blog crush No. 2

thesartorialist.com

My first blog crush can be found over here at Tuin Woman (to see my original post, click here), where her blog/project is called Au Coin De Ma Rue.  So unique, and very interactive with individuals on the street in her joint cities of Brussels and Amsterdam.

Very much like blog crush secondus.  If you don't know of Scott Schuman's The Sartorialist, allow me to introduce you to your next time-suck on the ole triple-dub.  But, knowing the folks  that visit here episodically (you lot, there), I'm 98 points positive you all are well aware of Scott and his lovely better half, Garance Doré and their fashion blogs.  Scott Schuman has been steadily working for many fashion publications since the early successes of his blog.  This man of taste with the nonpareil "eye" of the street fashionista is really quite extraordinary ... truly.

NYTimes.com

His line of work is very similar to that of Bill Cunningham's (we all stand on the shoulders of giants, don't we?) "On the Street" column from the New York Times, except like all good bloggers looking to catch their big break from blogosphere into the mainstream, you do it on the cheap, cut out the overhead of the middleman, and then gather all of the perspiration and hard work and passion and feed it through the press of diligence and consistent preparation and let others call it luck when the marketplace loves what you have distilled.  What Scott has produced from his vine of talent is a book or two, a great video shot in Italy, and most recent, guest shots on television shows.  And, like the venerable Mr. Cunningham, it is a rite of passage for New Yorkers to have their souls (and sartorial splendor)  captured by by Mr. Schuman "on the street" -- or outside of the latest fashion event -- including the high priestess herself, viz., Anna Wintour, who certainly did earn herself an ambassadorship to the UK with all of that cheddar she raised for BHO, er, No. 44.

I thought my interest in fashion and luxury (which began in earnest after acquiring my first Armani topcoat in my teens which I proudly wore to Spago back in the day the same week my mom (sweet mum) opened her boutique) would launch a luxury network.  After law school I founded LuxeMont.com (and its various subs) a full 2 - 3 years ahead of the curve from the other websites who began chasing this high-end niche. Not quite, not just yet.

I'll be surprised if i'm not hit with a C and D (cease and desist) for my rather liberal reposting of Scott's original shots, but below are several of my all-time street shots from thesartoliralist.com., with my accompanying commentary to prove-up my bonafides as a recurrent visitor.  I've wanted to do this post for forever and a day, but today is finally the day (well, it's actually, like 2am or something thereabouts, but you get my drift, Dear Reader, especially because you also post in the middle of the night as well, n'est pas?).

Easter in Harlem, New York City:
I mean, would you look at this shot?  Good gawd that's good.  Good?  Nah, brilliant.  Makes me sick with envy to see Scott so good at what he does.  The gentleman in the suit looks like the type of cat that Tommy might meet up with at the crossroads to sell his ever-lovin' soul (nod to O Brother, Where Art Thou?).  He has that vibe that Tarantino searches for in his films.  Dude is just B-A-D A-Double-Ass.  If there were ever a time to visit Harlem for a fashion photog uber blogger, Easter Sunday is the day. Can I get an Amen?!  As someone who lived in South Central for almost ten years, I know of which I speak when it comes to an Easter parade.

thesartorialist.com

University Place, New York City:

I hate to quote myself, but what the hay (or is it hey! ?): Unbeknownst to Scott, he has captured "Botticelli's 'birth of venus' writ moderne."  Truly extraordinary coincidence! I mean look at the wind in her hair; the hair color; the pose.  All we need is a clam shell behind the poor girl, et voila!  Writ moderne, baby.  But, Mr. Schuman does that continually, viz., he captures a moment with his skilled eye and he nails his subject mid-pose, almost a mise en scene of a street artist.  Because that's what Scott is, a moving, roving artist with camera (say it like Jenna from 30Rock, CAmerahh, to capture the Manhattan moment of it all) in hand, and he snaps and snags and shares with us his day's catch, dragging it back to the cave for all of us in his tribe to appreciate and become sated with his subjects' unique choice for ensemble.

