Fashion Unconscious

The older I get, the more trouble I have dressing myself in the morning. Gone are the days of "outfits" picked out Garanimals-style the night before. Each day I get up, note the stiffness in my back with a vocalization that sounds way too much like my father, and head on over to my closet where I slip into a fugue-state staring at the huddled mass of pants and shirts hanging in front of me. I can only imagine what I must look like standing in my underwear, hands supporting my back, eyes propped open, glaring at my clothes like I'm expecting them to talk to me. This would be helpful, of course, since as I said I can't seem to figure out what the hell I'm going to cover myself with. Usually, there's at least a couple of rounds of Completely Ridiculous Choices (C.R.C or "Crack" if you're verbalizing it). A shirt I bought when I was 22 and didn't mind if my breasts walked into the room before me, or alternatively a sweater/pant/shoe combo that seems to indicate my desire for a sex change (or at least to be called "Sir").

This morning's routine was made exponentially more difficult by the fact that it's Halloween. Because things like holiday theme earrings are programmed into my genes (embraced by my mother the elementary school science teacher), I found myself - wide-eyed - lunging for any garment in orange and black. Upon realizing that I looked like I was trying to disguise myself as a jack-o-lantern, I dressed and re-dressed, tearing off sweaters, pulling on pants. Finally, I settled on black slacks, black shirt, black sweater, black shoes. I felt good, relatively comfortable with my choice, and then I caught sight of the clock. Embarassed by the fact that I was running late because of my own private fashion show, I grabbed my bag and was almost out the door when I saw myself in the mirror. While I successfully avoided looking like a pumpkin, I did manage to costume myself as a cross between the Grim Reaper on a job interview and Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever. Like Death Does Disco. I feel like everyone here at my internship is waiting for me to jam my finger in the air or wave a scythe around (or both). Thank god for the bucket of candy on my desk. Mini chocolate bars make everything better.

Feel Good About Yourself Today

Roughly paraphrased, my mother used to say that there's no use being embarassed because everyone screws up. Of course, she also used to say that just because you're paranoid doesn't mean everyone isn't out to get you.

Here we have Stacy Hedger, a beauty pageant contestant, who chose as her "talent" to play the chorus of the Star Wars theme song on the trumpet and mime a variety of Star Wars characters including Luke Skywalker, Hans Solo, and R2-D2.

After you watch this, I promise you could leave your house naked, singing Charo's greatest hits at the top of your lungs, but you will never feel embarassed again.

R Kelly Taking His Crazy to the Telephone

There is so much wrong with this. Check out 01:55 when he reminds his girlfriend - the "`ho" in question - that he just gave her money to get her "hair, toes, and nails done". What a guy. I've got to start setting my phone conversations to music.

My Future Album Cover

On yet another walk through the Brooklyn `hood, discovered this flowers-in-the-middle-of-Abbey Road scene. In the process, I almost got run over by a jackass in a Chevy Malibu with a rim job who cranked down his window and shouted "Get your hippie ass outttta here!" Clearly practicing his umpire skills since the "outta" was extended in such a way I wondered if he thought I was trying to steal a base rather than take a picture.