CREDIT: Occupational portrait of a woman working at a sewing machine, 1853. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress. Reproduction Number LC-USZC4-3598 DLC.


I've been taking sewing classes. At last. I can't believe it has taken me this long to get around to doing this. I am now the proud owner of an old Singer that the young Akhenaten bought for me. Wearing thrifted clothes is a much better experience when you have the ability to do alterations. My goal is make dresses from vintage patterns, mostly to manage my fear that the vintage dress supply is drying up. (This has inevitably leads me to the desire to stockpile vintage fabric.) So far I have made 1 1/2 dresses, hemmed my trousers, have a new best friend in my seam ripper and am overflowing with even more compassion for the garment workers of the world.

Whatever you are wearing, vintage or current, cheap or expensive, was labor intensive to make. Someone had to sit at a sewing machine and sew each hem. Each button. Each button hole. Every spaghetti strap had to be stitched and then turned in-side-out by hand. All for very low wages, and most likely in seriously substandard conditions. If they were paid at all. (Many current companies subcontract piece work to be handled in one of the world's Export Processing Zones, perhaps off the coast of Jamaica. There, outside the national boundaries of any nation's laws, subcontractors control fiefdoms made of sweatshops, sometimes closing and vanishing before paying workers. If you'd like to know more about Export Processing Zones, I'd recommend Stephanie Black's film, Life and Debt.)

In fact, everything you own is hand-made. Yes, even the mass-produced item from the 99 cents store. Someone sewed the hems on that dishtowel or assembled a kitchen timer. The parts of your iphone were machine-manufactured, yes, but someone had to sit there and put them together. Machines can only do so much, and often, human labor is cheaper than machine power. Want to about terrible working conditions and exploitation that appear even on mainstream news sources like CNN? (for example, here). 2010 saw a series of very publicized suicides by Chinese workers assembling apple products. Human hands have touched and molded it all.

But we know all that. We know the human cost of our cheap products. We have to repress this knowledge of the suffering connected with our beloved objects. Some people repress the knowledge so very seamlessly, that they would be shocked (shocked!) to be accused of false consciousness.

And yet, in wealthy countries, there is a great cult of the hand-made, venerated at Etsy, and the like. One can get into the Walter Benjaminian aura of the object. Of course in their interviews of Etsy sellers, one of the questioned asked is "What does Handmade mean to you?" The answers manifest a precious false consciousness that elevates the handmade over the mass-produced without acknowledging the similarities. As if aura something that can only be conferred by a woman in Brooklyn at her sewing machine for her Etsy store. Why not the woman sitting at a sewing machine in a maquiladora in Juarez? Is it because she is sewing from someone else's pattern? No? That's not it? What is it then? Is it that the woman in Brooklyn is less alienated from her products? Can listen to NPR while she works? Presumably has been labor conditions in place for herself? You tell me.

I wish I could find it, but about 10 years ago I saw a comic strip with the words:"In the future, we will all work in our own sweatshops." In the first panel it showed a harried woman cutting out a pattern in her apartment while on speaker phone with headquarters. The voice on the speakerphone fired her, and then hired her back for half what she was making before. I believe it is true, we will all soon have our own sweatshops.

A belated Happy New Year to all. I figure you've got the time between New Year and Chinese New Year to tie up loose ends, and then get down to business around Groundhog's Day (or Imbolc) to work on implementing those resolutions.

If you should miss all those deadlines, never fear, there's always Nowruz, Persian New Year, on the spring equinox. That seems like a better time to make a clean start, no? In Azerbaijan, you've got a good four weeks to clean house, sew new dresses and probably do your taxes. (Traditionally a week is devoted to each of the 4 elements of earth, wind, fire, water.) In short there are endless opportunities for renewal and procrastination. You've still got time.

I know he was a dictator and did an untold number of absolutely unconscionable things, but I will miss Muammar Qaddafi's personal style. I've written about his ensembles here, and honestly, who else will yell at the U.N.? And yell for hours? I wish Qaddafi had been brought to trial. I'm a due process kind of person. I firmly believe that long, drawn-out, legal battles especially those with burdensome discovery, can seriously deflate a dictator, plus there is the added bonus of actually uncovering information about those crimes against humanity, and who was funding it. A real trial, mind you, not something manned by kangaroos.

I must admit: I often imagined the conversations that Qaddafi might have had with his stylist: make this more Bedouin, but add a couple sequins. I want the cap to look more military but retain the Bedouin feeling. I need a bigger Africa-shaped brooch, bigger, like two-thirds the size of my head. And I need a gold AK-47.

