Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Best. Shoes. EVER

I recently became the owner of the best pair of shoes ever. Don’t be jealous. Ok do. My lovely bf bought them for me for Christmas after a blatant hint while in the shoe shop on another agenda, although at the time my “ooh, these are nice” were met with a “they are waaay too expensive”. How my heart sank. I probably would never have bought them for myself because honestly they were way too expensive for what is reminiscent of a school shoe. You should have seen the look of joy on my face when a shoe box-shaped gift appeared in my hands. What a gem.

But the shoes! Oh, the shoes! I don’t fall too easily into quirky fashion traps, especially if I think they won’t be around for too long and possibly won’t even look good. But I was right on the money with these brogues. Celebs have been pulling them off for a while, but they are a totally transitional shoe. I can see myself wearing these every day – the only reason I don’t is because I don’t want to wear them out. I’ve already worn them more times than last year’s Christmas shoes, which were to die for, but I just don’t have an excuse to wear bombshell heels every day.

Brogues, especially if they have a bit of a heel for a boost, are the ultimate mix of comfort and chic. They look good with just about anything. They’re fancy enough to wear out (again, especially if they have some heel) without having the urge to chop your feet off halfway through the night because you’d rather have bloody stumps than make the plebeian move of taking your heels off in public. They are perfect for work. They are fabulous with jeans. You can accessorise them with cute socks, down play them with black stockings, or (if you get nice enough ones, like my glorious EOS Italian leather beauties) you can wear them with bare feet without hobbling around with half a box of plasters on your feet.

As pointed out by one informant, they work particularly well with feminine attire. The ol’ fashion juxtaposition. Well it’s true friends. Mix your brogues with a cute dress and you’re onto a fashion gold mine. Add a cute or quirky sock and you’re on your way to my fashion heroes list. (ok, there may not actually be a list, but I love people that aren’t afraid to try something out of the square and pull it off with confidence.)

There’s no clear way to finish this post. I could rant on for another page or two. But you get it. I love the brogues. Loves. Them. And I only want for you to share in the joy.

Friday, January 14, 2011

don't judge a bogan by its cover

I recently took a return trip to Boganville. Huzzah for the Christmas holidays and hanging out with family. But I also indulged my inner bogan child with a bit of FMX fun. And what fun it was! Perfect timing as well, as we’re off to the bogan extravaganza known as Nitro Circus in March.

Would you have known from past posts that I’m a massive fan of gravity-defying stunts, the smell of petrol, and heavy metal music. Unless you know me well, I would think not. I buy electronics and appliances in pink and purple. I have a secret penchant for selected cheesy pop music. (Panic at the Disco anyone?).

Well it’s true. Back in the small town origins of old you were either a wigga or a bogan. My wigga days were fairly shortlived (although the cds continue to be played at random intervals – Dre 2001 will never get old) due to the unflattering nature of hoodies and the unfortunate terming ‘hoodrat’. So I returned to the classic small town white person exemplar.

I’d spent a lot of my childhood in the shed around cars. And a car was a large factor in the choice of guys to hang out with. My group were into Dattos (Datsuns/Nissans for the uninitiates) – and how fitting that was seeing as my dad had the sexiest Datto of them all – the Fairlady Z car.

So that’s the background. What has happened to that bogan child today?

Living in the city doesn’t mean entirely giving up on the things we left behind. I still love cars. I like driving fast. I’m SUPER stoked for the upcoming Nitro adrenalin-fest. I still listen to metal (mixed in with a rather varying taste of music that I enjoy today). It’s just not as obvious as it used to be. And I’m sure many of you out there are the same.

So what do we term these urbanised beasts? We wear the skin of the professional, but maintain the classic bogan traits. Our men may use hair and skin products, but that doesn’t mean the animal underneath has become extinct. Just aptly groomed.

I call them the “urbogan” – or urban bogan if you will. You might not recognise one right away, but if you still like your music as loud and fast as your cars, chances are you’ll make friends with someone with similar surreptitious tastes. Don’t judge a bogan by his suit. Or her pink phone.