Wax Nostalgic

Just 'cause I miss disco sometimes. And turbans. And female pop singers who could sing live with as much power as recorded.

(Also, I miss donuts.)

By the way, if you're still hanging in there with Project Runway, whose little sewing mice tackled my favorite fashion era last night in typically horrendous . . . fashion . . . then head over to Miss Pam's place. She's taken the snarkin' back over, now that she's back from her jaunt across the pond.

Haiku Monday: HUNTER/HUNTED

Bejeweled and aglow,

Athena-felled swain commands
autumn’s inky skies.

* * *

As last week's winner, Uncle is hosting and judging this week. Over at Aunty's. Who left him in charge of her blog while she travels for business. Which, of course, begs the questions: Who will win this free-for-all Battle Hunter, will there be booze and sandwiches, and will Aunty return to fling plates at Uncle's head? Stay tuned . . .

Cuke Overload

I returned from a short visit to South Louisiana earlier this week with two things: 1. A re-confirmation of my inability, even as an adult and after not having been in church for about a bazillion years, to keep my eyes open and my ears from hearing Charlie Brown's parents once the sermon starts. God created the heavens and the earth, right? So if it's all the same, I'll just go ahead and worship that with my Sunday morning trail runs. Save myself the trouble of putting on heels and mascara that early in the day, besides; and 2. A passel of cucumbers from my green-thumbed father-in-law's most excellent garden.

I've never been much of a fan of cucumbers, but I have to say, straight out of the garden? Delicious! Except, what the heck am I going to DO with all of them?

So hit me with your best ideas.

Just Because I Like This Song

Haiku Monday: DANCE

(Insert goofy photo of you hugging dance partner here:)

Junior High School's dread:
Palms sweat and knees knock. We are
all a Limburger.

* * *

Game's being played over at Czar's this week. Make sure you either play or pretend to do so on T.V.

Free For All

Phat Loot: the long knit/crocheted gloves I was coveting and a pair of satin-ey lounge pants I didn't know I wanted until I saw them.

I turned on the television this morning to one of the network's top news stories: yesterday's unprecedented, all-day crash of the retail giant Target's website. The reason? The arrival in its stores of the most highly anticipated, coveted, and hyped partnerships between Target and a high end designer since the retailer debuted its Design For All concept back in the late 1990s with a Michael Graves-designed set of housewares.

Since then, Target has partnered with everyone from Anna Sui to Converse, Alexander McQueen to Rodarte. Always limited editions, although some designers (like the make-up maven Sonia Kashuk, and American apparel manufacturer Mossimo) have remained perennials. Anyone who has ever shopped target most likely has one of Mossimo's colorful t-shirts or Kashuk's brilliant eye colors, perfumes, or make up brushes. Even better, they didn't go into hock to purchase them, either.

But I'm not sure anyone was prepared for the Missoni frenzy. An Italian knitwear design house started in Italy in 1953 by husband and wife Ottavio and Rosita Missoni, the line is famous for the quality of its wools and fabrics and crazy patterns and colors. To own a piece of Missoni is to own true luxury, and I don't mean that in a cost-a-million-dollars-worth-of-luxury kind of way. What I mean is, you own something that is handmade by a small, privately held family company that still retains tight control over quality and production, and still cares that it's providing it's customer with something beautiful to wear. (However, the the lower-priced M Missoni line currently licenses to LVMH, so don't buy M.)

When I heard back in the spring about this partnership, you can bet I calendared the debut date. Those who pooh-poohed me and said, "It's Missoni For Target, not the real thing,"' can suck it. I say: what's the difference? Why can't a $54 cardigan with a cool pattern and tight weave be any less purchase-worthy than one that costs 10 times that?

So when Chickory called yesterday morning while I was on my way into town, breathless with excitement and quickly giving me the low down on the goods, it was all I could do to make it through my early morning appointment before hitting the closest Target at 10am. Which I did. In spite of the slim pickings, I picked up some great stuff, including this rockin' knit cardigan whose Navajo/Art Deco pattern fits right into my 1970s-inspired fall wardrobe. I was exclusively scouting for clothing, one of the silk scarves, and the laptop cover. The housewares, while beautiful, I stayed away from. I have way too many fine and fun bowls, vases, dish sets, etc., both modern and vintage, and all I needed was to come home with yet another piece to find space for. However, anyone who needed to furnish their baths, beds, and kitchens would have found some really great pieces.

While waiting for a dressing room, I listened to the sales gals' tales of woe: of people lined up at 4am to get in. Of checkers ringing up bills in the thousands of dollars. Of people snatching items out of other shoppers' carts. Mad house, frenzy, not prepared, were constant phrases. But my first thought was: right on.

