What Would Woody Do?

One of my favourite parts from one of my favourite movies, Everyone Says I Love You, is when narrator, DJ, announces the coming of winter and the Dandridge family's holiday plans:

"But when Christmas comes... We're not the kind of family that sings carols... and we don't have a goose or anything. What we do is head for Paris, to spend Christmas at the Ritz".

As if having Woody Allen for a father isn't eurotrash enough, DJ and her entire band of misfit toys do what eurotrash always does this time of year: FLY OUT! Now, a eurotrash girl must confess that the inspiration for this post had something to do with a last-minute booking and everything to do with the fulfillment of a sound prophecy. You see, for some people 'tis the season for stuffing stockings... for others, 'tis the season for stuffing suitcases. My better half has her suitcase already stuffed; prophecy fulfilled. However, up until yesterday I really thought that the prophecy was being cruelly selective; I was a eurotrash pariah desperately shaking all the gifts under the tree in hopes of finding Pearson airport. Silly me, I should've just checked my Inbox where the e-ticket lay awaiting.

Alas, with full authority, I take charge of this post to preach the truths of the eurotrash holiday prophecy. Someway, somehow, a flight will find her. That's why when asked what she's doing for New Year's Eve, a eurotrash girl doesn't commit to any definitive plans beyond champagne. Albeit, some years the prophecy thwarts our lifestyle (or our lifestyle thwarts the prophecy?) and we get stuck on the couch, toasting to Dick Clark in HD, but we truly hope that was a one time deal. Besides, we hadn't even started the blog yet. Humble beginnings.

And not so humble ends. Whatever.

Happy Holidays and Bon Voyage!

The Eurotrash Stocking Stuffed

Flying home on a red-eye from San Francisco a few nights ago, while the other passengers slept soundly, I decided to catch up on my reading. Besides I didn't want to go to bed without having done at least one "flip through" the spanking glossy December issue of Vogue that awaited me in the Hudson News bag I had been clenching since I passed the gate. Two things happened during the flip through: I read a brilliant article and I wrote a brilliant article. (Well, the former directly inspired the latter which, when I say 'wrote' I really mean that I was waiting until THIS moment to actually write... But, since when does a eurotrash girl need to justify logistics?).

Susie Boyt's "The Good Stuff" is for anyone who loves hearing about other people in the world who are just as ferociously obsessed with goodies as they are and THIS eurotrash girl is a certified, goodies fiend. My dearest Susie just made the Christmas stocking the next best thing. She ONLY gives out stockings and fills them with personalized fare, from London Sole red ballet slippers for the dancer to Monopoly Deal cards for the constant traveller; if you're lucky, she might even include pink pencils stamped with your name in gold and the lyrics to your favourite song penned on stiff correspondence cards. A few jars of Tiptree Orange marmalade paired with Keats' Selected Letters and Susie just decked your halls! But enough about her. Naturally, I started to think about what a eurotrash stocking would be stuffed with and came up with a list of my own. Susie, this one's for you.

The Eurotrash Stocking Stuffed:

The receptacle:

One gold deluxe Moon Boot from the Winter Monarchy collection.

The stuffing:

Twelve OPI Holiday Wishes collection nail polishes, from 'Smitten with Mittens' to 'All A-Bordeaux the Sled', complete with twelve separate polish changes. Eurotrash paint her own nails? Not even if she had two right hands!

Eleven + nine tracks of sweet parisian nouveau-jazz: Pompugnac's Hotel Costes a Decade 1999-2009 compilation. The actual cd. iTunes is great and all when one is feeling paresseuse but nothing is more eurotrash than collecting rare compact discs in artsy cases, no plastic please.

Ten glistening Neapolitan cards of the winning suit in a just-started, favourable game of brisk - the ultimate eurotrash pastime, around 4pm.

Nine cypraeovula volvens south african seashells. Just as good as tissue paper.

Eight x 10,000 aeroplan miles. Because that next flight is always around the corner and never worth a dime over the airport taxes!

Seven previously owned Agatha Christie gialli. (The preferred edition should be published by Pocket Books New York during the 80s). Read one every day between Christmas and New Years Eve to ward off cabin fever with Poirot's franco-wit.

Six luxury candles. I suggest Tocca's Florence candle six times or for the rich, Luxury Soy Candles' Champagne Noir Soy with a 2.3carat, G colour and VS clarity, diamond embellishment in 14k white gold, setting you back a breezy $5,000. Don't worry, most luxury candles come with their own matches, which is perhaps the eurotrashiest part. I mean, I would be happy receiving just the matches...

All Five seasons of Absolutely Fabulous - Eddy and Patsy, the reigning queens of eurotrash before we became the reigning queens of eurotrash.

Four Links of London sterling silver holiday charms: the jumping reindeer, the stocking, the mitten and the gingerbread man. NB: you need to already own the charm bracelet upon which to solder these silver friends for this to mean anything. Sorry, thread just won't do.

Three glasses of Krug Clos Ambonnay champagne, to be drank while opening the stocking.

