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“Push It Real Good” outfit

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Mirrors ’80s plaid top with sheer sleeves and tie waist, Serendipity Boutique, $6

Gloria Vanderbilt black shorts, Serendipity Boutique, $4

DKNY black and white suede platforms, Idaho Youth Ranch, $20

2 different dangling earrings, Idaho Youth Ranch & Eyes of the World, for asymmetry

After 7 years of working alone, I decided go on the rent-a-coworker installment plan. Meaning, I decided to rent a desk at a downtown PR agency, where there’s both hub and bub.

I wore this outfit for my “first” day of “work.” It would probably be inappropriate in any other business context than an ad agency or ’80s rap band, and that’s one of the reasons why I love my chosen profession, copywriting, and moonlighting as Pepa in a tribute hair/short-shorts band (this last part is a bald-faced lie).
Ir3gIVinyl of the Day: “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor (I’m doing my best enigmatic Sweet Baby James face.)

“PURGATORY” outfit

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1621722_10153796744495298_1954243044_nI have this sick green neon sign in my bathroom that inspires serial killer queries from dates. It’s by Boise artist Wil Kirkman. I bought it at Visual Arts Collective a few years ago when in the suck, because it illuminated the darkness. It also gives off great mood lighting for pooping and showering (but not in that order, because ew).

vintage Roper acid blue jean skirt, LUX, $18.99

vintage Liz Claiborne puke green tank, LUX, $7.99

Cindy Says green-gold hells, Piece Unique, $I can’t remember but they were half off

1920’s Afghanistani silver and glass necklace, Armor Bijoux, $$$

I wore this outfit to Story Story Late-Night‘s PURGATORY: Stories of Being Stuck in the Middle with You, the adults-only black sheep arm of the live storytelling show I co-created and artistic direct. Something about the high-waisted, acid-colored denim split skirt speaks to all the weird fashion trends I am stuck forever craving, to my ultimate detriment.

PrintThe sickly, silky green top brings to mind my sign. In bleaker times, I read those three words as a concise summary of life itself. The punishing final cycle—wash, rinse and dry out on the line—of all our dreams and fantasies.

Now, I see the neon-writ passage as a self-contained prophecy—a self-imposed purgatory made of three spiraling levels. Avoiding fear causes us to create protective illusions that eventually, inevitably decay. When stripped down bare, there you are again, facing the facts, Jack.

Purgatory is a rough escape. You light up some truth bombs. You sometimes blow yourself up. Until you unearth, often at rock bottom, under all the facades and stagnation rooted in fear, a deep and driving desire for something you want so much, it scares you. It’s almost paradise. But hopefully that’s a whole other exit sign. And story.
SAM_3781 copy2Vinyl of the Day: “Prime Prine, The Best of John Prine”

Cheep!

“The Lone Wolf” outfit

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When I went to the Record Exchange to get “Who’s Next” by The Who on vinyl earlier this week, the guy who checked me out was wearing this “I’m Lonesome” shirt in blue-gray.

“Alone Party” by Erin Cunningham

“Hey, I have that shirt too! But in flesh-tone. I love it. It’s like a bandaid.”

“For the wound that never heals,” he replied, smiling wryly.

I found this profoundly hilarious. Because dark humor, like dark chocolate, is a pure, rich and bitter treat that can be the most deeply satisfying of them all. (That’s what she said.)

The “I’m Lonesome” flesh-tone t-shirt is by the artist Erin Cunningham, who somehow lives in Boise even though she should be SoHo famous. Her talent is vast, and varied, and she issued these shirts last Christmas-time at a gallery shop (for $25, plus it came with a complimentary mixed-tape burned CD called “Lonesome Times”). As soon as I saw one, I found it hilarious. “Those are on the nose,” the sad clown would say. Erin also did the black-and-white cartoon-style piece featured above my record player. It’s titled “Alone Party.” There might be a running theme here.

Xhilaration black layer skirt, $12.50, Elite Repeat consignment boutique in Bend, Oregon.

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Dave Attell + I, post-engagement.

