My shoes never let me down

I'm having a bad technology week. So bad that I want to take everything in my life that flashes, beeps or rings, and make a big pot of tech stew. Everything except my iPad (which was a gift) because I don't use it nearly enough for it to piss me off. Plus, I feel like it makes me look cool, and since I no longer smoke and have hit the mid-30s hump, I can really use the cred. But between my BlackBerry failing to wake me up for a meeting the other day, both my email addresses getting hacked and Gmail suspending me from sending out emails for 24 hours, I'm about ready to convert to Luddism.

I remember going on a date with this guy when I lived in London who was one of these real political-activist types; all Pro-Labour Party and America is Evil and Capitalists Have Raped the World. Mostly sentiments that I was (and continue to be) quick to point out I agree with. I'm a socialist in a rabid consumerist's clothing, I agree that America can be evil — have you read this?! — and maybe capitalists have raped the world, although I'm loathe to give up my fancy car. Eventually our conversation migrated to technology and the rising price of gadgets and how we, as white, privileged Westerners, dispense of our disposable income. (Not that I have a great deal of disposable income, mind you. I am a writer after all. But, you know, I spend.) In a nutshell, my politically enlightened date (who was so enlightened we went Dutch) felt that his spending $500 on a tech gadget was far more magnanimous than my dropping $500 on a pair of shoes.

And this is what I said to him (well, not exactly, but whatever):

There's no magnanimity in spending $500 on any one thing, unless it's food for the hungry, so let's not overstate things. The thing with technology is you're spending a large sum of money up front for a product that you already know will peter out on you sooner or later (or sooner THAN later — ha! See what I did there?). And the chances are pretty great that it's going to be at a really inconvenient time. We buy tech gadgets — computers, Smartphones, DVD players, digital recorders — and know they're not going to work for long. And "long" is getting shorter and shorter every day. Sure, refrigerators and washing machines and dishwashers need to be replaced, too. As do spark plugs, mufflers, engine cooling thingies and under-the-hood-stuffs. But after what? Like, ten years? I've only had my BlackBerry for 18 months and it's already going screwy. My last PowerBook, which cost a few THOUSAND dollars, lasted less than four years.

Meanwhile, my Gianfranco Ferre leather jacket is a decade old and still looks crazy cool. My circa 1994 Versace dress that I wore to a friend's wedding last summer got me one very handsome admirer, proving it still works, and the Marc Jacobs shoes I had to buy in LA five years ago when Delta lost my luggage — isn't technology meant to ensure that doesn't happen? — can still make an outfit.

I admit, when my PowerBook went tits-up I bought another one, although I went for the cheapest MacBook on the market at the time. And yeah, I love having a BlackBerry, which allows me to cut the cord between me and my computer and get on with my daily life. I'm hyper aware of how technology has changed and facilitated my job — I mean, when I was in graduate school my professors were advertising the freakin' phone book as our greatest resource and we were forced to get a daily subscription to the New York Times. Someone once mentioned in class that she was reading the paper online and we were Blown Away. So, yeah, I appreciate technology and, you know, evolution. But it also consistently fails me. And you too, so don't pretend.

My shoes don't, though. My Chanel flats may give me blisters sometimes and I can't wear my Stella McCartney heels for more than two hours at a time (I actually initially typed "hells" instead of "heels" — paging Dr. Freud!), but they never purported to be comfortable, just stylish and pretty. I guess what I'm saying is, I wish technology would be a little more honest and stop telling me that it's going to change my life. Unless by change my life it means make me a Luddite. In which case, touché, technology.

I never did go on a second date with that guy. In all honesty, there wasn't any chemistry and frankly, I can't be with a man who doesn't support my relationship with designer footwear. Men may come and go, but my shoes never let me down.