thesartorialist.com

New Oxford Street, London

Well, below is my favorite shot ever on thesartorialist.com.  How can a photog get this lucky?  I'm talking about her porcelain doll skin color, the wet pavers, the black/dark brown background, her ensemble (or is it a uniform and she a player?), the colors of her coat (even its lining!), the bows in her hair, her ruby red lipstick, and would you look a that ribbon tied on her case?  Good cripes this shot kills me.  What say you, Dear Reader?  We already know what Karena *(our blogger pal at her eponymous named blog ... see her comment below as well!).

thesartorialist.com

Poolside, Los Angeles:

Had to comment here, because, frankly Scott is never in LA.  Well, rarely.  LA has so much style, but it is not displayed or concentrated like it is in New York because truly no one walks in LA (great Motel's song from the 80's), and we have this urban sprawl thing happening here in LA County and SoCal.  But, there is a great deal fashion and style, and one does see it exemplified in the rapidly gentrifying downtown LA district, East LA, West Hollywood/Melrose area, Los Feliz, Santa Monica and of course Beverly Hills, but it's a bit dated.

thesartorialist.com

thesartorialist.com

thesartorialist.com

Rupert Street, London
I've seen this dude on thesartorialist.com a few times.  He's got this "v" thing happening.  His hand tat, the lapels of his jacket, the shape of his face/beard, everything is a wedge on this fellow, as he pierces his way through life.

So, there you have it.  My fascination and envy of a simple yet impactful blog.  This 'blog crush No. 2' is but one of about 10 posts just sitting, waiting to be properly edited and completed, lurking in the bowels of the vast file system of the ole porkster.  Writing and posting takes a bit out of you, especially if you have anything else more important to do.  Nice to finally get this one scratched off of the whiteboard as they say.

Share |

but two wishes ... redux

if i had but two wishes, i would give them to you, my two sons, my lovely boys.

would that you'd think of me, when i'm gone and with our good God, and you're sitting on your giant wrap-around porch in some southern clime, with your brood in the yard playing their favorite games, with voices rising sweetly toward sunset.

and when you feel a warm summer breeze on your faces, would that you'd think fondly of fat, squishy, bald dad and turn to give your little ones your wishes -- a baton of blessing -- golden wishes that see the best in everything, and forgive easily, and work hard for good things for family, friends, and those in need as our faith dictates.

if i had but two wishes, i wouldn't have to wish because i already have them in you, my boys.

Share |

One Word ...

there it sits.  by its lonesome. 

a single, solitary word on a blank page.  an atoll of black san serif letters against an ocean of indifferent white.

unless it’s a verb. then I suppose it doesn’t just sit there; supposed to show action and all.  so I guess it acts quietly, you know, when it sits alone the one word there on the screen, or on 20 lb stock of acid-free office, or perhaps on millennia-old papyrus scroll … the one word.

the one word.  isolated in its inchoate-ness.  it usually denotes a beginning.  beginnings are good.  but to begin again?  to borrow a phrase from our Brit cousin (the YOB!), “now that’s bleedin’brilliant.”

that’s where we mere mortals, destined for the mortician-- we who are caught up in the whole time/space continuum thing -- have one very amazing and saving grace, even over angelic beings who witness our luck in awestruck wonder …  you and I can always (and I mean always) begin again.

it really is the great catchall in life; well at least in my life, the restart. we can’t get to restoration without the fresh start from scratch, n’est pas?

so what happened last year? were things said?  were promises broken?  were there disappointments,soul-crushing defeats, unexpected setbacks, death, illnesses, spectacularly rotten luck?  did others get blessed and you left out?  somebody go out of their way to screw you over?  dunno, that.  maybe it’s one, more or all of the preceding.  I know my hand was up the entire time.

but, let’s try something, you and I, Dear Reader.  let’s take a deep breath.  seriously, just try this,okay?  deep breath. now hold it!  hold it. now, long exhale.  feel it?  that little moment before your next breath? when you and I involuntarily breathe again?  we can’t help it; we just do.

to me that is the metaphor spot on for our single word on the page.  we should, no matter how many disappointments in our lives, automatically, like the viscera of heart beating and diaphragm contracting, instinctually place the lone and brave first word on the page. 

alone.  by itself.  priming the pump for us, surveying the landscape for the rest of those damned pesky yet beautiful words to join in our atavistic battle … again.

