My mom always used to tell me that Chinese fashion was 2 years ahead of the stateside fashion.
As a kid I had tennis shoes to go with all my outfits, red ones with a little Indian girl on them, and these yellow ones with ducks. I had a whole collection of separates to go with the duck tennies. Yes, mix and match duck outfits. Whenever I would complain that my clothes weren't in style (Mom, these are Great! jeans, not Guess? jeans. But I want Reeboks, not Happyfun shoes!), she would say, "Well, this is the newest fashion, not in style here yet, you'll see. you be first".
I reluctantly wore them, that or "go naked" as she would say. Even though that seemed like a cognizant option for me at the time, friends always told me how cool (read: funky) my asian threads were, and I would reply "Yes, it is the latest thing".
It wasn't as big of a deal for me as it might have been for most kids. I grew up in Hawaii, and it was really clothing optional there. I wore sundresses and sandals everyday, sometimes stripping down so my mom would have to chase after me to put my clothes back on.
When we moved back to the mainland, I only went to public school for 2 years, and then I was in with all the super geeky kids, and wasn't too worried about my coolness factor.
For the next 7 years, I went to parochial school. In elementary, our uniforms were a hideous brown and gold plaid, and the 5th grader (and younger) were made to wear jumpers! After wearing jumpers, I certainly didn't mind wearing the drab white shirt and pleated skirt for the rest of my secondary and high school life. But even back then I was trying to breach the dress codes. Girls could wear the yellow school jacket and boys could wear brown.
"But " I explained, "I look horrible in yellow, why can't I just get the brown, I don't think people will confuse me as a boy." I got the whole rules are rules lecture, and simply froze for the sake of fashion, borrowing my brother's brown windbreaker at recess and proclaimed brown the new yellow.
This was also the same year that my 6th grade teacher pulled me aside and said "Ya know, those hand me down uniform shirts are getting a bit thin, maybe you should talk to your mom about getting you a bra" (Guess my aureolas were darkening or something).
"A bra!" I said, "No way, then the boys will want to snap it!" ( I settled for undershirts)
High school uniforms were a bit more matchable, blue and green blackwatch plaid. I told my mother I needed all new sweaters, because I can only wear blue, green, or black, that is all that matched. She laughed, so I was stuck with the four sweaters I had that matched.
I dyed my hair with green streaks (to match), and was immediately directed to the dean of students who pointed out the "hair must be of a natural color" clause. "Well what color is more natural than green?", I wondered. Aargh.
I started to wear black thigh-hi's in the winter as the little skirts got a bit breezy in the winter. I also experimented with fishnets and black and white striped knee highs. Again, the Dean was forced to point out the "ankle socks only" clause. And not only that, they had to be white! Fucking authority. I tried to explain how fucking freezing it got, and the only response they had was to point to the lovely thick-wailed, corduroy, pleat-front! pants I had the option of wearing. No thanks.
I then started to wear biker shorts under my skirt. The breeze, yes, but also at this point the boys were in their flipping skirts up phase, and my underwear wasn't exactly cute enough to be flashing to the whole school. The Dean brought me into his office, and explained that my shorts were not allowed to peek out form under my skirt, not the slightest bit. What was I supposed to do??! Unroll my skirt, so that it was knee length?!
"That's a start" he winked, "if it was up to me, you guys wouldn't be able to wear anything under your skirts" Ewwww..
One thing my did mom did lavishly spend money on was my beauty pageant wardrobe. I had little satin and sequin tap dance outfits made, and I would sew the little sparkly stars on the hats and shoes myself. I had closets full of princess gowns made (all with matching shoes of course). And I think I was the only girl in town with proper "cocktail" attire. BFD, I thought. I got to wear them 2 or 3 times a month, and all other times, they were under lock and key.
So where do you think I got my first job. A clothing store of course. And just in time. I was starting to out grow the duck clothes. To my first school dance, I wore one of my mom's old chongsan (or chipow) with stretch pants underneath and chopstix in my hair (it was actually kind of cool). Of course, the few hours I worked for minimum wage barely put gas in the car, and I had to purchase the requisite tonal outfit (teal jeans and matching shirt), that was "in-style" that season.
