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.