Do we now face a political landscape bereft of style? Are there no more delusional, power-hungry, seriously snappy dressers? Is there not a head of state left who understands the power of clothes? No oligarch to employ team of tailors to make some sartorial magic?

Meet Yulia Tymoshenko, former Prime Minister of Ukraine. Ms. Tymoshenko has the advantage of being a beautiful woman from the get-go, and she found a team of geniuses to create Slavic-folkloric- Star-Wars outfits for her. Oh, and there's some Evita with that Princess Leia.
















































Look at at these seamstress flourishes around the high necklines. (Her outfits also seem practical in a colder climate and when you spend most of your time in massive buildings with thermostats set arctically low so that men can wear wool suits.) Look at how these gorgeous brooches are deployed. Some look like badges of honor, others look like steam-punk weapons: Careful, Ambassador, my brooch is set to kill, not stun. Her dresses and coats utilize a lot of puffed sleeves and are made modern with exposed zippers. Her color pallet is also genius: she truly shines in white.

Of course there is that genius of a hairdo: that crown braid. Genius on someone's part. Absolute genius. Iconic. An instantly recognizable Ukrainian symbol and she wears it beautifully. If she has a secret on how to achieve such a bounty of hair in middle age, she could make a fortune on that alone. Apparently there is controversy about the braid as to whether or not it actually grows from her head. Ms. Tymoshenko held a press conference in which she unbraided, showing that it was all hers, or at least, all attached to her head. I really hope she has some magical powers and will share them with us mortals. (I really miss the mermaid hair I had in my youth, as Colette once said when looking at photos of her long-gone ankle-length hair: How I miss myself.) But that gorgeous braid is most likely the collusion of a genetic jackpot and a discrete miracle-worker hairdresser, both sadly out of reach for schlepper such as myself.

Just look at this coat.











And this one.












I should insert a legal disclaimer here: I do not understand the political situation in Ukraine. I made an unsuccessful attempt and am still baffled. If you have an opinion, I am happy to hear you out. What I do understand is that politics in Ukraine make mere mud-slinging look like charity work. Ms. Tymoshenko's former running mate, Viktor Yushchenko, suffered severe facial scarring when he was poisoned by the opposition. (Of course no one could prove who did it.) Ms. Tymoshenko herself is currently in jail on corruption charges. It has been argued that this is merely a tactic to keep her from ousting political opponent, Viktor Yanukovych, during election season. That may very well be. (And if one has to choose, I'd take imprisonment over poisoning any day, though neither are good for one's health.) She has been accused of brokering a deal with Russia at Ukraine's terrible expense to purchase natural gas. She might be innocent as the dawn, for all I know. And in comparison with poisoners and the like, she probably looks like a total sweetie-pie. But she didn't become one of the richest and most powerful women in the world just by being adorable. She's also a big fan of Margaret Thatcher, which means that she and I would probably get into an argument if we were seated to close too each other at a dinner party.

Then there is the giggling. Ms. Tymoshenko has a trademark giggle that she deploys during press conferences. I'm not a fan of using girlishness to manipulate events, but as I've often said, femininity is a tool used by an oppressed class to garner some benefits from the oppressing class. It's still around because it works, and every woman uses it differently (and has an opinion on what is off-label use). Is Ms. Tymoshenko a Ukrainian Sarah Palin, as I've heard her called? Hard to say, not speaking Ukrainian. But she doesn't seem as uninformed as the former Alaskan governor. It has been argued that her crown-braid and folksy-attire are an attempt to play on well, folksy-ness, as in:I'm just plain folks, folks. And an effort to play down her vast wealth. Then there are the stripper heels. Ms. Tymoshenko prefers those sky-high foot-torture sculptures that pass for women's shoes nowadays. But perhaps she wants to feel taller in a room full of men? (I'm very second wave on that issue, I mean, these boots were made for walking, why hobble yourself? Am I just a second wave scold?)

What's your take on Tymoskenko?

What would you have a a workshop of crack seamstresses create as your power wardrobe? I must admit that mine would look a lot like Ms. Tymoshenko's. But with fuller skirts, flat boots, and embroidery. And of course I'd say to my stylist: Make it more Bedouin, but add sequins.

You can follow Ms. Tymoshenko's legal battles and see hundreds more pictures of fabulous outfits on her official website.