So this is where I remember wearing pajamas in public. My friend Morgan went a whole year (outside of school) wearing white v-neck T's and boxer shorts. Me, I claimed wife beaters and flannel pajama pants my apres ecole uniform. Ahhh, comfort. (I am still a big loungwear aficionado).
Long story long, I continued with my clothing fixation up until last year. I worked for that same clothing retailer (Limited corp.) for 7 more years. I worked panties at VS, teeny bopper at Express, conservative at Limited, and even preppy boy at Structure. I amassed tens of thousand of dollars in credit card debt from shopping daily (including matching shoes from Nordy's), have enough matchy outfits and lingerie to last me a lifetime (but who really has enough shoes?), and can, well, outfit anyone in mix and match separates to give them 30 different "looks" in under ten minutes.
I am done with it. Back in jammies pretty much. I have my wifebeater and drawstring pants on. With one of the 30-sum white button down shirts I own thrown over it (catholic school fetish?) My sandals are slipped off under my desk, and I'm still not wearing a bra (although I DO have a dresser FULL). Coming full circle, once again.
I rallied up to Ojai after work yesterday to hook up with my boy, Skye. or soul brother #1, as I like to call him. Ojai is tucked in between the hills of Santa Barbara and Ventura, only 20 minutes away. I guess it is mostly well known for it's spas, but well known to me for boarding school, Sunday brunch, and mad hiking trails.
When I was growing up I begged my parents to send me to school at one of the many prep schools in Ojai. At 10, I was already aware of the sorry state of our local school system, but ended up settling for parochial school with a closer commute. And about every other weekend, we'd pile into the mini van and head up to the Ojai Valley Inn for it's macking Champagne Brunch. I had my first mimosas there, and we always sat at the same table by the big circular window, which overlooked the valley and golf course.
And the hiking trails, well Ojai is surrounded by the Los Padres National Forest. In the summers here, it tends to get pretty foggy on the hotter days, with the hot Valley air sucking up the ocean's moisture, and leaving us pretty much fucked. We'd pack it up, head over the hills and spend the day discovering new trails, waterfalls, and plunge pools (and drinking Natty Light, of course). good times. good times.
Skye and I share many things in common, amongst them: a love for the same woman, music, and the ocean. He lives a bit of a charmed life. He sold his successful skateboard company 6 or 7 years ago, and has been trekking ever since. Traveling around the world (Indo, Marseilles, and Maui this year), massaging beautiful women (he's a masseuse), spinning records, dancing till dawn, creating beautiful art, and surfing. Rinse. Repeat.
I try to hook up with him whenever he is on the coast here, and catch up on all his adventures: his passionate affairs with supermodels, his newest paintings, sick waves around the world, and of course, the house parties. No matter where he goes, I always have the same question for him. "So what about the guys, a lot of hotties there or what?" and he says, "Oh Meesh, you would be in heaven, there's this one guy you would have just eaten up, oh and the water polo team in France..." and he goes on to tell me about some Dionysian god who would have just rocked my world. I sigh, the thought is good enough for me.
So anyway, we head up Hwy 33 to Maricopa, and turn off onto this 3 or 4 miles of windy roads. After we pull over, I can smell the rotten eggs in the air, and know we are close to our destination. I see what appears to be large hummingbirds darting around, but as I look closer I realize they are bats, and they dive curiously towards our heads, bouncing their sonar off of us, and getting nearer with each dive. I slide down the hill on the unobtrusive path till we get to a series of pools rimmed by boulders and spread out over a small valley. We test the pools to find the hottest one and settle on a small 2 person tub, perfectly defined by the rocks around it and tucked under a big boulder and some foliage.
It is just getting towards dusk. I thought I would get a good picture of the sunset, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the sky grew darker and darker like someone slowly turning a dimmer switch. In front of us was a small hill, and the moon rose just so it's lower tip rested on the crest. It would eventually dip back down and leave us with no light save for the billions of stars which adorned the early evening sky.
We drank out Chilean merlot, and Skye regaled me with stories of all night chill outs in European castles overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The exquisite french girl who didn't speak a lick of anglais. And the burly Aussies that he taught with at the surf school in Maui. We talked of loves, new, lost, and destined. And defined the arcs our circles were spinning in. I spoke a lot of Ya know?s and he answered back yeah, yeah, ah, true, true.
