Last week was the annual battle of the ‘walk off’ of up and coming and established international and local designers alike, otherwise known as Miami International Fashion Week. Aside from the slender figures that graced the hard, white floor of the runway, the presence of the who’s who, the elite, was felt in every row for such an extravagant evening. But you could’ve already guessed that, right?
As I sat there gazing up towards the catwalk, watching skinny bodies in designer’s clothes, all whom were trying to make favorable impressions, I felt myself being extremely selective of which pieces I would give my ‘Ous’ and ‘awes’ to. The first batch of designers left me speechless, literally. I had absolutely nothing to say about them since all of their pieces were either outdated or extremely mass-produced looking.
When I sit down for a runway show, I damn well better see something that’s memorable and thought provoking. I come to see a show and isn’t that what a runway SHOW is anyways? It wasn’t until Lisu Vega when I sat up straight, stopped rolling my eyes and paid some attention. All her models came out with baldheads, leaving all of the attention focused on the feminine and bold pieces that were coming down the white, endless road. Tre chemo-chic!
My next big ‘Ou’ went to Kayce Armstrong for Art of Shade in which all of the models came out styled like international ragdolls and prancing…or tip-toing…we’ll just call it a mix. Either way it was some sort of weird dance that fully enhanced the performance of the clothing. The detailing was exceedingly precise and the tailoring exquisite. Out of all of the designers of the night, Art of Shade won my gold star fThe last show of the night and perhaps the most long awaited was the designs of Carlos Miele and the recipient of the International Designer of the Year Award. His Brazilian creations were crisp and tidy demanding extraordinary attention. Every piece of his had something nice to say about the woman’s design and was made to give undeniable flattery. There was one particular jumpsuit ensemble that resembled that of a banana that flashed a radiance of yellow directly into my cornea and called to me. I love bananas.
Though not as recognized as Miami’s Mercedes Benz Fashion Week Swim, MIFW is just getting started. This David of fashion shows (15 years old) is hoped to become a Goliath some day in the Southern Eastern parts of the world. You go, Miami!….You go…
A rumor is a powerful weapon. It can alter the minds of many and imprison thoughts of only looking in one direction instead of the truth. To some people this rumor does become the truth—their truth. Colombia is a dangerous place. The only thriving business of Colombia is white powder. Continuous fears are released out into the air until such rumors inevitably develop into a reputation. This reputation leaves a mark that no matter how hard cannot be erased.
Well, I am here to say, “NAY”!
The Colombia I experienced were ranches on hillsides, impeccable hospitality and scenic panoramas; it was arepas that took up every millimeter of space in my stomach, it was fresh fruit that you could grab and eat off of trees and an unending notion of innovation being brought alive in the city. From its people down to its dirt roads in the countryside, everything was the true essence of the word inviting.
I was a little disappointed that I would only be there for five days of my spring brake, especially since I would be traveling for two entire days, those five days had sooner than later dwindled down to three. I had no idea what to expect of this country but was promised I would see mountains (a recent, obsessive fixation that I had developed after moving to Miami). On the night of my arrival, all I saw was black. It was too dark outside to see much of anything, not even the tree branch that had densely inhabited Medellin and it’s outskirts. I gave up quickly trying to look for anything until we got to the ranch where we would be staying in for the remainder of the trip.
The following two days would be consisted of indulging in the most rich, highly saturated in fat and delicious Colombian plates such as Chicharrones (fried pork fat with attached skin and one of my personal faves!), Arepas (corn crepes of a colorful variety) and Merengon (a desert plate that consist of dried and whipped merengue with some fruit in between). Can we say CALORIES?! In those two days there was a heavy consumption of retail therapy, as well, but perhaps my proudest moment was when I made THE purchase of my first Agua Bendita swimsuit! I had craved a swimsuit from the Colombian brand ever since I first glimpsed eyes on it during Mercedes Benz Fashion Week Swim this past summer and was determined that I wouldn’t leave the country without a one. It was a hard decision considering the fact that the brand in general caters to women with more junk in their trunk the very category that I place myself in and everything seemed to be fitting like a glove unlike a shoe or a hat. Finally, it had come down to one that was practically jumping into my shopping bag before I even took it off from trying on in the fitting room. Needless to say, the power of success was within my very grasp and I could stop the manhunt or retail Mission Impossible to rest in peace.
