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.
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...