As it got darker, our eyes adjusted to the light, and we pretended we knew which stars were which. We dipped into the colder pools to cool ourselves off. Back and forth, until hours had passed, our heads were light, and the path was kneeling over in the darkness somewhere.
We pulled ourselves out of the hot, sulfurous water, dried off and Skye led me up the hill. I might as well have been blindfolded, I couldn't see shit, I just knew we were near the edge, and I was experiencing a touch of vertigo. Made it up to the road and nearly slingshot back by running into the wire fence. Good times.
We drove back down the Hwy, to the grocery store parking lot where we met up. Went inside to grab some fluids to replenish the system, and God Bless America was blasting on the in-store speakers. I picked out a Bic lighter with a flag on it to commemorate the occasion.
Driving back down the hill that night, I felt a contentment that was usually unsettling. Tonight though, it was a calm contentment, my body was relaxed, nagging fears and doubts were tranquilized. I like to look at the arcs Skye's circles are making, they often mirror my own. And people like us, well, we tend to stay mostly round, and rolling, and go where our souls whisper to us. When we collide, it creates a 3 dimensional image, and I know that the world is unraveling as it should. Yeah hippie spiritual chakra BS maybe, but it works for me. Take time to intersect.
1. Carry condoms (duh).
2. Don't talk about your wild, drunken, swinger night.
3. Don't put on really bad pornos.
4. Maybe not drink 2 bottles of champagne by yourself.
5. Walk me out to the fucking car when I go!
arrrgh! on the positive side, I realized that my vibrator is very, very quiet, so midnight masturbating is very viable in a house with roommates.
Best people watching this side of the Rockies: the Sunday Hollywood Farmer's Market
whenever I wake up on Sunday's I instantly start to think about what I want to eat. Ravenous!!! I am! Usually I think, Farmer's Market, that way we can all indulge in whatever we crave. We headed to the Hollywood Farmer's Market this Sunday, off Ivar, and my little agtown FM experience hadn't prepared me for the circus of people watching I would encounter at this colorful, secession seeking, market melee. It goes on for like 3 blocks in one direction full of more plants than Green Thumb, enough tomatoes for a really colorful food fight, assortments of fragrant herbs, flowers, and juicy ripe peaches! free tasters! yummmm.
And for two blocks the other ways, there is stall after stall of international foods, vegan, barbecue, fresh jugos, and then the soaps, body scrubs, crafts, *stuff* after stuff.
And all around you, live music, jazz, street performers, bluegrass, steel drums, steel guitars, rapping midget indians... I played the snare in a percussion jam circle with a group of toddlers and a rasta to "Row! Row! Row your boat! gently down the stream!
We settled on the el salvadorian pupusas, a corn type pancake filled with cheese, beans, chicken or other yummy stuff, and topped with sour cream, avocado, chili sauce, and this sweet/sour coleslaw on the side. mmmmm, fresh watermelon juice, all for 4 bucks. The omelettes were calling to me, and I thought I would have room for the tamales, too, but was supremely satisfied by my selection.
I helped Simone pick out veggies and flowers. As she picked out 5 diffferent kinds of tomatoes, I people watched or gazed more like. I was drawn to a flamenco guitarists romantic strumming and became fascinated by the boy who watched with his head cocked sideways, eyes fixed on the nimbly fingers. He reminded me of that look my dog gets when he is sitting on the porch waiting for me to come home. Intent, focused, listening for the slightest change in the air. I walked past the boy, and got a breath of this sweet soapy boy smell. I watched him watch the guitar player, my eyes intent, my head cocked, but he didn't alter his gaze. sweet soapy music.
I turned my attention over to an amazon transvestite doing disco covers. S/he had on patent red hot pants, crop top, belly tattoo, and matching jacket. As soon as I noticed her, she stopped playing, asked me what time it was, and said," oh girl, I think it's time for a break, do you have a cigarette?" I gave her one, but didn't light one up, it was too close a quarters and I hate to blow smoke on people, but Alex (the s/he) ambled her 5 inch stilettos over to the curb, demurely crossed her legs, and indulged.