The third and final day it was time to roll up my sleeves, get dirty and discover the surrounding cities of Medellin, but first I would amuse myself with a shooting lesson by the brother of my friend whom I had been staying with, and my guide for the day. Random? Extremely, but we were on a farm after all. Why the hell not? Turns out I was a natural, striking down every “opponent” in my way; an Angelina Jolie of my time. Every time I shot a bullet from that barrel I felt every emotion into one skyrocket in flight—Afternoon delight, indeed. Experiencing a rush would be entirely too vague of what had passed through my body. We soon left the guns in the dust and hit the road for the country towns that I so desperately wanted to get acquainted with.
Hills became a thing of the past and mountains were the only thing that were standing in our way as we climbed higher and higher up towards the sky in our stick-shift jeep, reaching towards an altitude that was unknown to the flat lands of South Florida. We had set our eyes on a peculiar large rock that stood as tall as some of the tallest skyscrapers of New York City, La Piedra de Penol. Legend says that it was a meteorite that hit down thousands of years ago, but Meteorite or not, I would grab the beast by its horns and conquer it, climbing all of the 700 steps that brought me closer and closer to a heart-attack at the tender ager of 27. Bring it. Somewhere between passing out and counting my 700th step I had made it to the top (beer was probably a bad decision before taking that climb). Feeling winded and close to throwing up, I huddled my head in between my legs and tried to ease the hyperventilating by taking big gulps of the freshest air that had to be apart of the stratosphere. Once I did finally catch my breath, I found myself in heaven? It had to be. All that surrounded me were valleys and rivers and an endless view of the horizon that went on for miles upon miles getting lost somewhere in the distance. This is the Colombia that I had come to: serenity and endlessness.
Although having been there too short of time, it left me craving more. A second round of shots of Colombia would be in need. Now that I had better acquainted myself with its rural lands and pastures, I wanted to get to know it on a more contemporary level, on a level zooming towards the future. Because once it hit your lips it taste so good.
To be continued…
Last week a blessing came unto me and the South American gods smiled in my general direction, spreading their arms out like that of a wing span of a magical Pterodactyl, gently calling me into the light, which happened to be coming out of Medellin, Colombia. And so I obeyed. However, before taking my holy mission to the one place I have been yapping about all year, I knew I needed to take the proper percussions in hopes of internal survival.
Gathering some local Colombians to get the inside scoop of where to go, what to eat and where to shop provided much help and answered all of my dired questions, however, there was still one question that was refrained from being answered, a deeper issue that proposed itself most concerning for an American girl such as this one (I’m pointing to myself).
WHAT THE HELL DO I PACK?
This is Colombia, this isn’t Bali or Paris; you don’t just walk around in your nicest Valentino accompanied by a lovely high-waisted pleated skirt on. This is the home of one of the most ruthless drug lords that ever set foot on earth’s fertile soil, Pablo Escobar, a man who made Colombia a place to flee from, a dark forest that nobody dare wonder into; a walking booby trap filled with explosives and the gloom of death that covered the lands and people of the whole country especially Medellin in the 80’s and 90’s. Morbid enough for you? Was it too Tim Burton of me?
My plan of attack was to not seek attention in any way, shape or form; wear the simplest of simplest pieces of clothing; and blend in with the locals of Medellin. In fact that goes not just for Medellin and Colombia, but also for any South American country that could be any of the following: Brazil and Venezuela.
Although Colombia has long surpassed its hazy days of heavy trafficking of narcotics and the violence that was once brought on by its cartels, it doesn’t hurt to help reduce the chance of a recurring scene of Taken from taking place. I’m just saying. So as your fashion guide inside and outside of the US, I will give you some constructive tips of enjoying your South American excursion and doing as the ROMANS do, or in this case, COLOMBIANS. Watch and learn.