Share |

Brankton Walks Austin (Part 12)

Brankton palmed the keys to the rental and his room and nodded a terse thanks to Pete who still had those rays of energy -- powerful enough to sterilize unsuspecting passersby -- projecting out in Brankton's general direction.  As he wasn't sporting his lead underwear, Brankton tried putting enough distance between himself and the desk where others in the Baron's party might also be checking-in.

He settled behind a large desert plant with several dark red flowers in full bloom from where he could regroup and assess his next move.  It seemed like a lifetime had passed between yesterday's casual Friday at NBCUniversal and today, standing in the Driskill's lobby with a large knot pitting in his stomach.

"Mr. Newhan!"

Brankton jumped in spite of himself; so much for keeping a low profile.  He'd been caught spying, and looked back over his shoulder to Pete with an annoyed and guilty head gesture of "yeeesss?"

"Elevators are just around the corner, sir!"  Pete pointed with a crook in his arm.  "Shall I show you the way?!"

The top-half of Pete began to move from out behind the desk, but Brankton didn't wait for the lower-half of his energetic escort to appear as well.  He bolted around the plant and headed for what appeared to be the way.   In the same instant he remembered that the Sabbath was over and reached for his phone to call his office.  He glimpsed Pete giving up the cause and was momentarily relieved as he turned the corner.

"Hey!"  It was a woman's voice, with an accent.  There wasn't enough time for another word to be spoken so Brankton couldn't place its origin just yet.

The side of Brankton's face met with the top of his ex-mother-in-law's head at an odd angle, emanating a sound not too dissimilar of two bowling balls bumping into each other in the rack after their trips down the local lanes.  The pain and bruising would subside, but the hollow thud both heard would not soon be forgotten by either Brankton or the Baroness.  Insult to injury was the shattered screen of Brankton's iPhone as it landed flat on the tile floor.

"Ooooh, oooh!  Oh, darling!"  The step-mother to Brankton's ex was rubbing her head as if making a wish on a genie's lamp.  A more lithe figure could not be cut by a 50 yr-old woman.  She was legs and  leisure and embodied about the only class in the Baron's immediate circle, save for his daughter, Brankton felt.

"Sh*t!"  Brankton bent to pick up his phone, which surprisingly was still intact, though the screen was cracked in several large sections.  He also picked-up two tiny envelopes with rental keys in them as well.   He looked up to make his apologies.  "I am so sorry.  Are you all right?  That was my fault," he said.  "I think this one belongs to you,"  he extended a small envelope in her direction.

"Oh, not to worry, darling," said the Baron's wife miffed.  She reached out blindly to Brankton, feeling for this stranger with her keys and asked, "Are you okay?"  She put the the envelope in her purse.

Their eyes met for the first time, and in spite of concussed senses each recognized the other.

"My God!  Oh, my God!  Brankton, darling!"

"Hi, Dominique." It was Brankton's turn to rub his injury, and because he had about a 3-minute head start on expecting the Baron's family to be in Austin, he wasn't as surprised as she about ramming his cranium into her's.

"What in the hell are you doing here, darling?!"

"Well, it's good to see you, too," Brankton deadpanned.

"I'm sorry, Brankton, but do you know that Sophia is getting married?"

"I just found out," Brankton pointed back toward the front-desk and felt like a complete idiot that a glorified bellhop had informed him that the love of his life was remarrying.

