Sunday, April 20, 2008

rank in three parts

I know I said I'd wait till next weekend with washing the jeans. I buckled. One pair came out of the freezer only on Friday and yet today smelled like the Devil's afterbirth, left in a warm room for a month. Mind you, only if you stuck your nose close to it, but still. So in they went, with a whole lot of other dark stuff, minimal detergent and softener (half doses of whatever the instructions ask for) and cold water, of course. They are now drying on hangers around the place. I did take photos and will post later. But what now as far as washing goes? Next laundry date for the jeans: October 20. Gross, isn't it? But let it be known that I haven't got any weird skin infections from the waist down in the past six months and frankly, that's good enough for me.

Reading the Sunday newspapers (a bad habit that has to go), I was glad to see Melissa Hoyer of the Sunday Telegraph pointing out ten or so successful Australian women fashion designers. In response to Nicholas Huxley's ill-advised comments earlier (in the same publication!), of course, which in a way was odd, given the glowing column miles the Fashion Design Studio usually gets in the Terror. The Sun Herald didn't go there at all.

Also in ST was a story about 4 Inch Heels Only, an anonymous blog from within the small, blow-dried and tandoori-hued Sydney fashion magazine community. Apparently some of the larger publishers are hell-bent on uncovering the blogger's identity - but not as hell-bent on putting out a decent fashion magazine, I presume. I haven't bought Oz Vogue since the nineties when it was full of articles I'd read in US Vogue months earlier. Mind you, I haven't bought US Vogue since the nineties, either. A chopstick in the ear is a much quicker way to self-lobotomy than flicking through all those ads. Anyway, the fuss MagHag has caused reminds me of a party years ago, where my friends and I were one table away from the Cosmo girls. One friend, a popular designer at the time, knew them all, and whispered to me at one point: "Just look at them all, single alcoholics with coke habits, and they are the ones writing those tragic articles about how to get a man." Of course it was a gross exaggeration on my friend's part; not all of them were writers, I'm sure. (And should anyone get upset by what I just wrote, let me assure you this took place when pod shoes were in: no current staff implied.)
(Photo by David LaChapelle. The one at top, inexplicably from Webster's Online Dictionary.)

But back to real writing.

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