These beggarly beasts of beigy blandness were headed straight for the trash bin barring immediate colour intervention, so I attacked them viciously with my Sharpies and acrylic paint.
Who cares that they are now slightly crusty to the touch? Not I.
Who cares that the earth may shake and split open and swallow them live if I try to wash them? Not I.
Who cares that a sudden downpour would tan my legs blue? Um, yeah, that would suck.
In these photos taken by O I'm wearing flats because I was walking on boardwalks, but this morning on my inspiration walk, for the debut of these psychedelic pants, nothing but heels would do, you betcha. My legs beamed electric rays at everyone within eyeshot - we're talking hundreds of meters here. I warped into an echoing world of rockstars and strange hotels and room service with rubbery eggs and toast held upright in metal thingies. And mini bars. And chocolates, wrapped, on my pillow. Helping to create the mood was the satiny shirt that O used to wear when he played gigs in Tokyo.
- upcycled pants, thrifted, DIY
- satiny top, from O, I won't say vintage
- heels not shown, D&G, thrifted
- magic loupe, made for me by O
- airship whale and ghost-on-a-swing pendants, from friend Monique
- black leather belt, thrifted
On my way home, Sandra and I dropped by an upscale shoe store where I delivered a couple of t-shirts I'd made for the managers who'd fallen for my "I have nothing to wear" shirt they'd seen me in a week ago. I couldn't deny their pleas - they are such cool women.
Then later, at a stoplight a few blocks from the store, Sandra turned and asked me, "You know who that was, right?" "Who who was?" I had no idea what she was talking about. "That was Paul Stanley (me: blank face) - of KISS." Apparently he had been smiling at me in the store. Gaaa! I was completely oblivious. Clearly he had been HIT-NO-TIZED by my rockstar pants, sucked in by their colossal rockstar tractor beam. Or, wait, maybe it was my larval brows, aqua pools of wriggly wonder, or maybe it was my yellow eyelids! Quickly I asked Sandra if she'd like to go back and watch Mr. Stanley - after all, she is a true rock fan. But, nah. What for? I didn't even know his name when she told me anyway. So we continued down the road preferring to create our own little rock star moments than pick at the flecks of glitter in another celebrity's wake.
It's very freeing once in a while to realize there is no Celebrity Mall with special Celebrity Stores. We're just people, often with two arms, two legs, some with better teeth and manicures. And it's not who you know (unless it's someone tremendously powerful who is a nice person rather than a power-rapist-type person) but rather what we make of ourselves that counts. Blah, blah, blah, birds sing, flowers sprout. But I have to say, KISS rocks, by definition.
I have a Yellow Skirt update coming up...