Franco Sarto two-toned leather flats, $40, Nordstrom Rack in Union Square, NYC. Tan in the front and black in the back, I bought these flats during a brief flare up of travel-triggered, footware-scapegoated existentialism. Later that same night, I wore them to the Comedy Cellar in Greenwich Village, where one of my all time favorite comedians, Dave Attell, bought me a drink from stage and asked me what penis size I prefer. I’m pretty sure these shoes still hold a hint of kismet magic and front row Cellar grime, so I shall cherish their dirty soles forever.

Aviator sunglasses, as seen for 30 years on Ray Holmes, impeccably taken care of, gifted to me by my dad after my dear grandpa passed away. When I wear them, I feel I have a piece of him with me too. “I’m looking through you, where did you go?” a Beatle (or the Beetle from Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis) would muse.

Eel skin case, $10, ReStyle, probably made in a pre-laptop and eel rights era, but still carrying all my black sheep hopes and lone wolf dreams in the form of some inked-up notebooks and a busted-up MacBook Pro.

SAM_3733Vinyl of the Day: “Sucking in the ’70s,” by the Rolling Stones.

Cheep!

“Purple Rain, Purple Rain Pants” outfit

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imagesSome days you wake up after a night of crazy intense summer rain craving a Prince mohawk. Luckily, you have the pants to match. They’re not quite blue and not quite purple, but blurple (Liz Claiborne, Idaho Youth Ranch, $6), just as enigmatic as the artist-formerly-known-as.

I paired these with a Maggie Lawrence Sport black button up top (circa 1980s) from ReStyle ($3) that I just noticed is size 22/24. Sometimes, too big tops can be sexy-ish, if you button them up halfway, and wind/movement shows off your figure in blasts, and they slip off your shoulders for generous side bra/boob. But sometimes, Jessica might need to clean out her closet. The jury is still out on this one.

Cap that, or bottom it, with black patent leather Guess stilettos from ReStyle for $7. I must admit, I am anti-high heels for women’s equality, longterm bunions, and ability to run quickly reasons, but I must say, damnnnnnn, they make an outfit look so much hotter. When thrift store shopping for shoes, I look for the rarely-if-never worns. These are fairly common, not just Pretty Woman fantasy, especially when you ask to see the shoes tucked in display behind the counter. Then I check out the brand name, materials (I prefer leather upper as they tend to mold to your actual human-based feet better) and place of origin (I’ve noticed Brazil is the tits for legitimate, long-range, non-pain-inducing wearability). If the stars align, I will put the cheaply purchased but exquisite heels in my closet in daily eyeline so I’ll stare at them while I think about how much easier and more comfortable it would be to wear flats. But then the heels cry out to you:

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted one time to see you laughing
I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain
SAM_3719Vinyl of the Day: The Best of the Velvet Underground (only because I have no Prince albums…yet).

Cheep!

“The Sherbs” outfit

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2160327318235307103dTRefRcYes, this outfit is named after the 1989 Tom Hanks movie, The ‘Burbs, if instead of a cult thriller it was more of an acid trip to the sorbet joint.

The mouth-puckering pink skirt is from ReStyle. The silky floral tank top (that, not to be a boob or anything, I found in the lingerie section) is from the Idaho Youth Ranch. They both cost like $4.

The genuine leather purple suede belt is from ReStyle for $2.95, (exact price verified as I never took off the yellow sticker). The BCBG purple suede platform shoes are from some department store when I used to go to those and were on sale but still probably cost $40 or something. I could fact check this, but I would much rather eat sherbet while on an imaginary date with Tom Hanks from the ’80s.

SAM_3711Vinyl of the Day: The Pink Panther.

Cheep!

“It’s Business Time at the Circus” outfit

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I hope you get that chorus from the Flight of the Conchords song stuck in your head when you see this get-up, because… it’s business, it’s business time (if you happen to work in a circus). SAM_3591

Yesterday’s outfit made me think of this weird art deco-ish dress I bought at Eyes of the World like 5 years ago for $35 and never wear because it’s very breast exposing, turning the ensemble into a XXX circus peep show (which sounds like a profitable business venture/reality TV concept, now that I think of it).