"Surely, you must know that this, your being here," the Baron's third wife, with a silver clutch in her hand, waved her arms around in a swirling motion as she looked about, "is quite unexpected, darling."  She was about twenty years younger than the Baron who was almost 70, and yet she could pass for late 30's.

Brankton noticed for the first time that the trip-hop ambient chill soundtrack favored by most upscale hotels had begun its evening shift.  He liked it, even if it was a bit played out.  All of a sudden he needed a drink.

"Dominique, I just checked-in.  I'm in town on business."  Brankton pointed again back in the direction of no-period P, which reminded him that he had to call the office which was two hours ahead; he pushed the power button on his iPhone to see if he needed to be more pissed off than he was currently. Please work, he thought. 

"Darling, but how did you know that Sophia was getting married this weekend?"

"I didn't.  Swear," said Brankton a bit irritated.  Divorce had many attendant negative consequences, but one of the more ungainly  had to be the creation of a new class of hyphenate family members.  The iPhone's home-screen finally appeared to the relief of Brankton who looked back to his ex-step-mother-in-law.  "I'm here to sign a new act, and have to go out tonight to see him at some club just down the street."

"Oh, really?  So you just decided to stay at the Driskill?"  Sounded a bit fishy to Brankton now that he heard it put like that, and with the English lilt of an islander no less.  The Baron was a man of wealth and taste.  And his taste in women leaned toward the Caribbean:  Olive-skinned, tall, beautiful, and well-spoken.   Brankton had to give the Baron that at least.

"Fine, darling.  Whatever you say," Dominique pulled Brankton toward the elevators.  "Meanwhile, you can tell me your version of the truth over a drink as you and I get away from the lobby."

For a brief moment, it looked like the bartender on the second-floor veranda was actually reading the recipes of the drinks he was pouring.  He'd read a bit, turn the page, then walk over and make a drink.  Then read some more, pour a few more drinks. Brankton watched this for a few minutes before he confirmed that the bartender was most likely the second-string crew, probably a local college kid trying to get some reading done for class while working what would ordinarily be a slow shift.  The A-team would be downstairs working the wedding or the rehearsal dinner or whatever his ex had planned.

"Clink-clink, darling!" said the Baron's wife, shaking Brankton's empty glass with ice rattling to that area behind the bar where waitstaff do her bidding.

"Another Jack-n-Coke?" said the bartender.  Brankton took the span of his hand and inverted it vertically for visual aid.

"Make it tall," said Brankton.

The bartender looked at the Baron's wife.  "She'll have another Bellini," said Brankton, who personally preferred the blackcurrant of the Kir Royale over the peachy, summery Bellini as far as Champagne drinks are concerned.  He pulled his glass from her hand.

"We have one of these every Sunday afternoon at the club," said the Baron's wife now with only her rightful drink in-hand.  "Some traditions are good, wouldn't you agree, Brankton?"  He did agree, but he didn't like the traditions that screwed him over.

"What's it been?  Three years?" asked Dominique.

"Not quite 150 Bellini's," said Brankton pointing at her Sunday afternoon drink, calculating.  Plus three Bellini's from today is 153, he thought.

"You look amazing, Brankton, darling."  The Baron's wife threw one leg over the other, with her open-toed pump pointing at her former ex-step-son-in-law.  Brankton pulled another ice cube from his glass and rubbed it on his cheek bone.

"So, I have to know ... who's the guy?" he finally asked the question that no ex wants to really know the answer to.

"Here.  Try one of the these."

"What's that?" he asked.

"For my back.  Does wonders for the pain, as well as rehearsal dinners," she said.   She placed a silver pill box on the bar and opened it revealing nine elliptical Vicodin pills lined-up 3x3.  "You're going to need it."

"Yeah?  That right?"  Brankton looked at his watch; he had a little over an hour until the set would start.  "Two please," he said.

"Two?  Why not?"  said the Baron's wife.  One neat little row of life-numbing capsules disappeared; two for him, one for her style as they toasted with freshened drinks.

"Clink-clink," said Brankton.

Share |