I've been obsessed with all things Masonic for a while. I had great fantasies of becoming a Freemason. I thought I'd make new friends,contribute to my community, participate in bizarre rituals involving trowels and embroidered aprons. And eventually, when I made it to the 33rd Degree, I'd participate in a ceremony of car crashes, painful dentistry, and drink Guinness on the top of the Chrysler Building as it bloomed with green and orange streamers. Oh wait, that last bit would only happen if I stumbled into the Masonic Temple of Matthew Barney. (Actually, I suspect that Cremaster 3 is an extended commercial for Guinness. All that Guinness drinking, all those Irish harps. Think about it. Okay, I criticize Le Barney because I'm jealous of his success, I loved every bit of the Cremaster Cycle. All 20 hours or so of it.)

Of course, women can't be Freemasons, so there are women's auxiliaries to join which frankly look like no fun at all. Bereft of deliberately obtuse ceremony, secret handshakes, fez hats, and conventions, women's auxiliary looks at least 80% less fun. Does anyone out there belong to Job's Daughters? Eastern Star? The Rebekas? The Lions? The Rotary Club? Do you get to wear interesting badges and do rituals? Are you having fun?

I thought to assuage this Masonic-sized hole in my heart by getting myself a Masonic tie tack, and sticking it on my winter coat. But why advertise for a club that wouldn't have me? So I thought that instead of going forward, I'll go back (my unfortunate strategy for everything) and return (the eternal return) to early childhood and the first organization I ever joined: The Brownies. I thought I'd clap a vintage Brownie pin on my lapel and leave it at that. After all, I've got a Girl Scouts handkerchief that I love.

I had high hopes when I joined the Brownies as a wee lass. I had a thrifted vintage 1950's Brownie's uniform with a brown beanie that I adored. I thought I'd make new friends and learn new skills. The meetings of our troop, however, where not as fun as I had hoped. They took place in a classroom after school, and involved mass production of macrame for hanging plants. Our den mother ran a plant store and we were essentially her sweat shop to make the macrame sold in her store. Our one nature walk was a long schlep down a major urban thoroughfare to a McDonald's. Sadly, I am not exaggerating.

Ironically, my father was a co-architect of this dysfunctional Brownie troop, as he was one of the den mothers, something he was always proud of. He felt that his role as a den mother was to add discipline. He did this by sitting in the back of the classroom and yelling at us if we got too loud. Though we were hardly doing rowdy or extreme macrame, he felt that Plant-Store Den Mother could not control us on her own. (Which is of course a rather sexist assumption. Plant-Store Den Mother could break our little spirits all on her own.) My father's other main task was to stand outside smoking Pall Malls. There was talk of a camping trip that would literally take place on the school's playground, but that was nixed for some reason. No hiking, no campfires, I don't think we even did any group singing. Just knot tying. Lots of knot tying. Just 1970s sweat shop Brownies. I don't remember how it happened, but apparently I called Plant-Store Den Mother a fascist and hung up my beanie for good. I took my father with me, so she could exploit the other Brownies on her own.

But here is a lovely tea towel showing some happy vintage Brownies apparently worshipping an owl (or maybe a mushroom). They have been taught to identify mythical creatures in the forest, such as sprites and kelpies. It is available here on ebay.














Funny, I remember that one of the macrame pieces I made was an owl. Did the Brownie sweat shop ruin me forever for group membership?

Experience the Psychedelic Exuberance of Hamilton 8 of Dallas.

Here I stand, like a barker calling you into the side show tent of wonder. Hamilton 8 of Dallas is the creator of mind-bending blouses, improbable landscapes where you could lose your reason. Just take a gander at this brain-scrambling beauty.




































On the front, just a couple of Victorian cyclists, placed in frames that evoke cinematic film strips. But on the back the riot of autumnal foliage threatens to overwhelm them. How I love the grey is interspersed in the orange, creating depth. And how I adore the lamp, glowing red from within and the neglected park bench. Painterly, realistic draughtsmanship combined with riotous color and surreal juxtapositions, this shirt has them all.

You can get it here if you are dreaming of October bike rides and handlebar moustaches. It is available from Plattermatter, who has a number of other interesting things, especially Hamilton 8 of Dallas blouses.

I have a Hamilton 8, a navy on white polyester shirt with light houses, seagulls and a wharf full of sailboats. Realistic and surreal at the same time. I don't even have to check the label to spot a Hamilton 8.

