Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Fortunately in New Zealand we miss out on much of the televised trash that Americans love so much. Reality TV here consists of gung-ho kiwis sharing their experiences, occasionally a Survivor rip-off and low-budget talent quests. There is a vague element of reality.
Remnants of all that is real has been stripped from the American version and what we are left with is has-beens trying to return to relevance and wanna-bes desperately trying to get some.
What I find the most sickening is that these vapid, fame-whoring slappers and the hideous, retarded douches they chase after end up with the attention they so readily seek. Why are the Snookis and Jon Gosselins of the world cluttering my daily Perez intake? I know that reading the gossip blog is slightly trashy in itself, but why fill it with this societal garbage.
Why are these people gaining notoriety for doing what normal people are scolded for?
Am I only encouraging the behaviour by mentioning them on such a high-brow outlet as my own blog?
I guess the difference is I don’t mind watching trash about people who were already rich and famous before having a show. It’s like an extended version of E! But when TV becomes trash about trash I draw the line.
My guess is no. But there they are. They’ve even made it to Debris.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Not so long ago I wrote something about fashion cycles and how we can only hope that we never go back to the tummy tops of the 90s. Even now, say the word “crop top” and I think of what we wore under our shirts in intermediate because we didn’t quite have anything going on there but thought better than to be naked beneath our clothes.
I understand that we can’t trust celebrities like Miley and Lindsay to set the right trends – what scares me is the influence these people have on fashion around the world. At least other celebs can blame the Rachel Zoes of tinseltown for putting them in the wrong direction, but I somehow suspect that these two chose their outfits all on their own.
I know there’s a “California girl” look going on at the moment, but that doesn’t mean fashion has to go all 90210 on us!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
- It means the end to weekend activities (which if you’re me, is pretty much nothing)
- I actually have to get up in the AM’s.
- CLOTHES – not sure wearing hobo jeans and hoodie would go down well in the office so a Sunday night preparation of outfit is a must.
The first day of February saw me failing miserably at Monday-ness. Strange fact, I’m one of those people who never needs an alarm. This day however I woke up fifteen minutes late which is VERY bad as my usual morning routine allows me just enough time for getting to work….five minutes late.
So, as I crawl out of bed and attempt to pry my super-glued eyes open, I realise I have not performed my night-before clothing ritual. This may not seem like a big issue but I assure you it is the beginning of a fashion nightmare. It begins with a newly bought summery, leopard print dress from Principles.
Adding to my dilemma, I realise that summer in Wellington has once again abandoned us; not only is it raining but its bloody freezing. Such weather calls for tights and the first pair I happen to find are black, adorned with a criss-cross tartanesque pattern. And of course one can’t leave the house without a trusty cardigan; in my dazed state I tell myself that a cream one will go nicely with the rest of my outfit.
No time for makeup, it’s out the door.
Surprisingly I make it to work only two minutes late. That’s practically early!
However I soon realise that I actually look like a complete idiot and that yes, I have taken an extremely summery dress and mixed it with extremely wintery tights –it’s a bit like wearing a scarf and a bikini. Geometrically patterned tights do not go with leopard print. Leopard print does not go with cream cardi. My face does not go with public consumption. And my biggest pet peeve, my hair is at the end of its two-day wash cycle and looks as though I have immersed my head in a deep fryer.
I find it hard to concentrate on my work when I know how much of a retard I look, or think I look. And I may sound shallow but I pride myself on looking and feeling somewhat lovely when at work. A girl has to have standards! To add to my misery I had a complete shoe crisis - not usually a problem for one who stores four pairs under her desk.
I'm sure there is a way to pull off the summer dress - tights - cardi combo but I sure as hell failed.
This was not a one-off occasion. I often have days of waking up late with no preparation. Or Wellington does its thing and flicks the weather switch. Either way I just have to suffer and hope no one really notices (my colleagues aren’t exactly flaunting haute couture so I’m mostly safe).