SATC2: The review

About 20 minutes in Sex and the City 2, Carrie Bradshaw is celebrating her two-year wedding anniversary with the man she bleated and bellyached over for six interminable HBO seasons. They are seated in their sweeping New York apartment that has been over-decorated within a throw pillow of its life and surrounded by strategically placed designer labels. When her big bacon-earning husband unveils his thoughtful albeit unsexy anniversary present to her (after he has cooked them a meal and presumably paid the gas and cable bills, and dismissed the housekeeper for the night) she balks in disbelief. Upon asking her what she would have preferred she cocks her head, twirls her hair and responds coquettishly, "A piece of jewellery would have been nice."     

And that's when a barf bag would have been nice. Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. I'm not a fool and I'm not new to the SATC franchise; I know it's a cultural phenomenon that is based on unabashed consumerism and an inability to function outside the borders of white, privileged America. Unless of course, it's white, privileged Paris. But to break your husband's balls for not buying you jewellery for your anniversary is where I draw the line between harmless fun and the obliteration of feminist ideals, not to mention the poisoning of young women who have yet to navigate the choppy waters of a committed relationship. (Here's a clue girls: he's not obligated to buy you expensive stuff.)

Flash forward to an extravagant trip the frivolous foursome take to Abu Dhabi, because Samantha, who is taking a drugstore of pills to delay the onset of menopause (I want to fuck young boys! Isn't that fabulous?!), decides that she's done with the economic austerity of the last two years that has seen her downsize to a smaller Birkin and wants to live large Middle East styles. Shocked by the religious restrictions of a country that — WTF? — frowns upon public cunnilingus (evidently Sam doesn't bother with things like CNN) she brazenly throws propriety, respect and the law out the window. After all, she is American and who else to burst into a foreign land and tell people how to live their lives? In one especially appalling scene where [SPOILER ALERT] Samantha's purse flies open and sprays condoms across the souk, she proceeds to affront the chastising Muslim men who gather around her with "Fuck you! I like to have sex!" It's American arrogance at its best.

Perhaps what astounded me most was the sheer ignorance these four women displayed. They are educated, wealthy and reside in New York, a city that owes much of its appeal to multiculturalism. And surely they've travelled to other countries at some point in their lives? Yet they are utterly uninformed on the customs, rules and secrets of the Middle East. Crushed by a lacklustre review of her latest book in The New Yorker, Carrie says she's been walking around with the magazine in her purse for 20 years. Maybe she just never pulled it out and actually, like, read it. Because if she had, she wouldn't be so dumbstruck at the discovery that many Muslim women are wearing couture under their robes. Who doesn't know this?

The movie is two-and-a-half hours of the most idiotic observations since Sarah Palin saw Russia from her backyard. Upon first seeing a Muslim woman in the traditional hijab, Carrie opines, "It's like they're not allowed to have a voice" (uh yeah, thanks for the insight, Benazir Bhutto); and when her butler tells her that he and his wife are reunited once every three months because she lives in India and that's how long it takes him to scrape together the money to get over there, she interprets this as "how their marriage works." Um, actually, no. It's how he makes ends meet.

It wasn't all racial profiling and Manolo Blahniks, however. In one very touching and uncharacteristically self-aware scene, Miranda and Charlotte drink themselves silly to ease the guilt of admitting to the hardships of motherhood despite having live-in nannies, and raise their glasses to toast all the mothers out there who don't have full time help. It was a heartwarming albeit brief moment of humility. And [SPOILER ALERT] Liza Minelli makes a cameo and does a vaguely terrifying if mesmerizing rendition of All the Single Ladies. She may be a certified loon, but man can that lady dance!

And the clothes? Well, between Sarah Jessica Parker wanting to promote her own designs for Halston and Patricia Field being in dire need of some Lithium and a long nap, the costumes were nothing short of nightmarish. For a desert camel riding scene, a lackey appears with clothes for the ladies to change in to. In a flurry of Hermes, Dior and Chanel shopping bags, the women are transformed into a motley foursome of circus freaks reminiscent of Priscilla Queen of the Desert, but less classy. Carrie wears a white bustier with nipple tassels fer Chrissake!