A little further down the way, these cute euro farm boys had a tent full of plums, and one of stood in the middle peddling samples. I was so full after the south american grinds, but after Simone took a bite, and had to slurp the juice from dripping out, I couldn't resist, the boy or the peaches. I looked around and noticed lots of cute farm-types, smiled at their hardworking earthiness, admired their produce, and early sunday morning discipline.
Hip, young urbanites with their toddlers, were both annoying and charming. Beautiful little children, peach juice stuck to their faces, running in between the crowds, jumping through puddles, and get their dance on to the multitudes of entertainment provided. The gay couples, men and women, proud and in love, gourmet cooks, housekeepers, restaurateurs, tourists, and families out for the day, the Hollywood Farmer's Market had it all, in abundant quantity.
My booty for the day: Brown sugar honey body scrub (made my skin all sweet, soft, and lickable), hot onion and garlic pistachios (don't rub your eyes or even touch your nose after eating them), and some sharp gouda lauded as the the best on the continent (it was pretty damn good). It also made me even more grateful because I noticed that the majority of flowers and produce came form here in Oxnard and Ventura County. And although we do not have quite the cast of characters at our local Farmer's Market, we still have the hometown goods, where all the skyscrapers have been replaced by fields of flowers, and dirty bustling streets by mellow crowds and sublime beaches. It's all good.
Whoa, lot of drama going on. That sucks. So many different opinions I can't tell if everyone is on different sides even. I try to follow all the links and figure out the root of the controversy, but it just seems to keep raising all these other issues.
As well they should, blogging is still relatively new and, like the internet itself in constant evolution and reflects the changes going on amongst our generations in politics and government. yea runon. I am just really stoked that we have this sort of medium to discuss it in. Do I care what people think of me cause I say stoked? Not really. The more you put your opinion out there, the louder people will respond back to you. That is also why I dig Dawn. Like I said when I first got to know her blog, she says all the things that you think about, she doesn't pretend to represent anyone's opinion other than her own, she is not afraid to call someone out if she thinks their opinion is BS, and I mean, c'mon, ....UP YOURS.. and more helpful tips..!!!! that fucking rocks!!!!
Something to do with sexism, blogging, revolution, pundits, sex, links..... superpolipundit guys don't link to enterprising, entertaining, sexy females, (they just read it in secret). I don't know if warblogging is dead or not, there sure is a multitude of it out there. But the thing to see, is that personal/humorous/ranting/humanistic sites are probably increasing tenfold per day. Dawn calls for a revolution in blogdom, which probably won't be necessary because the ever-expanding array of blognomes echoes many of the topics, she herself made popular or accepted, or linked or whatever. Myself included. It totally knocked my sox off when Dawn first linked to my blog. Inspired, I would say...if anyone has ever been inspired at some point, they most certainly will go on to inspire others.
The first blog I ever read was Rabbit. I was like WTF? is this. Then I went to Tony Pierce. I completely related to that voice, and settled right in. It is like we just went way back together or something. I was "inspired" thus further and started my own blog. someone cared about what I had to say. so?.. it was one person, one comment. one link, and so it begins. I don't know how many blogs I come across that say they started blogging because of Tony. I mean he has like his own webring.
You just read what you like, write what you like, and link what you like. If someone else doesn't like it, they don't read it, or they completely like it and are incited to comment, or write, blog, or at the very minimum, think. It is all kind of fascinating. It is so hard to come across people on a face-to-face basis that you can actually connect with on some level. You can find your little or big group of opinions and personalize them, tailored to meet your "type". The number of opinions that I want to hear are nice and condensed for me on a row of links. Sure I can make it much bigger, and I do, when I venture on to those people's links. Some people, I might just read cuz they are in my hood. Or in someplace I want to visit. and/or have the same name as me. We all know it is really just one unending link (how did YOU get here?)
What is also very cool about linking, is that when I go a random website and they have Tony or Dawn linked, I think, "this is my people", and if they have Laughing Boy linked, well then they are uber cool.
Okay, enough opinion to last me a couple days, back to our regularly scheduled programming. feel free to comment.... or don't...I care either way.. I like you, your nice.