One night I was walking through a particularly pretty street in the West Village and came across this secondhand bookstore. Closed, but in the window were all sorts of amazing things. First editions of Sylvia Plath’s Crossing the Water and Dylan Thomas’ In Country Sleep. A signed Ernest Hemingway picture. Postcards signed by Henry Miller.
This really caught my eye though – as the caption says, a signed Cecil Beaton photograph of Lady Cynthia “Cimi” Mosley. After her sudden death, her husband Sir Oswald went on to marry Diana Guinness, nee Mitford. And everyone knows I’m obsessed with the Mitfords, and the surrounding circle of brilliant, mad, witty friends they kept.
Just seeing this was one of those amazing stumble-into-it moments that make you feel like the world’s a game of buried treasure.
I’m in love with the boys at New World Metro’s produce department. There’s this new display near the checkout, where fruit and vege assortments have been glad-wrapped up in those polystyrene trays, like meat. It’s so obnoxiously over packaged. But whoever’s doing it is having fun – they all have labels like “Phils Big Nose Fruit” or “I’m Fine Package” or the myspace address of (presumably) one of their bands. The whole concept is so ridiculous – who wouldn’t rather choose their own banana off the pile? – and the staff seem very aware of that. The other day there was a tray containing just a bulb of garlic and a beetroot. Mmm, convenience.
You guys! I just had a date where the guy wanted to watch American Pie, but the dvd was broke (thankyouthankyouthankyou) so we saw a Jim Carey movie instead. And he played me some Mary J Blige tunes, because my hip hop eduction needs upping. And then asked “do you wanna play spin the bottle, nah jokes”. And THEN we watched The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
This is TOTALLY what high school was supposed to be like. Slowly but surely, I am catching UP.
Dear Mr Cohen,
We haven’t had a chance to fall in love yet. Please get well soon.
My parents have re-decorated my childhood room (and still my room! because I am spoiled). What a difference wallpaper makes! Of course if I lived there I could never keep it so clean and simple, le sigh, but it’s pretty much exactly where I want to be right now. Wrought iron bedframe and a patchwork quilt. A dark wardrobe for climbing inside with secret hopes of Narnia. Ruffles and light through lead-glass windows. Just a little bit romantic, but in a dreamy fourteen year old way.
(aka: The Kids Are Not Alright, Pt II)
This article in the Sunday News, about kiddy gang culture, was a little bit hilarious. A lot awful too, of course – and raises a pretty important issue. But.
“Police say the gang uses its music to tune children and teenagers into their gangsta lifestyle.”
1. Gangsta? Is that really necessary? Unless the journo is part of a Newz gang who deliver their stories in rap, I kinda doubt they can pull off this sentence when read aloud.
“Sunday News discovered a Bebo profile set up by a six-year-old who poses in the distinctive gang clothing, with a heavy gold watch on his wrist. Defiantly making the Killer Beez’s trademark middle finger signal, he boasts about his gangland connections in the “hood Otara” in south Auckland. And he lists his interests as fast cars, motorbikes and tough dogs.”
2. I find it really weird how all newspapers here quote Bebo nowadays, when they’re doing stories on kids. Not just for broad issues like this, but when kids get murdered or killed in car accidents, it’s never long before the press is printing the kid’s profile info, or how the tributes are flooding in from schoolmates on cyberspace. Yes, the Internet is a public space. But 6 year olds are unlikely to really get what that means. Kinda funny that a young boy liking motorcycles and fast cars has an ominous undertone here (although the dog this is validly disturbing).
A Bebo user posts his support. He writes: “Love tha way you rockin dat Coloyrways (sic) hoodie, you lookin crim dela crim hoomie ultra solid. Hurrs a heart lil gangstah.”
3. I fricking love the placement of that one, lonely ‘sic’.
UNRELATEDLY, I still love you Patrick Wolf.
I love sculptural jewelry, hefty rings and mountains of bracelets all piled up and clashing. Pearls worn next to perspex. Delicate chain bangles and spikey chokers. Mostly on other people! My collection is small and unassuming, but I love seeing pictures of girls who keep piles of precious things on flowery china plates on their dressing tables.
I found out about Jessica McCormack via the perenially lovely somuchtotellyou. Her shop is (understandably!) appointment only, and in London, but you can see some of her breathtaking pieces on her website.
Isn’t it all just to die for? The collections and pieces all have such romantic names – Messenger of the Gods, Jewels of the Urban Night, Death Star, Bird Bones. Her blog has extras-for-experts photos too, of the pieces in gorgeous and unexpected display – like the first earring above tucked in a tiny monkey skull.
I know I’ll never afford these in a million years, but because it’s such cleverly designed and finely crafted art, I get so much pleasure from looking that there isn’t really a pain from lack of having. (Isn’t it TERRIBLY VIRTUOUS of me to say that??)
This is Josh Pyke. He’s an Australian singer-songwriter, and this is his boat. The most confusing thing about this, for me, is why this is not mentioned on his Wikipedia page. If I had my own GUITAR BOAT, I would be editing that into the first line.
Does it play? Oh gosh I hope it plays. Especially because he’d look kinda silly if he had to carry a whole nother normal sized acoustic guitar onto the boat every time he wants to serenade someone.