I know sequels can be tricky, and I suspect that's why we'll never know what happens when Ben and Elaine get off the bus or if ET will ever phone Elliot, but I beg of the powers that be at SATC to pull a condom out of Samantha's purse and slip it on before considering spawning another movie. Nine months from now, you and the viewing public will thank me.

Oh spare me dot com

As print media continues its agonizing shuffle down the green mile, online magazines have been popping up faster than Tiger Woods' mistresses. And while those of us who work in the industry are grateful that the web can provide a sufficient afterlife, there's no doubt that we are dealing with a different beast. For starters, we'd might as well start eulogizing the feature story because most people aren't going to put the time into reading a 1500-word treatise on the floral print on their computer or iPhone or Kindle or whatever other crazy contraption they're using today to read Perez. Furthermore, online fashion magazines have pretty well put to rest the traditional editorial shoot and birthed the celebrity Today I'm Wearing column to replace it. Alexa Chung, Olivia Palermo, Daisy Lowe and Daisy de Villeneuve, to name a few, have all enriched our lives with a daily photo and rundown of their outfits that reads like an early Tom Wolfe stream-of-consciousness novel. I mean seriously, who rolls out of bed on a Monday morning and throws on a 3.1 Phillip Lim blouse, Current Elliot cut offs, Wolford tights, American Apparel tube socks, Church's patent leather oxfords, a vintage military jacket from a flea market in Tokyo, a scarf stolen from a mother's closet and which was bestowed upon her by Mick Jagger backstage at Altamont, a Chanel 2.55 bag and Pete Doherty's trilby? Dude. (Just to clarify, none of the aforementioned celebrities have actually appeared in this outfit. I've just taken bits of each girl's signature style and put them together to create one massive celebudouche. Although I'm fairly certain that exact outfit has already been spotted on the streets of Brooklyn once or twice. Do let me know if you've seen it.) 

Now, I'm afraid to report, the online magazine-celebrity column affair is turning into a serious relationship. Agyness Deyn, the androgynous British model famous for her platinum blond crew cut and her inability to walk in Burberry platforms, is launching an online magazine with her friend Fiona Bryne, a journalist who has worked with pubs like NYLON and New York. They're calling it NAAG.com, which is kind of what I feel like doing to Aggy when I see her in outfits like this:

and this:

and especially this:

Asked about the editorial direction of the publication, Aggy replied succinctly: "It's just going to be stuff we think is rad." I'm pretty sure that's short for radon. Because only the ingestion of a radioactive chemical like that can explain these fashion choices.

How to stretch a buck, 75 times

The last time 75 cents got you anything of substance Al Capone was dancing the Charleston on top of a flagpole.

More recently, the last time $75 got you something of substance, OJ Simpson was shopping at Bruno Magli as the Spice Girls were zighazig-ha'ing up our lives. Hipsters in Brooklyn may still have been dancing the Charleston. Ironically, though.

But thanks to Times Like These and the average luxury consumer's short-arms-deep-pockets affliction, $75 now goes a long way to making you look like the million bucks you looked like on a regular day in pre-Black Monday Canada. Herewith, a round up of how to spend $75 in your quest to look like you actually have $75 to throw around like it ain't no thang.

Kérastase Chronologiste in-salon hair treatment

According to the Recherche Avancée L'Oréal, the science brains behind Kérastase hair products, caviar is the source of natural life. (If you ask me, the champagne that I like to chase my caviar down with is the real source of life, but that's neither here nor there.) Chronologiste, the brand's latest offering that proposes to cure all your hair ailments in one nifty treatment, has created a unique compound called mimetic caviar to imitate the food's natural essential amino acids, proteins, fatty acids, trace elements and iodine. Mixed with a rich, specially-formulate cream, the two components create soft, shiny, healthy, youthful locks in one swift go. The take home kit is $150, but an in-salon treatment, which lasts 30 minutes and comes with a helluva scalp and shoulder massage, will only set you back $75. It's a great way to get ready for a big night out where hair tossing leads to hair touching which leads to...well, other touching. You know. (Call 866 KERASTASE to find a salon near you.)

Just think how hot her hair will look!