Two Converse Rockability sneakers - the reinterpreted studded version, of course - made exclusively for eurotrash's fav boutique in Florence, Luisa Via Roma. I know it sounds like a dream, but the store really does get famous designers to do special things for them and in turn, for us.

And last but not least, the other Moon Boot, obviously.

New York Herald Tribune

Lately, there have been a whole lot of eurotrash happenings spotted on this famous parisian street. First Lindsay Lohan, hitting the boutiques one last time before she lost all fashion credibility post-Ungaro sfilata. And now, just this past saturday, while walking along the same street, my sister found herself being ordered to yield to two, large, wrought iron gates, opening upon the command of an ooh-la-la male specimen from within the confines of his sleek, black mercedes-benz s-class something. She continued to gawk at the scene as he removed himself from the subpar rue and drove right onto the glistening sidewalk until he reached the gates agape, and disappeared into the lap of luxury. The gates closed behind him, signalling to the pedestrians that the show was over and they could continue to go on about their window shopping. My sister obliged accordingly, but not without making an overseas phone call first, to tell a eurotrash girl that she may be onto something...

Fall Back, Spring Forward

This really should be the fashion industry's motto because it sure seems to be its M.O.

A eurotrash girl can make observations like this because she (like all of you temporally unprivileged consumers out there) is subject to the annual fall spring double whammy and more importantly, ALWAYS at the wrong time. After a summer abroad, where she got by on only two issues of italian vogue as vestiges of the fashion world she so readily abandoned, relying solely on her inner compass to concoct unforgettable outfits from the paltry vacation wardrobe she woke up to every morning, she barely sets foot on canadian soil only to be greeted by winter weather and spring clothes!

But spring is nowhere to be found amidst the dark, wet blanket that hovers over her, except, of course, on every single blog and website she visits in search of fashion inspiration. How can she be expected to rock out amazing outfits day by day in the fall when fall is already so passe'? All the cool kids are talking about Chanel's new spring clog and Christian Dior's bourdoir touches, meanwhile it's snowing outside and all a eurotrash girl wants to talk about is the Missoni snood as novelty, like she did in March. That's the sum of it, in the fall she is brought back to her summertime muses with a sad nostalgia and in the spring, she is urged to fast forward and start thinking about getting all warm and fuzzy and sipping hot cocoa by the fire.

Dear fashion world, will we ever synchronize our clocks?

Above, Denis Guidon's Ora ilLegale daylight savings clock.

Adventures of the Eurotrash iPod: Chapter 1.

Scroll, scroll.... click, click, cue Kings of Convenience playlist.

Those of you who have had the pleasure of perusing my iPod will be hard-pressed to put your fingers on what exactly a eurotrash girl's music taste consists in. Hints obtained by reading through past blog posts are of no help: Hed Kandi, bossa novas, Michael Jackson, Drake... Sounds like a mischievous game of 'all of these things don't belong'. Consider this, I recently had to get a new hard-drive solely to accommodate my, busting at the seams, iTunes library.

Other than her dashing ability to foresee burgeoning trends before they burgeon, eurotrash WAS one of the first girls to own an iPod, 1st generation with the 4 buttons on top, a touch wheel and brick bodice, because she needed a soundtrack to her life.

Her iPod has been a faithful companion, cueing in the right song at the right time, transforming ordinary life into a movie. She thinks there is something so eurotrash about living in her own personal movie, without the artifice of post-production; it is as real as Bazin could ever hope. Like that first time she sat poolside at the Villas in Ravello, high above the sea barely peeking through the valley, listening to Real Ibiza Vol IV; the music made that moment a moment. She remembers it through the music, through Abraham's "Magpie". Now when she walks down the gloomy streets of Toronto, one touch of the play button, and she instantly sees the culmination of her life moments in one. She is poolside in Ravello AND sipping a nonfat latte while crossing bloor and avenue. This summer she brought a bit of her city to the coast, blasting Drake's "The City is Mine" on board Big Poppa while looking out to the open water of the medi, not a city in sight. Is there any better explanation as to why the Hammond B3 organ takes her back to her childhood? Why she can't listen to Interpol without remembering? Why Subsonica is best listened to on long bus rides across Lombardy and Justin Timberlake has a special place in Londontown? Why Jazz fits on Sunday, why Turkish music reminds her of Las Vegas, why Mahler's 5th got her through her thesis and will subsequently never be listened to ever again? Believe me, the list goes on.

Her misunderstood iPod is eurotrash just like her. She'll postpone her life happening just to find the perfect song to make it happen. And with the unfathomable success that the iPod has had since she bought her first one for 600 dollars (a rarity back then), it would seem that she is not the only one making a mundane, perhaps even depressing, trip to the laundromat a little more eurotrash by pressing play.

