The Bad Factor

I totally believe that secretly (or not so secretly) everyone totally wants to be bad.
With a capital B. Like bad-ass. Like that MJ song that is currently stuck in my head.
If only I could moonwalk. But no.
Because it is totally cool just to be that little bit delinquent.
Even if it only happens in my head.

Thank the high stylistic powers that be (I'm convinced The Wintour is totally God of that group) - for those little things that enhance that sense of 'imaginary' bad...
'Imaginary' bad (for those of us who don't speak Bec) = You have some form of very conservative degree nicely tucked under your belt but are totally fooling the world by dressing like you're on the fast lane to dying at the age of 27 of some form of substance abuse and/or choking on a sandwich

Those ripped denim shorts (mine being ripped past the bad level and into unwearable level...I get all misty eyed at the thought), anything involving black leather and...THESE BABIES.

I must admit to having an obsession with these Illex Kinni platforms for some time now. I went so far as to stalk pretty much every Fat store in Melbourne trying to track them down to no avail. And was most downcast and sad when I had to abandon my task. But a late night internet shop-scapade (where one too many Red Bulls makes you remember things somewhat long forgotten) led me to the blessed discovery of their online store!

Et voila...

The 'imaginary' bad factor has automatically been ramped up to a whole new BAD level.
There are so many many many things I love about these boots. Where does one start?

(1) They look like the lovechild of 70s drag queen platforms and a very well heeled dandy man boot. Complete with side-laces and that very debonaire buckle at the back. And I do love cross-breedings that are so wrong, they're right.
(2) They're huge. I mean seriously...they raise me to an un-Asian height. Win. Win. Win.
(3) They are fantastic for stumbling around the city post-midnight on a very alcohol-fuelled bender. And apparently getting home alive.
(4) They just look effin' fantastic.

Sing it with me now...I'm bad...so bad...yep...

Keep it bad kids

xx

Bec

Oh Captain, My Captain

'O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells...' - Whitman

Point noted. Too many watchings of Dead Poets Society.
And I totally would have attended that school had I been the right gender for it. Preppy male chauvinistic goodness.
And yes this is another one of my trademark 'If only I were a dandy man' rants. Which probably happen far too often for my own good. Resulting in the following introduction: 'Hey, this is Rebecca, she's a transvestite in disguise.' Awkward. Shall we move on? Yes. We shall.

But there's something inherently fascinating about the gentlemen of a bygone era. The sartorial element. The paraphernalia. Gin and bourbon. Because you have to drink like a man. None of that retarded alco-pop shit. Cuban cigars. Pipe smoking. Tuxedos. Bowties. Initialled handkerchiefs (something I am proud to say my father still does). Going to an old school barber. Retro jazz. Neat haircuts. Courting as opposed to dating. Button down shirts. Perfectly tailored suits. The idea of bespoke. It's very Take Ivy. And somewhat of an unhealthy obsession.

And so you can imagine the happiness level upon stumbling into Captains of Industry. Stumbling is probably the wrong way to put it. Honestly, I stalked it. As you do. Because clearly we're all normal people here. And nothing (not even my retarded geographic skills) could stop me. And it was my first port of call after the trauma that was exams. My inner dandy man (yes you know him very well...you and I both...) nearly died of happiness. Because he'd totally live here. Even if there were genuine dandy men (of the actual right gender) giving him kind of weird looks. 'Um...why is there some dorky Asian girl drooling on our floor and like totally invading our space?' With it's kind of grungy, very arty-urban 'oh-so-hidden-in-an-alley-and-up-a-rickety-flight-of-stairs' aesthetic. Instant cred. And the glorious loft space with sunlight streaming in through the windows. Vintage typewriters. Retro lamps. Travel trunks. Old magazines. Empty spirit bottles. It's enough to make a retro gentleman swoon.

And why wouldn't you live here? Retro barber. Check. Bespoke suiting service. Check.

Oh...oh...and wait for this...Handmade shoes. Yes. Because inner dandy man and I had a conversation. And we decided (yeah it was totally his fault) that wrong gender or not, you can never go wrong with a pair of totally made to order dandy man shoes by the lovely J.S. Roberts. Hand-dyed and made to your specifications (I kind of possibly spastically drooled through the whole process. Literally) In all their classic, old school Anglophilic glory. There is currently I believe a massive four month waiting list for these babies. But totally worth the wait. Oh and the sad thrill of seeing your name go up the list. Because I'm cool like that really.