Chanel 5 à 7

Taking inspiration from the French term for happy hour, this service invites clients to book a seat at the Chanel makeup counter at Holt Renfrew Bloor St. (Toronto) anytime between 5 and 7 on Thursdays and Fridays for a makeup application, touch up and mini lesson courtesy of a Chanel expert. You can choose one look from eight suggestions on Chanel's A la Carte menu of makeup looks, including the self-explanatory Bronze Goddess and the 5 To Whenever for traffic-stopping glam. And pick from the High Definition Makeup menu to learn how to achieve the perfect smoky eye (seriously girls, we still don't know how to do this?!), the perfect brow or the perfect false eyelash application. Six chairs are available at $75 a pop, which is redeemable in product, but bring a group of five friends and the hostess is free. It also includes a sugar high courtesy of petit fours and mock-tinis, which you are then meant to burn off by bar hopping in search of Mr. Right Now. (To book, call 416 922 2333.)

*Bonus (because I'm hopelessly devoted to Chanel)

The highly anticipated Chanel S/S 2010 rub-on tattoos are here and they're only $75 for five sheets of 55 tattoos! My crippling fear of needles and commitment phobia have left me tattoo free, despite years of entertaining the idea of branding myself in the name of coolness. So these are to me what tofurkey must be to a vegetarian on Thanksgiving. Except they're ultra cool, and probably taste better. (Available at select Chanel stores.)

A blog about the clog

Dr. Scholl is having a fashion moment. No, seriously. I'm not kidding. Stop laughing! Fine, don't believe me? Here:

These images are from the Chanel and Louis Vuitton Spring/Summer 2010 runways respectively. Know what that means? They're the most expensive clogs ever made. Which, as far as statements go, ranks up there on the Whaaa? scale with "I did not inhale" and "Imma let you finish. But Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time! One of the best videos of all time!"
And don't think it's easy for me to criticize, because my soul is covered in quilted leather and accented with a silk camellia. It physically pains me to say anything negative about Chanel and that crazy, ponytail'd, fingerless glove'd, size negative four-propagating Karl Lagerfeld. I love that droopy emaciated bastard as much for his prolific talent as the nutzo shit that comes out of his mouth. I mean, "The most important piece in the house is the garbage can" and "I’m a kind of fashion nymphomaniac who never gets an orgasm"? That's gold!

I'm struggling with those clogs, though. And I think I know why. When I was a kid I spent my summers in Italy, where the pre-teen sartorial aesthetic varied largely from my middle class Toronto schoolyard. The paternal side of my family is dominated by boys, which you can imagine was a total drag for a WHAM!-loving girl like me. And to make matters worse, my grandparents lived in a rural suburb, so my testosterone-charged cousins weren't just annoying boys but country bumpkins to boot. Where I would don rubber flip flops or sparkly jelly shoes for the beach and colourful espadrilles around town, they were always walking around in ugly, clunky Dr. Scholl's sandals. I can still hear the clank-and-drag of their heavy wooden soles as they made contact with the terracotta tiles on the veranda in my nightmares today. Eventually, I learned to distinguish their respective noisy gaits, which allowed for quick hiding upon discovery of mangled G.I. Joe figurines and stolen pencil crayons courtesy of moi. Much as my tall and fashionably slender cousins probably would've been scouted by a modelling agent if they had lived in, say, Milan, their choice in footwear was hardly what I would have deemed en vogue back in the day. Or today.

  Karl Lagerfeld's inspiration for Chanel s/s 2010?

It's hard to tell just how much life this trend will have. On the one hand, it goes hand-in-hand with the recent spate of heinous shoes disguised as high fashion; a phenomenon that even Andre Leon Talley, the Grand Dame of capes for Chrissake, is opposed to: http://jezebel.com/5496512/the-13-ugliest-shoes-in-the-world/gallery/?skyline=true&s=i. On the other, I kind of feel like fashion designers may be having a laugh here. Which would be fitting, because I'm pretty sure Karl Lagerfeld has been laughing at me and my garbage can for some time now.