AN OPEN LETTER TO DRIZZY DRAKE

Dear Drizzy:

you have been been making all of toronto bob its collective head since you positively busted out this past spring with your hit single best i ever had. you're sooo sexy, your flow is the smoothest and most irresistible we've heard since biggie and you're from the tdot. what more could we ask for? the answer is your new single killa. a fervent text message from my better half last night informed me that in the first verse you make a shout-out to the amalfi coast, la divina costiera where eurotrash spent 7 long weeks this past summer. coincidence or direct inspiration? we like to imagine it's the latter. but in any case:

drizzzzzzzzy drake, we adore you.

love, eurotrash

... but i got a new jacket.

First and foremost, it's a miracle that I was even able to summon up the tenacity to blog today after almost choking on my special k cereal this morning when I opened up to page A2 of The Star and read the following headline: "Lilo takes Paris plunge". Just when we thought that nothing worse could happen to the post-apocalyptic fashion world, Lindsay Lohan gets a job designing for Emanuel Ungaro. Yes, the house that eurotrash used to love so much for that little added touch of bright red shoes, so wizard-of-Oz-esque, on every model's feet. According to David Graham, who barely dodged fourth degree murder, the show got mixed reviews - some called it the future of fashion (as coco, louis, yves and gianni all roll in their graves) and others, whom i like to call the more astute critics, called it an embarrassment. My hat goes off to Lindsay who was seen shopping leisurely on the Champs-Elysees the day before the show; now, that may not be dedication, but it is definitely eurotrash. 

So, hushing her dwindling faith in fashion for the duration of this post, eurotrash must address the rapidly plunging temperatures and her need for fur. (Disclaimer: eurotrash wears fur). My better half, whose last post rocked my world, already got her winter jacket and I am starting to feel the pressure. I don't want to be the girl who finds her dream winter jacket in another girl's size, or heaven forbid, donned by another girl. I have to double back for a moment here to when wearing a winter jacket was uncool and then to the era of the tommy and polo bombers and lastly, to the deceased tna parka, in order to appreciate how far we've come in embracing the climate just to have an excuse for adding another piece to the ever-expanding, women's wardrobe. Nowadays, being caught scantily clad in the dead of winter is a sign of fashion ineptitude, pace Lilo. Instead, eurotrash approaches winter like the Czar's daughter, and indulges in designer goose down parkas with luscious, over-the-top, fox fur trimmed hoods and collars. I mean, if you really think about it, the winter jacket is the one piece that eurotrash is dragooned into wearing every single day for approximately 7 months, give or take. That's 5 dollars a day for a jacket that costs circa 1k. Hello, investment. 

Pair the jacket with Uggs or Moon Boots, Cavalli rabbit-fur earmuffs, LV "british royal guard" fur hat (only for the brave), seal skin gloves and an extra long, missoni scarf-hat; and you have not only a case for PETA, but an undeniable, knock-out winter gitch. This year eurotrash cannot disclose her final decision on a jacket, but is leaning towards Riccardo Fiume's Hell is for Heroes ski jacket. Originally designed for climbing the mountains of Tibet, the tag line for the collection reads: "When a mountain loves a woman". Needless to say, it is easy to see how my painstaking search for a functional, yet recherche' winter jacket could quickly end here. 

If this ski store that I've never heard of on Yonge Street doesn't have the Hell is for Heroes "Scout" jacket then I'm getting my partner in crime to bamboozle canadian customs once again on her way back from Italy next month and smuggle in both our winter jackets in one sitting. 

Il faut souffrir.... 

oh michael!

allow me to err for a moment from the official topic of this blog. i need to blog for a moment about MJ. it has been 3 months and a day since he's left us and i'm still not over it all. i've been watching the dangerous concert in bucharest from '92 this evening (i had already seen it in italy in july but who doesn't want to be dazzled by michael floating on stage as many times as possible?) and i, like every single one of the hundreds of millions of fans who have seen him perform, am left speechless watching him EVERY TIME. Michael moves in an explosion of energy, his every step super-charged and yet carefully controlled to be smooth and in total defiance of gravity. watching him glide across the stage doing the moonwalk is like watching a bloody miracle! you simply can't take your eyes off of him. its useless for me to repeat that his songs are irresistible. anyone over 22 and under 40: try to listen to thriller without getting up to bust a few moves. can't be done. the blasphemous naysayers will already be revving-up their response, i imagine: "he was a monster, a pedophile (which eurotrash doesn't buy for an instant), a messed-up boy-child" (i can't help but to borrow this technique of preempting the rebuttal of one's opponents from the ancient orators. its just so effective). but that's just it. eurotrash loves Michael because he was a superstar every step of the way, composing the beat to billie jean while driving around hollywood, transforming his face beyond recognition, dangling little blanket over his hotel balcony, blowing 6 million dollars in 30 seconds on gaudy furnishings in Las Vegas: never for one minute was MJ normal, never did he appear in the "Stars are just like us!" section of People buying a newspaper or picking his wedgie. and at the end of the day, none of his twisted behaviour really ever mattered because when MJ was up on stage, his raw genius just took over. Michael didn't need to constantly change his image or revert to doing stupid reality shows to boost his image (though i'd looooove to have seen him on dancing with the stars) because he was Michael Jackson, musical prodigy and cultural icon.