*Try to bring a two or three pairs of pants if you’re going for a week. Two for everyday, I don’t give a shit what happens to you guys pants and one nice pair…just in case.
*Bring plain tees, in fact, bring a couple more. Frankly, I’m not a plain tee kinda gal so what did I do? I snuck into my mother’s closet to see what kind of generic goodies she had hiding from me and it turned out to be a treasure trove of basic tees! Who knew?!
*Bring one pair of walking tennis, running shoes and leather boots of your choice. That is all you need. I AM NOT KIDDING.
*Don’t even bring jewelry. Trust me you wont need it. And even if you did just so happen to meet Prince Henry there on the random and he happened to ask you to bless his first born in a huge ceremonious jubilee but had no jewelry to wear to such a momentous and once and a life time occasion, there is bundles upon bundles of inexpensive and well made jewelry there!
Alexander Wang, catholic island, clothing, fashion, Irish, Madewell, Marc by Marc Jacobs, marc by marc jacobs bags, MOTHER, oxford shoes, polyvore, Ray-Ban, skinny jeans, St. Patrick's Day, style, SunaharA
St. Patrick’s Day: One of the biggest days out of the year to excuse oneself of an obscene amount of drinking. Am I right or am I right? I’ll answer that for you…I’m right.
No matter the ethnicity, race, color, demographic or country, you can bet your bottom dollar that people around the globe will be embracing in the overexposed consumption of Guinness Draft and the notable humiliation that comes with it. However, it seems, like many other holidays such as Christmas, Cinco de Mayo and Memorial Day, we have forgotten the true meaning of this Emerald Isle festivity.
I could spare you of the boring details of how this Irish jubilee came about but I won’t. You see, St. Patrick’s Day was actually a religious feast day (an Irish Thanksgiving, if you will) that commemorates the death of St. Patrick who was a Christian missionary from ENGLAND that devoted himself to converting the prominent catholic island of Ireland to Christianity. How’s that for a Snapple fact?!
Now that we’ve covered all the textbook nonsense, we can move on to the more important questions…why the hell does everything have to be green?
I realized that due to its nickname, The Emerald Isle, it is only logical that on such a day everything be smothered in the color green. However, is it really necessary? Is it really that mandatory to wear everything green and look like a giant Leprechaun (who quite frankly, scare the shit out of me)? Research shows that the official color of St. Patrick’s Day was actually BLUE. So does that mean if I wear the color blue today I won’t be attacked by random people breaking my skin, causing me to bruise throughout my body due to the wrath of their thumb and pointer finger? One can hope.
Like my Valentine’s segment, I will show you that it doesn’t have to be all about green on St. Patrick’s Day. All you need is little touches of green such as a ring or sunglasses to save you from the fury of being pinched…unless you want to be pinched. In that case, SCREW THE GREEN AND BRING ON THE FINGERS OF HOT MEN WORLDWIDE!
Happy Anti-St. Patrick’s Day!
My fists clenched with two drinks in my hands (Vodka, Cranberry with a splash of Pineapple to be exact) defending them like a Momma gorilla would her cubs, glaring at people with a suspicious nature to each side of me and then downing my cocktails like tall glasses of milk after having a stacked plate of pancakes with way too much syrup on them. Catch my drift?
The Carnival Live Event or The Kick Off Party to Calle Ocho (Miami’s version of Carnival) started off classy and innocent enough and had slowly became a welcomed shit show of well-dressed patrons to the Miami territory shaking their “tailfeathers” out on the floe (not floor, don’t get it twisted).
