Cheep

I run (albeit slowly) in the foothills at sunset. (I know that sounds sketchy (mom), like the first line you’d hear on an episode of Dateline NBC.)

I’ve been digging for fire. I’ve been seeking out the Golden Hour. Those bright, illuminated moments—somehow strikingly different with every waking (and winking) day—right before and after the rise and the fall. I always feel my timing is off. That I’m perpetually running behind the most brilliant moments. Just catching the glimpse of the aftershock, colors fading to muted desert greens and purples. But it still counts. The fading light captures me, instead.

Hawaiian Moon sage green silk dress, gifted. Two overlapped “genuine” leather belts, one gray (Idaho Youth Ranch-$5.75), one leopard print (Restyle, $2). Kenneth Cole strappy platforms, $7 (Serendipity Boutique). 2 overlapped bracelets, both gifted to me by my sisters.

Vinyl of the Day: Simon & Garfunkel Vol. 1

Cheep!

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.

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.

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

Cheep!

Some 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
Vinyl of the Day: The Best of the Velvet Underground (only because I have no Prince albums…yet).

Cheep!