You Know You Have A Problem When....

you have to drink half a bottle of Bordeaux before you're able to summon the enthusiasm to clean the bathroom.

SleepWalking

I've been strung out over three days barely able to sleep. Last night as i was to slip into a fragile slumber I was disturbed at 3 in the morning by screams and thumps arising from the crazy dysfunctional jewish couple living next door. To drown out the hostility and possible hand to hand combant occuring on the other side of the wall, I spent the next four hours reading DRY by Augesten Burroughs cover to cover before bounding out of bed, into the shower, through my wardrobe and out the door at 7:45am with some sort of crazy energy. Must have been all those Tylenol day time I had when i was in shower. Was first in the office and in an immensely productive and chipper state, and started doing the rounds making sure everything was ship shape. More Tylenol then Tylenol severe got me through the emails and research proposals and teaching preparations in a frantic haze. I find myself alone at 9 in the evening and home at 10 absolutely exhausted but unable to sleep. Fortunately, a giant sturdy and smarmy fairy was able to be called upon to provide me with ambien. And so he did, and thanks to my rather acute state of insonmia, the meds have taken on a rather strange, hallucinogenic effect. I have Nicole Kidman's hair writhing at me from the cover of W magazine. The letters in this bloody blog window keep dancing round in a circle. i long for such adventures of the hallucinating kind. but i fear bed shall beckon.

I Heart David LaChapelle

I've decided that for my 30th birthday, Im going to commission a portrait by David LaChapelle. I wonder if the bank will approve the loan.

Jon's Catwalk Report - Milan Menswear A/W 2007 : Part I

Poor Condi, we know what you're thinking. What good is a roadmap to peace in the Middle East when one has absolutely no idea whats going to be hot next winter in Menswear? Never fear love, listen closely and aunty Jon's gonna give you the low down on the down low on what's gonna make Ehud Olmert pop during those upcoming peace talks.

So there are two big ideas that Christopher Bailey at Burberry wants to get across this season. The first is a slouchy knit top or cardigan paired with a well tailored tapered pant chopped off half an inch above the ankle. The result is a relaxed, rumpled, yet sophisticated look that the brits do so well.


Bailey's second idea is really a continuation of the line he pioneered last summer where he sent out trench coats cinched high on the waist with slim belts , challenging us to try out a new proportion after years of elongated torsos enabled by low riding pants and skate culture. For winter, he appears to be reiterating his call for change with heavier coats girded by slightly wider belts again high on the waist. I mean, what better way to combat the sartorial chernobyl that is American pop culture but with good tailoring, a well defined waist and impeccable posture. So hike up those pants fellas, pull yourselves together, and save those exposed pubic bones for the snotty skater boys - who are all so painfully passe these days - and vulgar rap stars.
Turning from the earthy sophistication of Mr Bailey we find ourselves in a galaxy far far away in the slightly koo-koo land of Dolce and Gabbana where men are buffed to a plastic shine and gussied up like the henchmen of a bipolar galactic transvestite dictator.


That said, I must admit, I am rather fond of this slouchy shiny silver sweater (now say that 5 times quickly) with the rolled collar. A rare instance of sanity from the deranged, hypersexual minds of messers Dolce and Gabbana.


Stay tuned for the next installment.

WetDreamGirls

This made me happy. In all the right places.

All Partied Out

Oy its been an indulgent holiday season. I've been eating, drinking and sleeping with an abandon that can only be described as reckless and I kinda feel a little something like this:
Inspired by Billy, i've devised my own set of resolutions for the new year:

1. Get my arse cracking on my bloody dissertation (i've already spent an entire semester piss farting around doing fuck all)

2. Hop on the treadmill and not get off until I shed all the pounds I gained over holiday period and get myself punching at a socialite weight (i.e. lighter than a pop singer and heavier than the editor of French Vogue) of say.......52 kilograms (thats 115 pounds to you yanks).

3. Learn how to flip and tumble in ways that go beyond a prat fall

4. Do a whole lot more yoga.

5. Spend more time reading fiction.

6. Cut back on the booze.

My Ears Are Still Ringing In the New Year

Went my first rave in years on New Years Day with a couple of my oldest friends Tom and Dan. Much fun was had by all but at the risk of sounding like an old fuddy duddy, I have to say that the experience, despite the absolutely wonderful company was less than satisfactory. Having well and truly passed on my fur covered, fluro candy baton to the next generation, I'm not sure whether I like what rave cultured has devolved to. Sure the candy bracelets, fairy wings and relflecto pants are still in abundance as are the wide eyed gurning faces. However, there seemed to be somewhat of a disconnect between this particular rave and its colourful inhabitants. For instance, back in the day (yes, sounding EVEN older now), there'd be a chill out room where people lounged around engaging in highly amusing shit-talk, massage chains and drug induced frottage. Sadly this was replaced by a small tent underneath which lay 6 leather massage chairs. I mean we can all be bitter and cynical and make the argument that rave culture and its exhortations of free love, transcendencence and community was a whole lot of crap anyway but if there ever was a case of simply going through the motions, this was it. Amidst the hooting and the furious shuffling one could not help but miss the kind exuberance of the mid to late nineties.

As for the music, I found myself equally perplexed when the main room, after hours of hard dance/trance banging away at 150 bpm was suddenly filled with a 20 minute mix of assorted cock rock. It was hard enough dealing with the unrelenting wall of sound that is hard dance without having it suddenly segue into The Cure (which would have NEVER happened in my day). All in all a rather strange way to welcome the New Y ear.