With all the complaints about the economy these days, these girls are looking this gift horse in the mouth? I wanted to smack them. Yes, I'm an unabashed Material Girl. That's because we're a Material Nation. A Material World. A Material SPECIES. What would we be doing if we didn't conceive, create, manufacture, distribute, and sell? Lay on a beach all day somewhere frolicking with dolphins and making love not war? The problem with that is, someone eventually wants a cute-looking bikini and goes looking for someone to make it, and then someone else begins to control the distribution of coconuts and palm fronds. And there we are: right back where we started.

So I say: all hail the free market. It may not be perfect, but it's the best idea for an economy that we've got.

Haiku Mondays: JOURNEY

Behind her Old World
ties dissolve. Free at last? No.
New ones quickly spun.

* * *

Journey is the theme for this week's Haiku Monday, hosted by
last week's winner, Aunty Belle.
You can play, or just read, over at her place.

Project Runway Temporary Snark Station

If anyone's still watching this lame-ass show, it certainly can't be for the design challenges, but for the simple, leg-kicking good fun of watching Joshua roll his eyes and flip his hands and jack the drama to levels so sky high, even Gloria Swanson would be embarrassed.

Oooooo, and how much did you want to hate him when he told Becky point blanket-edly that he is the one who makes clothing people want to buy and she doesn't, but then a second later thought to yourself, "Hmm. Boy's got a point." Sometimes the world just needs people like Joshua to tell it like it is. Even if they do tell it in a tres yucky orange-tanned and faux-Pucci-print-on-discount-in-South-Beach kind of way.

Somewhere, a passel of Jersey Girls are crying their eyelashes off because they just found out Joshua don't swing their way.

But the real howler of the evening was this dress by Bert:


Trust me. You don't want to see it any closer. But if you want to, you'll have to click here, because stoooooooooooopid Project Runway site won't let me snag their photos. Go ahead. I'll wait . . .

RIGHT?

About the only thing I liked last night was the jacket Oliver made. Which I also can't snag off the website.

So. Yeah.

Oh, but I do have photos of these guys!


Baby otters! Aren't they cwute? Don't you just want to kiss their widdle faces? (So much better than Project Runway designers.)

All I Need's A Fast Machine

Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm supposed to be working. In the next three days I have to outline an entire book, assign editorial to one of my magazines, and put another one to bed, including proofing blueline. Gah. But, before I start to bang my head against a wall and ruin my eyesight even further, I just need to quickly share my newest obsession with you. Because I can't get these guys out of my head.

This show is so much ding dang fun, I can't believe it's taken me all these years to discover it. If you've seen it, you know what I mean. If you haven't oh, man, you don't know what you're missing. Riddled with wry British humor and lightning fast quips like, "As we know, there is a financial crisis going on at the moment, but we’ve decided not to take part in it.” Because these guys have a love for the automobile so unabashed, it has eco-warriors across the globe flinging tofu at their screens on a weekly basis. My kind of show, exactly.

My favorite episode so far is pretty indicative of how things operate between Top Gear's three hosts: the producers tell each of them to choose their dream race car and let them out for a long, fast spin along one of the world's all-time great highways. They consider the Transfagarasan Highway in Romania, but eventually decided on America's Blue Ridge Parkway, because "The Americans always think they're right."

Right.

James selects a Ferrari 458 Italia; Jeremy, a Mercedes SLS (hubba); and Richard, bless him, chooses what has to be, hands down, my least favorite car on the planet, the so-butt-ass-ugly-not-even-its-momma-could-love-it, Porsche 911 GT3 RS.

Jeremy, a man after my own heart, ridicules his compatriots, pointing at the Ferrari and stating, "That is a car a five year old would love," then at the Porsche, "And that is car a 55 year old would love." And then he beams at the Mercedes: "But this, this is a car for grown ups with elegance and taste."

(Jeremy is also responsible for my latest auto obsession, the new BMW 1M—see below and tell me if you don't think that thing has major fizz—it's like a Staffie Bull with wheels.)

But when they finally get to the Parkway, shot in all its golden-lit summer afternoon splendor, they discover that . . . the speed limit never tops out beyond 45mph! The sight of these three gear heads crawling along in their raring-to-go sports cars, trying to figure out if they should just go for it and put the pedal to the metal, is one of television's all-time greatest moments.

Freakin' priceless, in fact.

So, yeah: Watch this show.

Top Gear BMW M1 - Free videos are just a click away

Haiku Mondays: BIRTH

Sacred

River’s iced embrace
washes soul of sin. Behave!
You’re a Christian now.


Profane

Botticelli’s babe
today: Too fat for naked.
Put some clothes on, girl.

* * *

Troll's hosting this week, based on a theme chosen by
last go-round's winner, Deep Blue.
Head on over and see what all the fun is about.

Project Runway Temporary Snark Station

I have always pictured Bert Keeter at his best designing something über urban sophisticated, along the lines of, say, Ellie Saab or Donna Karan.

See? Tres chic.

But knowing the man is, in reality, capable of putting together something only an Oompa Loompah could love . . .

Makes me want to kill him before he designs again!