So, take a little comfort in knowing that us fashion conscience gals aren’t always up to standard and occasionally we fall a bit behind. And don’t worry, I’m not going to give Bob Geldof and his Boomtown Rats anything to write about.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Being a frequent concert-goer, I often need to find ways to amuse myself while waiting for my beloved Billy-Joe Armstrong or Matt Bellamy to arrive on stage. Enter the OMGWTF spotting game. It’s pretty basic – the first person to spot that idiotic girl in high heels scores the first point. Second point goes to whoever spots the “hound skirt” (hope you don’t mind me borrowing lingo Haze!) This may sound silly but I can assure you there’s at least one at EVERY gig.
Big Day Out 2010 in Auckland was sure to be a breeze at scouting clod-hopping chicks and almost-offensive skirts/dresses – not only did my friend and I score the first two points, we hit the fashion disaster jackpot.
For anyone in their mid to late twenties, you will remember that ever so famous video of Mariah Carey’s, Fantasy. Cast your mind back to those high-wasted denim cut-offs and the loose, baggy sweater. That was oh so cool back in the 1990’s – hell, I wanted to be Mariah Carey. But the times they a-changed and the fashion wheel turned once more.
Apparently someone forgot to tell the youth of 2010.
I thought I had travelled back twenty years; it was a DENIM EXTRAVANGANZA. And don’t be fooled, I’m talking males too. For the first hour or two it was torture not to point and laugh and scream “OMGWTF!”, but gradually I got used to it. Until….
Yes that’s right, some misinformed young lass forgot that having your butt cheeks hanging out the bottom of your shorts was a no-no.
I would like to thank this girl for ruining my time with Ladyhawke – how am I supposed to keep up with “Paris is Burning” when I have bum-galore right in front of me???
Following the horrific butt cheek incident, my clever friend not only spotted someone in heels, but this woman had a pair of flats tied to her backpack. IDIOT.
Other fashion disasters of the day included bikini-tops - thousands of them (I had considered wearing a bikini top under my singlet but then I remembered I have a brain, and some well earned dignity) And how could I forget my wonderful time at the front of the crowd, watching legions of fat girls get pulled out of the crowd (because they’re dehydrated, not because they’re fat) with their goods spilling out all over the show. COVER UP YOUR ‘ASSETS’ PEOPLE.
I know you want to look sexy at concerts – but practicality and comfort should always be a priority. If you’re there for the music you’re most likely to end up a sweaty mess anyway. This doesn’t mean you have to look un-fashionable, just ditch the heels and the ridiculous dresses and opt for some sneakers, shorts and a T-shirt instead. This will not only save you from unwanted mosh-pit ass grabbing, but will save your dignity from going flying out the window.
I have never seen so many black t-shirts in Wellington in my six years here. And we’re notorious for wearing black down in the capital. There was an interesting crossover in Wellies this weekend with two nights of bogan-flavoured mayhem brought on by AC/DC fans mixed in with the fashionistas that exited the city for the Wellington Cup.
Upper Hutt is not usually synonymous with fashion, but we all flocked out there on Saturday for some style and racing action. And I’m not saying that all the bogans that flooded the city came from the Hutt/Wainui way, but I’m surprised that there wasn’t more conflict at the train station as the two groups passed eachother.
What I especially enjoyed over the Black Ice weekend was the bogan combo deal. Not just groups of friends bonding in black, but the father-son combo was common (and hilarious), but an even greater find were the black-clad, bleach-blonded and be-mulleted families roaming the streets in search of a bourbon and coke (so I stereotypically assume). It was great!
I particularly enjoyed one comment made by a visiting bogan to a contributor, which was: “Wellington is stink. I said hello to these people on the street and they didn’t say hello back.” Well, my bogan friend, I hate to say it, but even here in the big city (probably even more so, in fact) people generally don’t talk to random mullets on the street just because you say hello to them. They’re more likely to think you’re a) drunk, b) ignorant out-of-towner who doesn’t deserve a fleeting moment’s attention, c) about to ask them for something or d) mentally impaired.
Don’t be offended, we just know an outsider when we see one. Chur.