true to form, MJ went out like the superstar he was. the internet almost crashed the afternoon he died, with whispering rumours being passed by bbm, sms, email and phone calls and the subsequently fervent googling to find out whether the whispers were true. i couldn't get onto perez hilton or cnn that afternoon for hours. at the mall i was in people were exchanging looks of shock and disbelief. it really was a defining moment for our generation. its a blessing, i suppose, that the world will never have to know a Michael who can no longer dance or who doesn't have enough breathe to squeeze out his characteristically falsetto jamoooon! but MJ will really never really be out of our lives, as it were, or at least out of my life. i got two amazing local celebrity tees in commemoration, one purple with his unmistakable silhouette in a darker shade of purple and the other just with his black loafers ad chunky socks poised in a moonwalk on a background of orange stripes with RIP MJ: 1958-2009.

also: there's a brilliant site which has created a never-ending tribute to MJ by generating a constant flow of different people from all over the world doing the moonwalk at http://www.eternalmoonwalk.com/. needless to say, eurotrash will be uploading her moonwalk asap.

the sum of this post, i suppose, is this: MJ was eurotrash. he was raw, cutting edge and certainly MDF (ndr morte di fame = dead broke) despite the fact that he had sold 750 million records of Thriller alone. We are sure that he was sleeping at the Four Seasons, taking up an entire floor and eating wild chilean sea bass while the creditors were banging down his door. Moreover, just like eurotrash, Michael certainly had haters making snide comments at every turn. And just like Michael, eurotrash loves it. As a famous dandy once said, "the only things worse than being talked about is not being talked about at all"

Confessions of a Eurotrash Girl

One thing I am sure of is this: summer is over. No inspirations, save for roberto cavalli ear muffs, are to be found. What is a eurotrash girl to do? Let the quality of our posts plummet? Spend her days creating scenarios in her mind of all the things her summer was and could have been while listening to diluted bossa novas, swinging on a hammock, promising to quit smoking... 

One thing I am sure of is this: the summer is always better remembered than lived. Sure, there were moments this summer when being accustomed to the fast life succeeded in rendering the fast life slow. When being eurotrash became so ordinary that it was too ordinary to be eurotrash. But now, now that it's all over, all that's left is the aftertaste of salt on my lips, massive credit card debt and a heart that beats but forgot how to love. 

its 1:31 AM, lungomare di maiori. we are esconced in green and red juicy suits. we look like umpa lumpas and we love it 'cause whatever: that's just how eurotrash rolls. it has been one week since our long-awaited reunion in the eternal city, and what a week it has been. our dear reader will forgive us for our extended virtual absence. how appropriate that eurotrash is too busy being eurotrash to blog. herein lies the essence of the beginning of indulgence09:

tony hotel fortyseven, steps from the temple of the vestal virgins where young roman girls dedicated themselves to vesta and gente where young roman girls now dedicate themselves to balenciaga and dsquared.

a sweaty two days in 40 degrees+ heat pacing up and down via condotti oscillating between LV and gucci sunglasses and while hesitating eversomuch, finally barely settling on the monogram aviators (though the soundness of this choice would resound throughout the day).

a breezy 30 seconds to decide on dropping 2000 euro on a bright red jackie bag.

adding the special edition LV kanye west ice creams to big poppa's collection (which weighed down on eurotrash's credit card and sweaty arm).

treking through the dust-filled forum loaded-down with shiny designer shoppers, one weighing in at 20 lbs, the other measuring in at 100 x 150 cm.

morning of departure for the coast: hiking to termini to get a refund of 20 euro (which will be credited by trenitalia by the time eurotrash will have booked her next trip to italy) for a train ticket booked for that afternoon, after having found out that big poppa was feeling generous and was coming to get us.

night of departure: arriving in maiori at 11pm and forgetting which apartment we had rented, resorting to highschool french to wrest the agency's phone number from the parisians next door.

now our summer has begun...

a typical or atypical day consists of the following: bugle call at 11:30am, death march down 127 steps from our apartment to meet a meagre breakfast of espresso and neapolitan pasteries. connoitering the corso for an unsuspecting male to pay for our breakfast. at ease until 2pm when big poppa peels himself from his bed and ensuing march to pontile d where our girl is docked. at sea until circa 6:30pm, with lunch around 3pm delivered by two twelve-year-old pirates on a dingy at santa croce, restaurant at sea. 7pm aperitivo at rosy bar aka rat's ass bar (just cuz) where the coffee is bitter but the company is marvelous. connoitering continues for sexy neapolitan men with long limbs and open wallets. death march part 2 begins at around 830pm, juicy hoodies unzipped, sweat beads rolling and quadracepts trembling. 10pm icy cold showers to allot for clean clothes (NDR the water heater and the washing machine are involved in a love triangle with the same outlet, and the bitch refuses a menage a trois). hair dried, we wrestle each other for the mirror while the hallway bustles with the sound of encroaching ants, one by one, kept only at bay by a sprinkling of white powder and a prayer. circa 12pm, outfits perfected, death march part 3 and upon completion we wait at attention for the glare of big poppa's halogen head lights. thereupon, eurotrash is whisked off to some fabulous corner of the coast for some form of a complex carbohydrate to stare at her yet milky white legs and hope for a glimpse of "giggles" (NDR giggles is one half of the eurotrash duo's current love toy). 4am: eurotrash is force-fed freshly made brioche with nutella, if licking her fingers and smudging her entire face with nutella qualifies as force-fed. 5am: death march part 4. eurotrash finally falls into bed, after having traversed seas of flying ant corpses and carefully packed her chanel bag into its tissue and dust cover.

