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.” – Arthur Schopenhauer

Arthur S. (who??; hey, I never claimed to be a bookworm) clearly meant to say “woman,” but alls forgiven, because the actual point is that when alone, I’m one part rock star, one part Pam Grier circa 1970, and two parts pseudo-sweet, like a well-mixed drink. Make it an L.I.T. for visual purposes.  I am no parts “human who uses humor and sarcasm as means of deflection,” nor “she who second-guesses.”

So, if Beyonce can make an entire empire out of this “Sasha Fierce” thing – seriously? no. – than I can surely shrink back into my “Coco Warren” or “Vegas Hamilton” persona – those are the results of my “Childhood Pets Name + Childhood Street Name = Porn Name” game. Please, you know that game – and act accordingly. This means, I can curse (if it’s any more than I already do, call Guinness) and kick ass at all times (outside of playing Taboo and/or Spades). It’s like a utopia.

I have no idea what my catchphrase would be.

Q: But, how would you dress?

Gun Heel, Chanel Cruise Collection 2009

Gun Heel, Chanel Cruise Collection 2009

Astali Bullet Bracelet

Astali Bullet Bracelet

Jules Smith's "Edwards Smile"

Jules Smith's "Edwards Smile"

And I'll pretty much rock anything by Melody Ahsani.

And I'll pretty much rock anything by Melody Ahsani.

A: To muh’fckin kill.

Sole Power

June 25, 2009

footpain 

Uh huh. This my shit. All the girls, stomp your feet like this.

That? Undoubtedly corny.

This? Godsend. Thus, making my outburst completely called for because, not that I’ve ever wanted to stomp my feet after a long night of two-stepping and stanky-legging, but the fact that I now have the option to do so is making me consider extending all my nights-out into more unreasonable hours – the right way, of course: think more “after-party,” and less regretful street-meat stop (don’t front on the deep-fried deliciousness).

Anywho, Rollasole (genius at work) has heard the cries (and that’s literal) of all the downtrodden damsels in distress (and that’s literal, too). The ones who don’t necessarily plan ahead during the pre-game. The ones who bank on the “You look good, girl!” exclamations made by friends (but really devils-in-disguise) who swear the 4+-inch heels you’re rocking are a perfect choice of footwear for the next several hours. Everyone forgets that feet are capable of feeling; no one comes prepared with extra padding. You only curse the brains behind the beauty of, in my case, a Target-bought Mossimo, and in a famous person’s case, a Louboutin, in the middle of the night when you begin to catch yourself trying to shift your body weight off the balls of your feet and on to whatever’s yet to be pulsating in pain. Or at the end of the night when you begin to attempt to take muuuuch smaller steps in hopes that the toe torture will come in muuuuch smaller increments. It doesn’t work. You want to cry. You want to walk barefoot down a piss-and-puke-laden sidewalk. You want to go back in time to the moment you made the oddest choice not to pack those flats just because they didn’t match. You want a vending machine full of soft slippers to descend from the sky.

Prayers been answered.

Rollasole is doing just that, making waves in nightclubs as the emergency-flat-shoe vending machine. Shimmery ballet flats are dispensed in a cute mini-tote and are priced at about $8 – that’s way less than the cocktail you just bought and way more worth the money. Problem is that Rollasole is only available in the UK. Somebody start a stateside petition.