There was a bar at every corner in the two-story establishment that resided in Jungle Island, however, not nearly enough bartenders. Ironic, you ask? True and true. Trying to get drink number 3,4 and 5 proposed huge problems. I had to think of myself not as Nycole anymore, but Natasha, the Russian spy that slid through legs, slithered passed drunkards and regulated “cutsies” (the act of cutting in line). I had to plan my moves strategically, being smart no longer was enough in this type of circumstance. Making my way to the front presented itself easy and attainable after a given time of fifteen minutes of elbow-punching and eye-lash batting but when it came around to the line where the food sat, that was a whole other Mt. Everest to tackle. The line for the drinks was actually a mob of bodies being shoved to and throw and it was sinch to manipulate my way to the top, but the line for the food was a SINGLE FILED LINE. A SINGLE FILED LINE, one of those lines that took you back to Kindergarten and the mere thought of trying to sneak your way to the front was calamity. And so we endured the long, slow death of hunger that began to feed on our alcohol and once it was done sucking everything we had worked for all night it continued to suck on our insides. When we finally go to the front half an hour later (which in Drunk time that’s an eternity) the caterers were all out of steak and said all they had was Chorizo. At that point I had taken on animalistic character traits, my canines had sharpened to a fine point and my eyes turned golden yellow. I know what you’re thinking, “Oh God, morphed into a Cullen from Twilight.” Guess again, my friends for I had inhabited into the likes of a ravenous lioness that would devour anything in her path, INCLUDING CHORIZO even if it meant having a nasty case of chorizo breath all night long.
When my ‘posy’ and I had finally re-energized we were ready to get our laffy taff on the dance floor and found some decent spots in the middle with a perfect view of the salsa band that was dominating the stage. We stayed there for all of two minutes before realizing, “Oh no! Empty drinks?! No, no, no that will never do!” So off we went to part six of the continuous, repetitive saga of drink-scavengering through the crowded halls of the Carnival Live Event that was sure to take our lives that night. And it did…it did.
Hear ye, hear ye! I do declare that I will be selling some goodies from my closet and new, one of a kind pieces at insane prices on my eBay website! There you can find top brands and some designer pieces at INSANE PRICES! Did I mention there will be insane prices? Anyways, let’s get to the point. Your mission should you chose to accept it: You must buy $100 million dollars…!!! No just kidding. But seriously, if you spend $100 at my shop, you could win a chance to pick any item from the store for under $25 for
Go to http://myworld.ebay.com/shop_nypis to not feel an ounce of buyers remorse and say to yourself, “Damn, I look good. And I mean really good.” Do it, I dare ya.
Ps. I realized how horrendascarous the name was approximately 5.2 seconds after I made it, but believe me “Shop_nypis” is subject to change.
In my last and final installment of my New York Takeover, I found it necessary and only right to do what us felines do best…RETAIL RELEASE. Can you believe I went so long without so much as a Yankees hat? The only thing that I was splurging on was a heavy dose of pizza and a tsunami of wine being splashed back down my throat night after night. By the end of the trip I looked and felt like a human waterbed. It was time that I blow off some steam, evaporate some wine and let the beast out of the cage.
The first stop of productively burning a hole through my wallet was Madison Ave., where the clothes are a many and the discounts are a few. Now, I was prepared to throw down some Washingtons, a couple of Jacksons and perhaps
ONE Benjamin, but let’s be honest, a budget was most definitely instilled. That’s right, a strict, firm, hard, cold budget had to be enforced in order to insure my survival of somehow finding my way back to the warmer parts of the world, Miami. Due to this limitation, this embargo if you will, I was constraint to do what I loath so profoundly, every girl’s nightmare: Looking but not touching otherwise known as WINDOWSHOPPING. Fantasizing about what it might be like to slip into that dress at 25 Park might be fine and dandy, but no satisfaction was ever achieved by fantasizing. Which led me to flee the glamour and luxury of the Upper East Side and look for something a little more “ME” and a little less $500, if you know what I’m sayin’.
A light-bulb then flashed on and off in my frozen brain, (on account of it being a whopping 30 degrees outside) and then the letters S-O-H-O swiftly crowded the left side of my head, one by one, in a single filed line like that of a rambunctious group of kindergarteners coming in from a long thirty minutes of lunch. The presence was unavoidable. I quickly squealed to my Taxista, “SOHO PLEASE!” and with an ‘I Dream of Genie’ head-bob we were there. Ah yes, I could just smell the reasonable prices the second I stumbled out of the cab. Those freaking cobblestones.