the above description may vary, but what remains a constant on our minds, our lips and our hearts is TWILIGHT, a story which has captured eurotrash's imagination and resuscitated her scholarly interest. the story of a young girl and the soul mate she finds in a vampire has proven to provide endless material for discussion, surrounding the following perplexities:

1. why can't big poppa be edward cullen?

2. why doesn't bella just become a vampire?

3. if big poppa can be a vampire, can giggles be one too??

the teeny-bopper sensation has also yielded a metaliterary reading, in which the love between bella and edward symbolizes conventional, monogamous love and the mortal dangers of premarital sex. needless to say, we have afforded stephanie meyer much more intellectual accolade than she certainly deserves.

its 2:28am and in the process of composing this blog, we've been gawked at by the locals and mortified by two apperances of big poppa's parents (they look like they might be vampires, so there seems to be some hope yet). we sign off the first of a long series of summer blogs, in the following hopes:

1. that labelling the death march as such does not prove to be a self-fulfilling prophecy

2. that giggles can do more than just giggle

3. that big poppa finds his inner thirst for blood

4. that tomorrow's bugle call comes a bit earlier than it has been so we can finally settle down into some serious feces work (we mean theses).

umpa lumpas over and out, as they say.

post script: eurotrash has met her idol and his name is rosario sepe, AKA dj lovelove. a description of the indescribable is to follow in the next blog entry. "SOLO, SOLO, SOLO A PAGAMENTO."

Top Ten Reasons Why Airports Are Sooo Eurotrash

Before I leave to join my fellow eurotrash girl in Rome I had to sign off our Toronto sessions modestly, with a list. 

Top Ten Reasons Why Airports are SOOO Eurotrash:

10. Airports are the ONLY place where one can give in to self-indulgence and double fist a tall starbucks latte AND a 1L bottle of evian without looking gluttonous.  

9. DUTY FREE SHOPPING (for those last minute, impulse buys - usually some chanel perfume but depending on the city the stakes can get raised as high as a Gucci purse or a pair of Ferragamo shoes) 

8. Calories don't count in airports. I mean, since airplane food is simply unpalatable one should fill up on ludicrously priced club sandwiches and a selection of maynard's candy while waiting at the gate. 

7. Because on every international flight, there are international travelers. Specifically, international males, who, i might add, can afford a plane ticket and sometimes a nice LV carry-on too. 

6. One can pass the time, without feeling guilty, calculating the probability of the cute, international, LV-sporting, ticket-affording guy sitting next to you on the plane. 

5. Airports belong to the superfluous title group, and superfluous titles are SO eurotrash: YYZ, FCO, CDG, LAX, LHR, LAS, DXB... 

4. With men and women walking around in cute uniforms, complete w. ascot and cap, airports seem to be one of the few places that retain that 1970s je ne sais quoi - because the general infrastructure hasn't really changed since. (Think Jacques Tati's Playtime next time you're in Pearson) 

3. Airports are the portals connecting an entire global network of those who are jet set, and for those who are jet set the gate also dubs as an ad hoc fashion runway. 

2. The departures and arrivals fork in the road - which one will you pick? 

And the #1 reason why airports are so eurotrash:

1. When a Eurotrash girl, wearing faceshields, 2 gucci bags and bbm-ing, walks by the would-be snobs sitting in first class on the way to her humble economy seat, THEY aspire to be more like HER. 