Here is another from Plattermatter.


















This delftware lovely is available here.




Or how about the flowery musicality of this holiday print, available here from Call Me Chula.




















I have not yet been able to find any information about the company. Who created these scenic blouses? Both etsy sellers featured here appear to be actually located in Texas. Perhaps the blouses originated from an actual store in Dallas? So far all my searching has turned up nothing. Do you know? Do you have one of these blouses?

Wired has an interesting article about the possibly pernicious ubiquity of anonymous reviewers. Hilariously, all I could think of was to review the article, though as author Chris Collin points out, I could also like it on Facebook or tweet about it. Every one's a critic, and we are all just generating content. We can even review reviews, for crying out loud. Here I am, generating content. But what is doing to us to be in this kind of echo chamber full-time?

As Mr. Colin notes, "There’s an essential freedom in being alone with one’s thoughts, oblivious to and unpolluted by anyone else’s.", but in what he dubs the "Yelpification of the universe" that luxury is harder to find.

I must admit a guilty pleasure in reading reviews. Especially as the majority of people who review anything (be it a hairbrush, a taqueria, or a gastroenterologist) have an overwhelmingly positive or intensely negative experience. Few write paragraph after paragraph about how something was more or less okay. Only the highs and lows take the time to comment. The review world is skewed towards the extremes and I figure that reality lies somewhere between the person who deems something a salvation and another who sees it as a waste of time.

But Yelp is a subset of its own. Zagat's has the anonymity of the eerily unattributed quotation marks. (Who said it was "an affordable bistro"? Zagat isn't telling.) I began consulting Yelp back in 2007 when it was somewhat less trafficked and a bit more local. There was a some self-congratulatory rhetoric about being an insider which was tiresome, but it didn't have the unpalatable smugness of boors that permeates it now. Perhaps it's the demographics of my city that have changed and continue to change. I don't know what happened, but now whenever I scroll down for a review or two of a local eatery or podiatrist, I am absolutely floored by the entitlement espoused by young persons, some of whom by their own admission, hail from more placid regions of the nation and have only been in town a short while. I have read reviews that amount to little more than assassinations of character against poor defenseless sandwich shops because they felt their waiter was a bit distracted. People who would give their lunch a negative star rating if possible. People so appalled and dismayed by the quality of a cup of coffee that they resort to moments of ALL CAPS. These are the Yelp Princesses. Men and women with such high standards that nothing could please them. The music is too loud, too soft, not the kind they liked. The decor too trendy, not trendy enough, too brightly lit, too recently rennovated, not renovated enough. The waitstaff is too elusive, or has bad vibes. You get the idea. Nothing will suit these goldilocksing Yelp Princesses.

But my favorite complaint is that the food is just not authentic enough. Not authentic enough, cry the Yelp Princesses, who freely admit that they've never visited the culinary region in question. Perhaps they've never even met a person from the country in question, except maybe the distracted waiter. (A local Egyptian eatery was deemed inauthentic by Yelp Princesses, not to mention dirty. Akhenaten confirmed that the food was authentic, and the dirt doubly so.) Whenever I read a particularly negative review, I enjoy checking other reviews by the same person to see what else they hate. This is how I discovered that there are lots of folks out there who prefer the predictability of chain restaurants to the crap shoot of a mom- and-pop. There are Yelp Princesses out there who are terrified of every little thing. A Yelp Princess wrote in horror about people hawking cans of beer and bottled water out of garbage bags filled with ice up and down Brighton Beach. The Yelp Princess wrote disparagingly, "it was so ghetto". I just thought, great, now I don't have to bring water. Plus that is a very tough job hauling the bags around on the hot sand, and has this particular Yelp Princess ever even been near a "ghetto"? Sometimes I can be sure of liking something if the Yelp Princesses hate it.

Sometimes a customer review can do a lot of damage to a small business. A small business whose greatest crime was a waitress who forgot to bring an extra soda and the Yelp Princess had to ask twice. I've seen businesses respond and attempt to mollify customers, even when the customers have unreasonable demands. I've got news for you, Yelp Princesses, every lunch you eat will not be a culinary masterpiece. Expensive and popular eateries have off-nights. Spending 4 days at a resort in Cancun does not make you an expert in Mexican food. Life, in short, is full of little disappointments. And even if you go to the right schools and the right restaurants, you can still have a crapola of an evening. And that's all it is: an evening. Or a meal, a day at the beach. If these are the greatest injustices you suffer, Yelp Princess, you should really think about how your privilege has shielded you from the realities of life.