I was sure the first store I walked in would be the last stop, as I usually have zero self-control with my buying tendencies and cheat automatically, but that day proposed much more of a challenge and I was unusually picky for some reason. Annoyance with myself took over quickly when I had arrived at the fifth store in Soho and still no satisfactory results. Could it be that I would leave the Big Apple empty handed for the first time ever? No, it can’t be. Could it? Two hours later and nearly the whole area of SOHO covered and seen with no such luck of a shopping bag in my cold, lonely, right hand, I was starting to lose faith. I was desperate for something to buy, yearning for that proud moment of when a consumer purchases that special something to which makes that individual feel more confident and secure to carry out their day to day life activities with this new and much needed addition in their life. The sun had gone down, my feet were cramped up and I could hear my stomach have full conversations with me, when I decided, “It’s time to head home, troops,” and called it a night. Somehow, I managed to find myself on a strange side street that had no signs of any potential taxis to take me to my awaited treasure trove of food. Making my way back to the taxi infested main street, I spotted this most peculiar ‘second hand’ store, (or so I thought) The Roundabout, and something compelled me to march inside. It was merchandised so pleasantly and was extremely spacious that of a luxury boutique. I was completely enthralled, especially when I saw a whole area dedicated to Chanel seventy percent off….wait, WHAT?! You said how much off?! Can I get a 70% OFF, my friends! Considering the fact that Chanel with or without a discount still comes out to the first down payment of a house, most would still have to agree that such prices and deals just don’t exist anymore in the designer retail world. It was as if I had just stepped into my very own sample sale, all to myself (fifteen minutes till closing time). I must have had a bundle in my hand: Givenchy for $150, Marni for $80 and Chloe for $175. I was left dumbfounded. I had hit the jackpot and wanted to scream out the word ‘YAHTZEE!’ but held it in until I left the store. My arms started to shake as I fought the weight of clothes that were eating my left arm alive, when my eyes immediately lit up at the sight of an exuberance of shoes over to my right hand side. The clothes were then ditched and replaced by the thought of shoes. Shoes. Magnificent creatures that attach their lovely selves more commonly to the southern parts of your ankles; they weren’t just items anymore, no, my fine readers, but beings, or at least the shoes that I had been currently experiencing. It was so hard to pick from and indecisiveness had taken over again in the most intense form. Sweat began to form bubbles on the side of my forehead by trying to make such hard decisions between Wang and McQueen. My hands were holding hostage around five to six different pairs and my fingers soon began to look like spider-legs as I naturally grew an additional finger on both hands in spite of the present moment. The salesperson looked impatient that I was still there and my nonexistent plans of exiting this store any time soon. Then, they hit me! It was like a heart attach in the making. The sight of my then future PETS glaring me up and down. I—it, It—me; our eyes were look and we were at a sudden stare down. I then, succumbed to the power of the Camilla Skovgaard pair of beauties, dropped every prior shoe my arachnid hands were holding and that’s when I knew. These are it. I quickly asked the perturbed salesperson what size the lonely pair of shoes were and he quickly muttered back, “Eight and a half.” I usually take a nine but an eight and a half will do just fine. Trying them on, confirmed it even more. Despite of its half size set back, the shoes molded to my feet like an Oxpecker to a Hippo, it was just right. I then exclaimed without anyone having to ask me anything, “I’LL TAKE THEM!” in the most over-exaggerated way that I startled the poor salesperson that was already annoyed with my behavior. I left with my head held high and my back erect with assurance with the absolute pride to the newest addition to my shoe family. Phew, I was able to sleep at night and leave New York with not a doubt in my mind. Mission impossible? Possible.
Day three of being in New York, unexpectedly, turned out to be Valentine’s Day. Now, this was the second consecutive year that I found myself in the big city again on this apparent day for lovers. I guess subconsciously I planned it to be that way for some inexplicable reason or another.