so whatever, its been a while. i haven't been here in weeks because of the super-charged start to eurotrash summer 09: giulio+marco in the tdot, my sister's wedding and dropping 3500 at prada on bloor courtesy of mr. dg and the violet colored bills generously donated by "a'nonn". but the witty banter of my better half has certainly been better than anything i could have produced and indeed my skin creeped up in goosebumps when i read her entry on fall 09's terrifying heights. 19.07.09 is the date of our much-anticipated reunion and if the Lord is kind, we will both have finished our theses by then so that we can devote every inch of our brain power to creating delightful combinations of our summer pieces for bright days crusin' the medi and sultry nights in Positano. a propos: the newest (and most unexpected) addition to my summer mise is pictured (we don't particularly like Jessica Biel, but we do like that she is carrying our new bag). while I thought that I would be stuck using the same LV neverfull from last summer, this denim prada struck Giulio's fancy and we copped it, as they say. he was also sweet enough to throw in a pair of black patent and cork prada sandals, which by divine providence completed my summer wardrobe by crossing the conspicuous t that had been left by a slew of sweet dresses that needed a black-based platform to carry them. the Lord does work in mysterious ways. however, all this discussion of my much considered and much agonized over wardrobe is yet all hypothetical: I have been yet caged in the hills of Avellino banging out my thesis on Catullus' Latin translation and continuation of Apollonius' Argonautica in his 64th poem. The only milage my 66 outfits have seen (I counted them out. This number naturally excludes the outfits that will come of spontaneous inspiration at 11:30 PM when one's hair is salty, one's skin has the glorious patina of an italian summer and one's fashion sense is at its height) are fleeting moments before the full-length mirror in my room. the one exception is yesterday when I dipped my finger in the wine and went to Amalfi for a preseason cruise on Big Poppa. the sun was shining and my white VS romper was perfect as we strolled to pontile D where our girl is docked. the sum of the above is as follows: it is going to be a fabulous summer.

Kandi Sounds and Killer Shoes

A Eurotrash girl's PB and J? Answer: Hed Kandi Beach House and Gucci fall shoes. Don't ask how they could possibly go together, they just do. Buying summer shoes is such a waste of (someone else's) hard earned money and as much as you think you see forever in their eyes, (the shoes), those babies have an expiry date - october 1st. No no, instead, a eurotrash girl will wear 20 dollar sandals all summer long until they fall apart on the dance floor and get tossed into the medi. And no, she will not mourn for them because she has another 19 pairs to annihilate before summer's end. Polygamy is the way to go when it comes to summer sandals. 

So, she doesn't spend her money on sandals, instead she spends her money on THE summer soundtrack: Hed Kandi's Annual Beach House Compilation. Ranging from 30-50 dollars, depending on how generous the folks at HMV are feeling each year, this soundtrack justifies indulgence and indulging. Case in point, the description for this summer's volume:

We’ve taken inspiration from our many outings in the south of France – Toulouse, Nice, Marseilles, Montpelier and most notably St Tropez. This is music to lounge to from sunset to sundown, best played at a comfortable volume from the pool area of a Hed Kandi beach house and of course complimented with the gentle sound of warm waves kissing a nearby crescent shore. Bliss! 

http://www.hedkandi.com/product/na/albums/cd/beach_house_2009/

Once she gets her hands on it, the next step is to get her feet into real shoes. And when i say real, i mean Gucci. Screw Louboutins. Eurotrash doesn't need a red sole to match her swagger (unless of course, a moment of MDF kicks in and principles instantly become a question of convenience i.e., out the window). But if she's buying, which she does every august, she's going GG. Watching her tattered sandals as they get carried out to sea means she is one death closer to Division, the must-have shoe for october 1st. Nothing, NOTHING, cures the end of summer blues quite like them. And she (almost) cannot wait to get her dose of this fall's panacea. 

Two Weeks Notice

I haven't updated the blog in over two weeks. I haven't gone blonde yet, actually my hairdresser tried to convince me that it was a faux-pas for me this year. I only agreed because he coerced me with a glass of valpolicella as we discussed my locks. Where do I find these places in Toronto? Ah... I truly believe they find me. 

So, what else have the eurotrash duo been up to when not updating their beloved site? Trying to cram a 50 pg thesis in 2 weeks (another faux-pas), playing virgil to my better half's better half aka big poppa, and his travel companion who kindly put his AMEX down at harbour sixty. I can say these sorts of things as a proud bearer of the MDF title; surrounding oneself in opulence sometimes rubs off a bit, or a lot - it really all depends on how many glasses of veuve you can drink in one sitting. 

However, the most heart-wrenching event that has come to pass during this mini-hiatus is the anticipated departure of my better half. She has left for the motherland and I have 2 more weeks to go in this eurotrashless city before I meet her in Rome and check into our swank hotel. http://www.fortysevenhotel.com/

NB: We drew lots before booking. Obviously, dropping 300 euros on our first night's stay in Rome won over saving enough money to cover our dreaded train ride from Salerno to Fiumicino on sept 5 to catch our flight home. (wishful thinking?)

Here's something to look forward to - one of my favorite eurotrash boys just sent me a picture of a Disney Witches bag from PINKO's 2009 summer collection while he was "shopping" in Italy yesterday. The Look: this bag*, a bright-coloured juicy couture tracksuit, massive faceshields and bibelots hanging from one ankle - what else are you going to wear when stepping off a boat in the amalfi coast without looking like you actually noticed? 

Photo credit: Dan Alexander Ifrim, July 2, 2009. 

*NB: this bag can easily (as in: "I can easily imagine...") be substituted with the LV never full, Prada denim tote or Gucci tattoo heart shopper.

Do Blondes Really Have More Fun?

