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.