And I a bit harsh on recent emigres to NYC? Yes. Absolutely. No one comes here for the relaxing environment. It is a hard adjustment to make. The standard of living is lower than the rest of the country. But don't take your culture shock out on small businesses.

I know I'm an old crank having a George Carlin moment. There are many young people out there who are perfectly lovely. And there are adventurous souls who come to town to make their way in the world and I wish them luck. There are young people, and people of all ages in fact, who are committed to social justice, renewable resources. People who have devoted themselves to better and grander things than I, certainly. Perhaps, dare I admit it, complaining about Yelp Princesses smacks of Yelp Princessness itself. In a culture where every one's a critic, don't we all just sound like self-important jerks? Perhaps this constant parading of our consumer opinions is inherently vulgar. The need to comment, to have the last word, to be an insider, to determine what is authentic, is perhaps the magic land in which we all become insufferable.

Persian print extravaganza. Gorgeous polyester photo print of Persian minature paintings seemlessly arranged to evoke a total landscape by Liberty House. Get it here from MomsVintage and wear it with everything. Absolutely everything. This is a medium and an absolute steal at $30.

Perversely, nothing can put a dent in my desire for photo prints. This eye-popping tropical fish photo print skirt is a small and is available here from ebayer Aptwithaview AKA Vogue Runway. I'm giving out trade secrets here, as this is an ebayer who often has photo prints, and has been my source for number of spectacular examples over the years.






























Just look at this beauty. It has all the earmarks of what makes photo prints so magical. A bunch of photos, including reproductions of paintings, all thematically related are grouped together in a vertiginous manner, some upside down, but all in the same color scheme. I love the mark of the scissors. You can really see how postcards and illustrations were cut-out and placed in gravity defying conjunctions. I love how the seams show between the images. I love the seagulls winging through. There is no attempt at verisimilitude, we have gone to the land of make believe. This print is virgin polyestah fabric available here from Fifisfinds and is a mere $25. All 57 x 74 inches of it, maybe you could make an evening gown out of it. Would you do that? It would be spectacular on you.

So enthrall to the photo print am I, that I want to create my own. Of course this has involved some additional schooling, something I said I would never do. But that is where my unholy lust has taken me. Surely you goslings know of Spoonflower, which will print fabric you create and upload. I know I need a three-piece suit made from this Nebula print. There are more brilliant photo prints available from the same designer, listed as Corseceng, or alternatively, Jonathan Bowen. Beautiful prints with views from the Hubble telescope, and aerial photos. I can't think of anything that could make one look more goddess-like. And if it hasn't started already, there will be a major run on photo prints in the coming seasons. It's the next logical step for printed clothing to take. And that's the progression that happened in the 70s.

Now if I could only learn to sew. Sigh.

Quill pens, ink wells and over-seeing owls. Pieces of music and pipes also adorn this stunning library print with exquisite detail and bright colors. Wouldn't this make a lovely dress? You can get it here, for sale by Ownbackyard on Etsy. I also love the styling on this room and the ceramic cat is a priceless touch.

Also, a library print apron in silk with Charles Dickens' Old Curiousity Shop.



















This is too pretty to wear as an apron. Treasure Island, Little Women and The Songs of Sappho are a nice touch as well. But it is Thomas Mann's Joseph in Egypt that really sends me. It is available here from Playback.

Do you call it a Library Print, a Bookshelf Pattern, or the Bookworm's Delight? The lack of established labeling conventions for these prints make searching for them difficult. I'd like to agree on library print.

This greyscale library print on rayon is the loveliest I have seen in quite some time. A library print must have other elements besides book spines and here we have some very active-looking statuettes (art deco ladies in crash helmets with arms akimbo)and some vases, but the real tour de force comes from the addition of the electric fan. The vintage radio too is a great touch, though more muted, its horizontal lines mirroring the stacking of books. But the fan in all its circularity is what elevates this print to greatness.

This terrific blouse is available for sale here, from Adrian Company Vintage, who has posted these pictures on Etsy. While the print is spectacular, and it appears to be a very wearable medium, over-sized 80's blouses can be difficult to wear. I'd pair it with a rather short skirt to elongate the silhouette widened by the boxy top. I'd be tempted to keep the rest of the ensemble greyscale as well.

I have long been looking for a library print book bag. This is a print that has been made into various bags.


