Anyway, pair it with a pin-stripe vest and pearl/metal dangle earrings (both from the Idaho Youth Ranch for like $3 each), and look who’s now only slightly inappropriate in your corporate meetings. Then put on a pair of suede black-and-white DKNY platform wedges (purchased at the Idaho Youth Ranch for $20), hit the streets, and enjoy all the pratfalls and awkward stares of a stilt-walker.

Vinyl of the Day: “Symphonie Fantastique” by Berlioz.

Cheep!

“BoHo Faux Bloomingdale’s” outfit

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8716281_fpx.tifMy (now) New Yorker friend Bethany and I wandered through Bloomingdale’s on my spring visit to the city. (The art deco font on the building alone gave me full-body spasms.) Inside, we browsed through the unaffordable and strange and beautiful, and I was deeply taken with the pleated print skirts, priced at $250+.

So when I returned to the land of thrift stores, I attempted to recreate the experience, for under $15. I may not look as svelte and rich, but it’s all sorts of boho (hobo?) chic up in here.SAM_3511

Vinyl of the Day: “Who’s Next” by The Who.

“Happy Short Circuit Phoenix Birthday to Me” outfit

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Have you ever thought, “There is something seriously wrong with me”? Say, since you were 12 years old? This birthday is a big birthday for me, not only because I am officially super old, but because I just realized there has been something seriously wrong with me. For about 23 years. An easily-fixed glitch in my system that until now has wreaked havoc on my entire adult life. Like a Tasmanian Devil tattoo on your forehead. It’s been that hideous.

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[Outfit breakdown: Silk & sequins phoenix top $15 (Serendipity Boutique; No brand name on tag—made in India circa 1980). Lace cutout leggings $20 (Forever 21). Salvatore Ferragamo orange suede boots $45 (Idaho Youth Ranch; Original MSRP=$1500). Thinning hair, acne and angst (courtesy of an endocrine disorder called PCOS).]

I don’t know why I can’t just post a “Yea, it’s my birthday!” Cheep note but I can’t, because it’s only been 9 days since it’s really sunk in (along with the hormones). I have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), and I likely have since puberty. Like 1 out of 20 women. This basically means my ovaries don’t work quite right. They don’t create estrogen quite like they should. So I have too many androgens in my blood. That’s it. With continuous birth control, it’s fixed. Simple, right? In real life, for me, this means I have had severe acne, unwanted hair growth, male pattern baldness, plus unrelenting depression and anxiety my whole fucking adult life. Those are simply the scientific symptoms. The outcome of this short circuit. And I never knew why. These have always been my biggest shames. And I have always blamed myself for how I look and how I see the world. And I have spent years in the vortex of utter misery. While reading existentialist Russian literature, for Christ’s sake.

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[Above, find a cat anus for comic relief.] So yes, this is a revelation. This means now I might just probably will actually be FREE. With a readily available, relatively harmless (especially compared with antipsychotics) and inexpensive treatment. For the first time since I was a pubescent girl. Without the overriding fear of it coming back. The darkness and the blights.

The weirdo part: I don’t really know what kind of person I would have turned out to be if not plagued in such a way for so long. I was a shy, insecure, depressed, spotted teenager, then adult. Would I have been relatively normal? But I choose to believe that this all happened to give me depth of character, and strength of soul, and empathy for pain and humiliation. To allow me to stand on stage (and sit on the internets) and bare all not giving too many fucks because I have been burned by the real fire inside. To unearth in me the ability to think, read and write with a level of deep dis-ease that sometimes drives everything towards the flames and the Phoenix-ing.

But in reality. In real, real life, what I have now before me, at 35 years old, is a gift few are ever given. It’s like my own personal fountain of youth. It’s like my second coming. And I will take everything I have learned and I will swallow it whole and I will run with it. Far, far, far.

Happy birthday to me.