That day I had no set plans in front of me so I thought I would terrorize the streets of the Upper East Side while I waited for my friends, who are a married couple (and the selected duo that I would be sharing V-Day dinner with), got off of work…eight hours later. What to do? What to do? The world seemed to be at my very fingertips. Stepping into a world with countless options and not enough time only seemed and WAS torturous. I first started out my day with my bestie, (yah, I said ‘Bestie’ and I’m not afraid to admit it) Nicky, (yes, the same Nicky or Nicole from eurotrashfemme.com) by grabbing some brunch/lunch at a nearby French bistro that I can’t remember the name but trust me it was cute and well, frenchy. Get the picture? It had appeared to be located in a little wedge of a corner and had the makings of a French Countryside cottage. I felt like Belle from Beauty and the Beast walking in, but never mind about my alleged love for cartoons at 27. We gabbed over the obvious Cappuccino, you know, the one where there’s a little design in the foam? Yah, that one. I couldn’t help but to feel TRE trendy while
SLURPING the foamy concoction in the most refined way, of course. It was followed by the most crispity, crunchity, irresistibly, delectable Panini that rivaled some of the top of the Top Dog sandwiches I had ever come across. After the official scarf-down of the helpless morsel, otherwise known as my Panini, I felt warm and powerful and ready to partake in the most dauntless act that the people of New York had ever engaged in…DUN DUN DUNNNNN…Museum Hopping. Such scandal. The Renegade Strikes back!
Nicky had been filling me in about a Museum that was right off of Madison and unfamiliar to my ears called The Whitney. Uncharted territory? Shawing! I think SO. Apparently, The Whitney was a modern art museum filled with all the controversial matter a girl could ever want. I was hungry like the wolf, desperate to experience my first modern art museum in NYC as I had always opted to finish Mission Impossible, aka The Met. When I got there, I was informed that
NO PICTURES WERE ALLOWED. Hurt and crushed were words that only remained on the surface. No one could truly understand what I was feeling deep down in my core when those tragic words were uttered to me. I brushed it off and played it out as a joke. They can’t be serious. OF COURSE I WAS GOING TO TAKE PICTURES with my beloved Canon. Who did they think they were dealing with?…. Turned out, not as easy as I assumed it would be. The first floor I had popped into was the Pop Art section. I adored this Andy Warhol piece showing the vanity of a woman and our fixation of achieving perfection for the mere sake of others and so I undoubtedly wanted to capture such pretention. There was Museum personnel everywhere and watching my every move. I needed a plan of action and act fast. Like a cunning fox, I placed myself directly in front of the canvas with my back facing the Watch Dog and held my camera to rest upon my stomach, aiming directly on the prey and BOOM! The picture of the Warhol piece became my prisoner and just like that it was captured. MINE…ALL MINE! I was only successful enough to do that with an installation on one of the other lower levels but I decided to stop there. It was starting to become risky and unlike a cat with nine lives, I only had two. As I carried on through the Pop Art floor, I began to realize just how much I didn’t like it. Honestly, it scared me. Pop art gives me the same feeling as going to the circus and having bloodcurdling clowns laugh in my face. The images were morbid and sinister and I felt like I was stuck in a bad dream. I have never done Shrooms before but now I know what people experience after having walked through The Whitney. Much of the art on the other floors gave me the same sensation, however, the jazz floor was more light-hearted and had caught not just my EYE but both. I happen to be a jazz feen so I was much more focused and eager to get to know the pieces rather than the bad trip I had just experienced on the Pop Art floor. Ugh. I grew bored and unsettled with the constant complexity of modern art and so what did I do? Went to the Met. I craved for something less focused on mass consumerism and more on the history and development of art instead. Besides, I had yet to finish my excursion through the vastness of the 5th Ave. Beast.
I felt right at home once I hiked up the recognized steps of The Met. It was a cozy and invulnerable state in which I frolicked through the halls of Ancient Iranian and Mesopotamian Art and onto Romanticism. I’m old-fashioned like that. Somehow, I completely got lost and immersed in the enormity and bewitchery of the great halls of this behemoth of a museum, that I hardly noticed it was closing time and then it dawned upon me! SHIT! I have two valentines waiting for me and I haven’t even gotten them a V-Day surprise!