There are a few things in life that weigh over eurotrash's conscience as she goes about her quotidian minutia; one of these things is the age-old, mid-spring question that eurotrash annually asks herself: "should i go blonde again this summer?". 

Memory role call ensues. Is it really the case that mojitos with a hint of mint made her shine a bit brighter because her hair was lighter that night in atrani? Was falling in love that summer so much easier because her sunkissed glow was matched with the starlight in her hair and not in her heart? Does the Gucci green and red stripe demand platinum locks? Suddenly her summer memories become nothing more than the sound of "ue, bionda" rolling off the tongue of an oh-so-charming neapolitan boy as she crosses the piazza, donning faceshields and of course, blonde hair. I mean, don't get me wrong, gorgeous dark-haired eurotrash girls exist, but when so many of her summer dreams are accompanied by visions of blonde, it truly becomes hard to refuse this light temptation.  

So, eurotrash does what she does every mid-spring: makes a hair appointment and never EVER looks back. 

the following thought struck me as i lay in bed last night after having tried on some of my new clothes (this is something eurotrash loves to do: model her new clothes in her room): the one problem with a fabulous, unforgettable outfit is just that - it is unforgettable. how horrible it is to be noticed wearing the same great outfit twice (heaven forbid one is photographed) precisely because that outfit is so memorable? what an unescapable irony that almost makes one want to dress in the solid category of mediocrity so as not to be noticed. almost. actually, not even close.

here i am: 22.44 (24-hour clock is the only way to go for eurotrash), marking essays. as if my and stina's words about the boundless stupidity of feminist discourse had gone from my lips to athena's ears, about an hour ago i found a ferocious essay in my lap which argued for the complete male dominance and female submission in ancient greek myth. far be it from eurotrash to turn a blog about the ultimate summer (indulgence09) into a political diatribe against the feminists of the world. but ya know what??? eurotrash wants to be girly, she wants to be ordered for at dinner, she wants to be toted around the medi in a bmw and a yacht. what's so bad about that? submission to good treatment and fancy digs is in no way analogous to submission to abuse, oppression or silence (just ask giulio) NDR: Giulio is the better half of one-half of the eurotrash duo. He is coming to Toronto in t-minus 15 days and eurotrash can't.even.wait. it is because of giulio that eurotrash doesn't have to dirty her pedicured feet on the beaches of the amalfi coast but walks straight from her afternoon breakfast onto Big Poppa NDR: Big Poppa is Giulio's boat and yes biggie is always on the stereo.

"... it was all started by a mouse" - Walt Disney

Some people don't remember their first mickey mouse fashion sighting and then there are others who do. Eurotrash remembers. It was summer and it was florence; eurotrash was sitting on the curb across from palazzo pitti probably eating gelato (also known as dinner, ex post facto) admiring her new white ballet slippers, which she defiantly wore as shoes. Then it happened. Eurotrash spied with her little eye a little black mouse ear and nose poking out from behind a navy blue blazer, set on a white, cotton tee. Completing the look - an irretrievable pair of designer jeans and of course, white ballet slippers. Come to think of it, could this vision have just been a figment of eurotrash's imagination? Another fantastic muse to strut down the runways of her mind? 

Well whatever it was, eurotrash has never forgotten that vision. In fact, mickey mouse and co.  have become perennial icons in the eurotrash wardrobe. She's not gaga though, nor alone. The

mouse has found its way onto an entire Liu Jo collection, D&G tees and jeans, the chests of Louis Park's models, MAC lip glosses, Iceberg tunics and Carrie Bradshaw. This summer she will not have to look far for her new disney acquisition. PINKO has got her covered. Their s/s 09 collection features solid colour tees and hobo bags with polychromatic disney friends, Maga Mago` and Amelia, just hanging out on them. Looking over at her white ballet slippers, now soiled past the point of even cinderella-chic, eurotrash opts for a cute pair of mid-thigh high, black, biker shorts  and fringed poccahonis-meets-helen of troy flats..... A dream come true. 

What is it about a chanel icon bag? When LC flounced down the steps of the prebyterian church where heidi and spencer got married (i hate the conglomerate epithet "spedi"), she was carrying a leather shopper part of chanel's icon collection (that is, bags that have enraptured women despite a $3000+ price tag for generations and continue to haunt their visa bills for months after their purchase) and i stopped breathing for a moment. Perhaps it was the way the shopper fit so perfectly with LC's 50s -inspired outfit (blue off the shoulder a-line cotton frock cinced just-so by a black skinny croc-leather belt) or how she strutted in her louboutins with THE BAG hanging on her arm so casually, as if she were too immersed in her thoughts too even notice the icon on her elbow. But ironically, this is why the set of 10 chanel bags or so have earned the name icon: their presence transcends the wearer, whether she be "reality" tv show star, american first lady, socialite or MDF eurotrash (NDR: MDF = morte di fame, italian tag which aptly describes the girl who has $4.00 in her chequing account and a pink balenciaga in her closet, the undersigned). LC is perhaps too busy debating what colour she'll paint her nails next or what room she'll occupy in her parent's laguna beach villa when she moves back next season to contemplate the status of her quilted leather shopper such as I've done here. Nevertheless as she cooly stepped into her waiting car after Heidi and Spencer's ceremony (why she skipped the reception I'll never know), LC joined a league of women who will be long outlived by the icon they carried their keys and lipgloss in. oh chanel! this is why you never have a sale.

summer prep part II

Eurotrash has been notoriously spotted wearing new dior "faceshields" (a eurotrash neologism for sunglasses - because we started wearing them before they became a quotidian requisite. remember my transparent gucci shields sans frame from '03?) and smoking haute couture cigarettes (whether u inhale or not). 