“Ms. Claus on Cormac McCarthy’s The Road” outfit (Story Story Night special)

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Have you ever wondered what Ms. Claus would wear if trapped in the apocalyptic landscape of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road? Have you ever wanted to get precision shopping details from someone who gives long, comedic titles to her outfits? Behold. Dreams—or nightmares—coming true:IMG_0742a

I call these pants the Apocalypse pants, because, made of pleather and purchased at Forever 21 for $20 (half off, original $40), they would outlast the cockroaches. Fitting for the Story Story Night theme PLANES, TRAiNS & AUTOMOBiLES, if you’re dark like me.

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The Laurence Kazar (est. 1960s) shirt, if you can call it a shirt as it surely is something far more spectacular than a mere shirt, was purchased at my favorite thrift store, Restyle, for $7. It was also half off (original $14), because I roll dirt cheap in vintage silk, sequins and beading, bitches.IMG_0754a

You are not really bitches. That’s the pants talking. Erm… The Salvatore Ferragamo orange suede boots I found at the Idaho Youth Ranch for $45 mother-bleeping-fucker-dollars. (OK, now suddenly our tone of voice has shifted to a badly censored Quentin Tarantino film.) I looked these up on the internets later and they appear to be worth upwards of $1200. Boom, there it is. Bad assery. Cheeeeeaaaap. (Gratuitous side note: One time, at film camp, a gorgeous millionaire black man hit on me in Sun Valley bar while I was wearing these boots. Which means they are made of magic. And also that is why some people pay $1200 for shoes.)

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My sister gave me the Bronze beaded bracelet from an Albuquerque thrift store on our visit there over the holidays. It has a tiny arrowhead in it. I will always think of her when I see that. The power of accessories.

IMG_1007aMy dear friend Bethany gave me the 1920s Afghanistan vintage silver bracelet. It is also a glory, glory halleluia visage, but I’ll have to show it to you more later.

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I borrowed the fez (slash story slam hat) from a friend after I scoured the El Korah Shrine and could find none, suspecting they all lock them up in personal safes at night in customized fez hat boxes. Note to you: Most shriner hats are more blingy than this shirt. They are sights. To. Behold.

IMG_0729aGrocery Outlet plug, as is required not by sponsorship or gain, but by my heart ties.IMG_0796a

A Shriner showed me how to turn on this custom neon light from the 1960s. It takes 3 different switches. It’s like this venue matches my soul perfectly. Like it’s the Wardrobe, you know, and I am the both Lion and Witch, or something.

May the show go on. Happy story-days.

Photography by Paul Budge.

[BREAK UP DIORAMA] The Exit Sign

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Butterfly Nebula, NGC 6302

What resemble dainty butterfly wings are actually roiling cauldrons of gas heated to more than 36,000 degrees Fahrenheit. The gas is tearing across space at more than 600,000 miles an hour—fast enough to travel from Earth to the Moon in 24 minutes. A dying star is at the center of this fury. It has ejected its envelope of gases and is now unleashing a stream of ultraviolet radiation that is making the cast-off material glow.—Hubble image, NASA Space Center

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Two years ago, the Darkness descended. I know this, because I wrote Melancholia about it, a post for FU (it’s not an insult, it’s a fashion blog). Since then, my heart has not so much been broken or burned but atomized. Completely shattered into raw matter. Boom.

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When it first started, I remember begging my brain for an answer, repeating over and over, if only in my mind: “What is happening to me?” “What is happening to me?” “What is happening to me?” That then turned into: “Why is this happening to me? Why me? Why?”

FUmelancholia-545x408That eventually became the endless refrain of “Who am I?” “Who am I?” “Who am I?” Asked into a void. Into a vast, empty and violently disinterested universe.

But now I know that this third question was the reason for the what and the why. I have burned off everything in me that is not elemental.

And what is in me now feels like a universe. Hinged on a dying star, radiating out in cosmic blasts that will blind the damned, and frighten the weak-hearted, and scorch the mustaches off hipsters and hirsute ladies alike.

I know now who I am. I am a human soul, burning up. I am a lightshow, made of matter.

I could have never written the Break-Up Dioramas without excruciating pain. I could have never become the writer I always wanted to be, since I was a little girl, without these past two years of deep sorrow and loss and a breakdown of my core identity.

I don’t know what exactly this light is yet, but it seems to be glowing from the cast offs. Boom.