This one was part of last summer's collection by WoodWood in Denmark. I like the placement of the print on this bag and how the vertical books move down along the body on the strap, but that style of bag is difficult for a short woman to wear (the long strap would leave the bag itself somewhere around my knees). The same print was also available last summer in a tote bag at the Morgan Library gift shop, which I keenly regret not snapping up when I had the chance. The closest I've been able to find in this photoprint of some book spines from Thomas Jefferson's Library.



While this bag is reasonably priced and available through the History Channel, of all places,and looks bookishly practical, nonetheless I don't believe in wearing novelty prints that one cannot vouch for or discuss coherently. U.S. History routinely fails to interest me and I often horrify the young Akhenaten with the gaps in my knowledge. Akhenaten, my young Egyptian paramour, can name more U.S. Presidents (and in chronological order) than I can. In order to comply with my own rule about standing by one's novelty prints, I'd have to visit the Library of Congress (the originator of this tote) and read a book or two about Thomas Jefferson just to keep from embarassing myself. And what if I am cornered on the subway by a Constitution enthusiast? For the love of Maude, isn't all of that a heavy trip to put on a tote bag?

Then I got to thinking about U.S. Presidential Libraries. Do they all have gift shops? Do they all put out tote bags? Have I hit a vein of Library Print items? Is this the motherlode?

Sadly, no. I was really hoping for a Nixon Presidential Memorial and Library Watergate Commerative tote bag, but there is no such animal. I would have settled for a Nixon in China tote, but Tricky Dick's library is one of the few without a gift shop. Most of the Presidential libraries are administered by NARA, National Archives and Records Administration. The gift shops are fairly standardized with pens and caps with the particular president's signature or a famous quote, a section for books by and about the president, and a kids section with model Airforce1 planes and tiny t-shirts that say "Future President". Perhaps a section with costume jewelry reproductions of pieces worn by the first lady. The Franklin Delano Roosevelt Library and Museum has the New Deal Store where you can pick up mugs commemorating 75 years of Social Security. There are also busts and sculptures of both FDR and Eleanor. But my favorite so far would have to be a 6 inch statue of FDR as the Sphinx. Apparently based on a caricature of FDR it must be seen to be believed.

Angel, Angel, Down We Go (also released as Cult of the Damned) is a marvelously psychedelic film. It is also unabashedly campy and clearly made by people who were hoping they could get those crazy hippies into the movie theater doing some weird stuff. It comes complete with dissociative episodes expressed in painterly collages by Shirley Kaplan and flatly narrated by folk singer and songwriter Holly Near. Ms. Near plays the role of Tara Nicole Steele, an unhappy debutante (also known as "The Fat Girl") who takes up with cultish band of sky-diving rock stars. Jennifer Jones plays Tara Nicole's mother, Astrid, a status-obsessed harpy who is also constantly referred to as "The Most Beautiful Woman in the World". And Ms. Jones does look absolutely gorgeous at 50 years young wearing nothing beside a bed sheet, or evening gowns designed to look like she's wearing nothing but a bed sheet casually tied at her bosom. There are scenes of hilarious cruelty between Astrid and her billionaire Airline tycoon husband, who prefers the company of naked young men.

Oddly enough, the film pre-dates the story of the Manson Family, which broke soon after the 1969 release. Oh, and it's a musical. Jordan Christopher, who plays the cult's leader, improbably named Bogart Peter Stuyvesant, does all the singing as a Jim Morrison-type: shirtless and in leather pants. Mr. Christopher is really pulling out all the stops for this performance. Like he's not saving any energy to drive home afterwards. One of the tamer songs "The Fat Song", can be seen in high quality here. A faded version of the theatrical trailer, which really encapsulates everything you need can be seen here. But sadly for Mr. Christopher, his character is so over the top that he reminded me of Dick Shawn's turn as L.S.D. or Lorenzo St. Dubois in the 1968 film The Producers. If you haven't seen Mr. Shawn's hilarious hippie parody watch it here, and do a little compare and contrast.

Roddy McDowell has the role of a cult member that was probably a real let-down after Planet of the Apes. But he does it as if it were Lear.

The whole thing can be found under its alternate title here. Should you watch this movie? No, you should not. Well, maybe just a little. The first 15 to 20 minutes are great. The party scene in particular is gorgeous. Ms. Near's slow-motion descent down the staircase to the sitar-inflected titled song is a highlight. I'd say it's great up through "The Fat Song" and then the whole thing gets bogged down in over-blown dialogue. There is a terrible scene in the middle of the film when Bogart Peter Stuyvesant meets Tara's parents and he talks Lorenzo St. Dubois-style nonsense for what seems like five hours. It is unbearable. The dialogue feels like it was originally written for a play, where it would make sense to have lots of expository dialogue about sky-diving. You'd need to create the scene with words because you can't sky-dive in the theater. But with the extreme visuals of the film it becomes, at the very least, de trop, and at full throttle, like nails on a chalk board painful. Someone needed to cut at least 1/3 of the dialogue.

Ms. Near does a terrific job. I loved the scene when she was trapped upside down on the ceiling while everyone else was sitting down below (mostly because I feel that way a lot). Ms. Near gives such a good-natured performance, game for anything and with laughter in her eyes. And she looks beautiful, the brocade robes and towering wigs really suit her. The film posits her as "The Fat Girl" but she isn't particularly big. If she does have any extra on her, it looks great. In fact, the other women just look weirdly emaciated around her.

Ms. Jones has some marvelously catty lines and plenty of meaty situations to explore. Many have bemoaned the appearance of a gen-u-ine Hollywood star in this sort of rubbish. But perhaps Ms. Jones merely knew the Bette Davis truth of the matter: that plum roles for women over 40 are best found in B movies.

But don't watch the whole thing. Really, you'll just be hurting yourself. Instead, check out Les Blank's terrific God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance, an un-narrated documentary of the 1967 Love-In in Los Angeles on Easter Sunday. A beautiful day in the park with a lot of sweet souls doing their own thing. Each mediating, playing music, dancing, or even totally tripping out. There is lots of style inspiration here and the gentle editing almost makes you feel like you are there. A wonderful hypnotic quality permeates this film, along with a kindness, both to the participants and to you as you watch.

My goodness, it has been a long time since I have posted anything. I'd like to say that I was busy doing something terribly worthwhile, like restoring medieval tapestries as part of an exhibition of women's textile art or bringing clean drinking water to remote villages. But alas, no. I was frittering away my time as usual:strumming a ukulele and watching old movies. I stayed away from the siren lure of the novelty print. Mostly, anyway. And yes, of course the young Akhenaten and I have been anxiously following the revolutions that blossomed (and continue) across the Middle East. But as so many have said so much about it, some better informed and some even more ill-informed than myself,I decided (quite reasonably) that journalists and people who are actually there are best equipped to analyze and describe what is going on.

I have been urged (by Ms. Kitty Penknife, among others) to blog about my plans for a Psychedelic Summer, as well as my adventures in seasonal themes so I thought I'd check in on my old blog. I was shocked (shocked!) to find that it has actually gotten some traffic, despite my long sabbatical. It can't all be from spambots, right? So, hi there. How are you? Thanks so much for stopping by. How have you been? What are you obsessed with these days? Do tell.

In the interest of curbing my continued novelty print addiction, I thought I'd focus more on good old-fashioned fun. What is fun, after all? I recently read Frances Burney's Evelina, a charming epistolary novel that I strongly endorse, whose modern editor noted that the word fun was, at that time (1778-ish), slang. Fun originally meant ridicule, as in to make fun of someone (which is a favorite pastime of some the novel's characters). But fun was just beginning to be used (and conceived of) in the current sense. The title character spends two seasons, one with her upper-crust relations, and one with her tacky downwardly-mobile relatives. But both sets are keen to find some fun and the reader is taken on a tour of late 18th Century London amusements, from the opera to displays of mechanized birds to public dances. Fun was a new idea, as were the libraries and public gardens and free displays of fireworks, all of which serve as backdrops for the novel's actions. Wearing a kicky new frock, seeing and being seen, then critiquing the event and its attendees seems to comprise fun for both sets of relatives, high and low. Not so different from writing Yelp reviews and posting photos of your delicious entree on Facebook, now is it? But I thought, fun has to have more to it than that? Perhaps? Is it possible to write about fun and even exhort others to have some fun without falling into the obvious traps? Probably not.

During the winter of 2011, I was devoted to all things Russian. A Russian Winter, complete with multiple snow days. Among other things I saw Battleship Potempkin on the big screen and got a lovely hand-painted woolen Russian folk shawl. I listened to a lot of Tchaikovsky and watched Ken Russell's wonderful film version of the composer's life The Music Lovers, which I recommend highly, though he does take liberties (but what wonderful liberties they are, do enjoy the 1812 Overture scene, watch it here right now, you owe it to yourself. Go on, I'll wait). I also saw Boris Godonov at the Met, which was marvelously full of deep Russian bass voices and the timbre of bells. And if you can watch the silent Russian film, Chess Fever, which is actually streaming on netflix, you are in for a real treat. If you need a good cry, watch The Thief.

I spent a lot of time at the Nicholas Roerich Museum, one of these little jewel box museums devoted to the work of a single artist. Mr. Roerich did the set design for Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, among other things. As a painter and a spiritualist, Mr. Roerich was obsessed with Mount Everest and other great heights, creating scads of paintings of mountain scenes. While I'm a valley girl myself (literally), one can really get a lofty feeling looking at such tremendous vistas.

I cooked up pot after pot of borscht. And I finally read Natasha's Dance, by Orlando Figes, which is a wonderful cultural history of Russia absolutely bubbling over with anecdotes. I learned a couple of Russian folk songs on the uke. I also ended up appearing in a short program for Russian television (which is a long story). Now that I've listed everything it doesn't quite seem Russian enough, does it? Ah well, I think I shall have another Russian-themed winter next year in which I hope to work in some ice-skating and chess lessons.

Summer 2011 is the Psychedelic Summer and it has just begun. I'm focusing on the late 60s, the moment where LSD met harpsichords and mimes in popular culture, but I'm open to some trippy mid-70s as well. I decided to start with Yoko Ono on the solstice at dawn.

Make Music New York set up Central Park for all comers to re-enact Yoko Ono's Secret Piece, originally created in Summer 1953, which proscribes being in the woods from 5am to 8am playing one note to the accompaniment of birds. Oddly enough, no one else wanted to get up before dawn to do this with me, so off I went in the dark. Though I did bring my least expensive camera (which I now regret, when will I ever see the park again in that morning light) and Akhenaten fretted a bit (though not enough to come with me). About 50 people turned up for the adventure. Most of them young people, and some visitors to NYC who planned to take in all the free music Make Music New York had scheduled for the day.

Arranging for people to get to the wooded areas of the park at dawn and providing all with green tea at the end sounded like a logistical nightmare, but it was expertly handled by one terrific young intern named Camden. Ms. Ono had given permission for her piece to be performed (though her people said she might show up, she did not) and the parks commission had issued a permit for us to be in the park at 5am, when it is technically closed. Make Music New York printed out maps of the park and we were free to position ourselves wherever we liked. It did feel creepy being in the park at that hour but we were not the only ones there. A man with an enormous beard was sloshing around in the Bethesda Fountain collecting the coins at the bottom. There were a few other career campers such as this gentleman milling about, all of whom seemed to be busy with their morning toilette. I soon lost sight of the other participants in the piece and felt rather reckless.

I didn't make it up to the North Woods, the densest and wildest part of the park, but instead parked myself under the Alice in Wonderland sculpture and played an A on my ukulele, occasionally alternating with an A on the recorder. (Why an A? Well, according to a very scholarly source (an episode of Seinfeld) composer Robert Schumann was afflicted with tinnitus and hearing an A note over and over in his head drove him mad.) But the best part of this project was actually listening to the birds. I never realized how complex and beautiful bird song really is. And how much they like to sing in the very early morning. I let them take the lead and just played a little back-up. And, while I am hesitant to anthropomorphize the birds who were just doing their thing, it seemed like they were improvising with me. A number of sparrows and starlings came right up to me and chirped for a while and we looked each other in the beady eyes.

As the sky began to lighten and the city woke up around the park, dog walkers and early morning exercisers began to make an appearance. The sound of the recorder made dogs want to climb into my lap with glee--not in terror as one would expect. And as even the patient Akhenaten had banned all recorder playing in his presence, it was great to get some positive feedback. After the peace and quiet of dawn, it started to seem a bit crowded. The minimalism of the one-note private concert was refreshing, as was the feeling of having the park mostly to myself.

I met some lovely people sipping green tea afterwards. A sweet and energetic woman had come in from Philly with her teen-age daughter and a Tibetan singing bowl tuned to A#. A young bartender, who said she headed over after work, and spent most of her time just listening to the birds. Everyone I spoke with had an uplifting experience.

A greater perusal of Yoko Ono's Grapefruit was in order. I've always been a big fan of Ms. Ono, and the idea of having a dance festival in your head.

Hope you are out there having fun, gosling.