It started with decadent, pearl-filtered Cartier cigarettes and since then, eurotrash has been in hot pursuit of sleek, pseudo-accessories signed by the revered house of Yves Saint Laurent.  They are eurotrash's current enigma da risolvere. 

As Isabelle, chained to the Cinematheque, asks Matthew to remove her cigarette in an oh-so-sultry way in the famous scene from The Dreamers, eurotrash gets her raison d'être. After all, Antonioni-style yacht adventures in the medi could spur existential moments where the only way out is by reading Sartre while getting a cute boy to strike a match and light your penchant for indulgence. 

There are moments when you have the impression that you can do what you want, go forward or backward, that it has no importance; and then other times when you might say that the links have been tightened and, in that case, it's not a question of missing your turn because you could never start again 
- Jean-Paul Sartre 

summer prep

now that i've finished my reading list exams (specialization in an esoteric topic is soooo eurotrash), i thought i'd more diligently update this blog. thus i begin professing my obsession and my downfall: fashion. though i know i have enough to wear this summer, images of myself with tear-streaked cheeks and clumps of hair in my hands, rended in frustration by my lack of appropriately beachy-cool attire for the amalfi coast keep flashing before my eyes. a eurotrash girl may not have enough money to get on the bus but she certainly always has something sufficiently fashion-y to wear. so i keep buying and buying and buying more and more and more pieces. everytime its the last internet purchase, the last visit to aritizia, the last peek in holts but it never really is, is it? my pink laptop has wrought the most damage, forcing me to gaze everyday at sites rife with that one piece that would complete my summer wardrobe and bring it to utter perfection. what can i do to fight when it has even memorized my visa number and enters it perfectly everytime when i'm contemplating making a purchase, taunting me that i don't even need to get up from my bed at 12:00 AM to up my bikini ante by three new suits? my latest find are these dior glasses and i've convinced myself that my look will be lacklustre and incomplete, that all the money i've "invested" in my beachy look will be lost without these. crusing the medi (my new eurotrash term for THE ONLY sea to vacation on) with long locks, skin burnished by a patina of golden tan and nothing on your mind but what to wear that night to positano requires these glasses. i'm sure you will agree.

INTROUCTION TO EUROTRASH

this is a new blog. however, the idea of the eurotrash lifestyle was conceived long ago.

it was july, it was florence. we were 18. we had no money but what we spent at prada and luisa via roma. we never smiled, we walked around with our tongues hanging out and when we weren't having coffee at gilli we would watch music videos on mtv or hang-out at villas in the tuscan countryside with slick florentine men who wore jeans with holes in them. we were eurotrash. this summer is the revitilization, the renaissance of eurotrash. 9 weeks of trash in amalfi begins june 30th, 2009. who goes to italy on a shoestring bugdet but goes yachting everyday? who can't afford to pay rogers wireless but has a $3000 bag? who walks to save a token but goes clubbing in positano? you got it: eurotrash does.
...whatever.

Eurotrash:

(oxi-moron) One whose effortlessly impeccable style, tasteful understated elegance, and continent-hopping savoire vivre, is manifested in one's daily presentation---including, but not limited to: choice of words (few and articulate; loudness only permitted for Italians...from Italy, not Jersey); multilingual accent (reflecting upbringing by French nanny, German-Swiss headmaster at boarding school in St. Moritz, and a touch of "ivy-league American" from countless summers at parent's Easthampton residence and study period at Brown);choice of clothing (at least 3 pieces orchestrated in natural fabrics of varying textures and varying coordinated colours--but not varying quality--only the finest, bien sur); places frequented (ultra-modern Ian Schrager hang-outs, gourmet shops, 'historical districts', museum cafes, etc.; not Starbucks; never shopping malls); lack of familiarity with cheap,disposable pop-culture ('Britney who?'); and of course, a command of the "I-don't-know-what": loafers without socks; cigarette smoked like '40's film star; collars on polo shirts turned upwards; selects unadvertised fragrances; almost entirely void of visible logos (exceptions:family crest or personal monogram; crocodile, polo player, and "G")employs the 'kiss on either cheek' greeting. The word Eurotrash should only be used on the west side of 'the pond' and in relation to the bland, Puritan, mass-marketed,shrink-wrapped, petit-bourgeois style rampant in America. *taken from urbandictionary.com