I ran down 5th and crossed over to Madison like a leaping frog in heat. While
TRYING to run I was conjuring up ideas not nearly good enough for my married couple to be impressed. Finally, I thought of a brilliant and calorie crammed indulgent that was sure to melt their hearts…Macaroons. Wait. Not just any Macaroon but none other than Laduree. This Macaroon boutique has just about every flavor of macaroon that you can only dream of. They even have a cognac-flavored macaroon. Having felt so damn proud of myself to think I was the only brilliant being to have thought up such a original idea for a gift, I walked up to the French boutique with the upmost confidence that this would be a swift and painless transaction. Wrong. So wrong. The line was what seemed like two blocks down and was moving at the pace of LA traffic on a Friday at 5:30pm. Thirty minutes later, I was beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel when I had arrived at the door and soon enough the front of the line. Victory. I had bought a box of eight for the two lovebirds and a handful for myself. No resistance whatsoever. Before finally nestling down at my friend’s apartment and cooking our Valentine’s feast, we made it a definite point to stop and get some vino. What’s Valentine’s Day without a little mood-setter, right? Right. We were received well when we entered in Quintessential Wines, a little wine/liquor shop right off of 40th St. The set up was so Tuscan and personal. Albert, our wine guide gave us exclusive royal treatment by going one by one of smooth, full body reds. It was a hard decision but somebody’s got to make it. Needless to say we splurged and embraced the festiveness of Valentines Day by getting a romantic red and a light, fresh Zimphandale to accompany a homemade Cuban dish that yours truly prepared. Nothing says Valentine’s Day like Cuban food, right? Just nod.
Sorry to completely interject from my New York Epic Saga, and I promise you it will return to a normal schedule. BUT, the obvious statement needs to be addressed: EVERYBODY OSCARRRRR! That’s right, people! You didn’t think I would continue with my life without so much as a peep of this long awaited time of year? Just nod and agree. Now like the Grammy’s, to which I felt so strongly about, I too, felt the same dire need to express my gratitude to whomever’s stylist that made the gifted and talented look like a stud or queen and those that made me want to say, “Nish, Nish,” as my head hung ever so heavy upon my tired shoulders on that faithful day of the Oscars. Okay, that was a bit of an over statement. To be completely honest, I didn’t really see any monstrosities on the Red Carpet come this time around. I was waiting for that gasp of fright that appears to be inevitable any time any ‘Ol carpet is rolled out, no matter what color, but the shock and jaw-dropping moment never came…not once. Yes, there were obvious adjustments or alterations I would have made to decent looking dresses like Reese Witherspoon’s Dress by Louis Vuitton and I swear I’ll explain in just a sec, however, it looks like everybody finally got their shit together.
This year on that velvety richness of red, otherwise known as carpet, we experienced a plethora of highly palpable trends, to say the least. One that stuck out the most was the ‘Bearded Burly Man’ Trend. I swear it was as if all the men who were attending the Oscars called each other and made a bet to not shave for a whole month before the awards. Am I right? But hey, I’m not complaining. I happen to like a man with a full face of hair. It makes me want to be whisked away by them off into the woods, watch while he builds a log cabin, slap a ‘Little House on the Prairie’ apron around my waist while I wither away in the kitchen backing homemade Apple Pie for ten kids, all who have names like Yoder and Bertha. Burly. Rar. Another trend that was perhaps softer on the visuals was the ‘Pale/Translucent Color’ Trend that bombarded the Red Carpet this year. Raise your hands if you were a huge fan of this movement? Some people thought of this notion as simple or played safe. How can that be? The draping mixed with the delicateness of the color usage proved itself a perfect suspect for such a prestigious event such as the Academies. Yes, they were soft and had no jarring effect but they made a huge, bold splash.
Now, Let’s look at our candidates who absolutely nailed it right on top of the head and those who, well, didn’t:
No Sex in the Champagne Room Category:
The Googoo Gaga Category:
Close But No Cigar Category: