Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wear it with a rose in your teeth.
Alas, this one isn't available anymore, and you'd really need to wear a crinoline to show this one off to its best advantage. I love the lines in the background. It's as if someone took a weathered old bullfight poster and blew up the image about 50 times until you can taste the grain of the paper and the wheatpaste on the wall. The lines also create a windy feeling of movement, and the light sprinkling of red rose petals really opens up the whole scene. I love that our matador is at the moment of the final kill.
This one, however, is available, and you can bid on it here. Lovely repeat print with different bullfight moments. Doesn't it look like batik? The ebayer says the outline is in metallic paint and really makes the scenes pop. Nice medium size.
I'd be tempted to wear this to go see Carmen next week at the Met. I have the absolute cheapest seat. I'll be sitting on the roof, so it doesn't really matter what I wear. But don't worry, goslings, lawsuit or not, cheap seats or not and the ever widening of my grey streak be damned, I'll still drag out my furs, and rustle up an evening gown that fits and drink champagne during intermission. Oiseau rebelle indeed, poppets, as soon as I finish this course of antibiotics that is seriously cutting into my drinking.
Housing court is a demoralizing place to be, especially with the flu. I managed to get an ajournment, despite the protestations of my slumlord's scumbag attorney. My new court date is February 8th. Now the building manager, and the slumlord's legal department have left me multiple voicemail messages that they are dropping the lawsuit, but I keep getting served with papers. And now I hear that voicemail messages are not admissible as evidence, they're just hearsay. Sigh.
Checkmate. You know I can't resist anything chess-themed, not even a felt circle skirt. Alas the diagram doesn't show the Queen's Gambit. I'm also worried that those rooks have plastic googley eyes, which would be entirely de trop. This skirt may be what Ms. Dress A Day calls a stunt dress, and it's true audience is perhaps a 3rd grade class.
But maybe you teach elementary school. So then it's all right, isn't it?
It's a shame the chess set isn't functional. If only the board were bigger, and the felt pieces could stick on by virtue of their feltiness. (What happened to the felt boards of my elementary school days? That was a solid low-tech teaching aid.) But I don't know that I'd want a chess game taking place on my left hip. Though I do like the idea of a fully operational felt chess dress, with this diagram and the late Bobby Fischer as inspiration.
I've gotten to the age where all my famous people are dying. I can no longer hope to run into Jacques Derrida or Yasser Arafat walking in Central Park. Nor to share a cab with Edward Said, or Susan Sontag. Find Julia Child or Kurt Vonnegut haggling over vegtables at the greenmarket. Nor to engage in a shouting match with Bobby Fischer.
I find it remarkable that none of the obituaries of Mr. Fischer use the words "paranoid schizophrenic". Why tip-toe around what was so obviously madness?
Perhaps the chess motif could serve as a pocket? And in that pocket you could have a handkerchief printed with actual chess diagrams.
The skirt currently weighs in at $35, with a tiny 24 inch waist.
I take comfort in the thought that I can still run into Sofia Loren or Peter O'Toole. Liza Minelli might drop into the Luigi's dance class, and I could possibly even play a hand of bridge with Omar Sharif.
Labels: check mate
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Magic carpet ride. I've been looking for a Persian rug print in polyester for about 3 years now. These are Persian rugs, I think. Or are they Turkish? You tell me. And this one would fit a Stuffed Samsara. What do you think, Mom?
Not exactly appropriate for my day in court, though. That's right, my slumlord is now suing me for the rent for the days I was not able to live in my apartment, even though the building manager promised me a rent credit. They are dragging me to court to make me fight for it.
My landlord is not an individual, but a publically traded corporation. There is noone to reason with.
Sigh. But I do love a court room drama. You know, Witness for the Prosecution, that type of thing. I relish the idea of saying: "Your Honor,..." But unfortunately I don't have the money to hire an attorney. If I did, I wouldn't be in this mess to begin with.
I had my day in court once before. At 16 I got a traffic ticket for an offense I did not commit. A motorcycle cop said I turned left on a red light. Why praytell would anyone do such a thing? The truth was I was already in the intersection in my little rattletrap of a Nissan as the light turned yellow and I turned, as one does. I decided to fight it in court. Everyone told me the cop wouldn't show up. That they never do. And as the judge and I waited a few minutes before starting, it looked like they'd be right. But then I heard the sound of motorcycle boots in the hallway. That's right. My fascist motorcycle cop strutted on in a proceeded to lie. Lie through his teeth. There were cars ahead of hers, he said. There was a tan sedan and a red compact in front of her, he said. I had taken pictures of the intersection, and was at that tender young age actually considering a career in law. I had a lovely little speech prepared. Who did the Judge believe?
The lying traffic cop, of course.
I had to go to traffic school where I sat for 15 hours vowing never to enter a courtroom or trust the wheels of justice again. I studied Comparative Literature in college, for crying out loud, and wrote papers about unreliable narrators.
Goslings, wish me luck. My court date is January 25th.