In any case, whether you're actually a boy in search of that much-needed retro sartorial goodness or a girl with an inner-dandy-man problem or something in between (like a tranny in disguise) - the noble Captains do serve a mean coffee and apparently some very yummy nosh.

Lunch date anyone? Like...I kind of need a valid excuse to re-stalk the place. Really.

Lots o' dandy love

xx

Bec

Do yourselves a favour and pop into Captains at Level 1, 2 Somerset Place, Melbourne (Handy hint for the geographically retarded of us...it's ridiculously near the GPO)

Or perve at the website: http://captainsofindustry.com.au

PS. And thus begins the saga of the hand-made jodphur boot! But you can drool and swoon at the rest of James' creations at his lovely website: http://jsroberts.com.au
Even better - have a chat to the man himself, because he really is lovely with a capital L and talented with a capital T...

Off To The Tropics!

Ohhh...blessed Internet...I have spent far too long away from thee!
No seriously, until yesterday I was reduced to the DIAL UP Internet available in my childhood home which basically amounts to no Internet at all (if you've had the misfortune of being reduced to dial up...ever)

GREETINGS FROM THE TROPICS!

My trip so far. Retail therapy-whoring like there's no tomorrow. Being spendthrift with paternal approval. And feeling vaguely normal doing it. Because do as the Romans do yes? And no points for guessing the Asian sport. Balmy tropical weather. Afternoons in the pool. A new haircut. Regular salon visits. A new jewellery obsession. Divalicious boys and girls. Iced tea in a hammock. Actually getting a decent tan. THAT Danish guy in the gym. A ten year reunion round the corner. And ukuleles all round. Okay no I don't have a ukulele handy. But I so would if I could.

You know that...

Keep it cool (but not freezing a la Melbourne)

Love & Coconuts

xx

Bec

Harry - The Poet

When I first met Harry many moons ago (back when I thought the law school was a magical place...that's how long ago) - I knew I'd found my new M.M.F (alas no, get your mind out of the gutter...or is that just my mind? It's not a dirty acronym - but rather Mutual Muse Friend)

M.M.F = That friend who totally 'gets' your tortured artist side. Like your penchant for old French literary magazines. Vinyl records. Jeff Buckley. And a good glass of Scotch at night. And your somewhat bizarre dreams of reviving Beatnik nights and living like Kerouac all over again. Or maybe that's just Harry.

A true troubadour.
Poetic. Francophilic. The only person with whom I could practice my terrible with a capital T francais (or rather should I say 'mon francais tres rouille') Constantly looking like a vision out of a bygone era of travelling folk singers. And yet totally modern at the same time.

How can you not totally love a man who has the most amazing vintage collection ever? Comprised of paternal hand-me-downs (case in point - that leather snake-skin embossed blazer, cowboy belt and boots beat up to perfection) and finds discovered in many an op-shop around the world (that very Americana shirt was apparently in fact an Italian discovery)

Every single ensemble the man puts together seems to have a bit of a tale behind it.

Qualifying note - My father has nothing cool to pass on to me. What I've gleaned from old photos of him is that he was more tryhard Asian 'Bee-Gees/Travolta' than infinitely cool Dylan. Enough said.

The only thing I can really say every time I see Harry is that he's my personal version of a reincarnated Bob Dylan (and don't stone me - I know Bob's not dead) but it makes me feel all happy and nostalgic for a time when revolution was about free love and not war. And you roamed the country in beat up boots and a broken down car. And songs were about poetry and liberty. And doing something different. Because you could change the world a little like that.

Merci mon ami...tu m'inspires meme aujourd'hui.

Love & Peace

xx

Bec

PS. Harry truly does live the Dylan-esque dream and plays in a folk band with his acoustic guitar which you can see at many a law student society barbecue. We are also thinking of forming a breakfast club with a special emphasis on espresso if you would like to join. And there is of course the obligatory beatnik party.

No really. I kid you not.

Blingtastic L-O-V-E

Many moons ago - in one of their many bids to set me on a path towards literacy (tried and failed...because most days my textbook-addled mind is unable to process anything other than pretty pictures)...my parents bought me a set of rainbow alphabet magnets. All blocky capital letters in bright colours to form my favourite words.

And dear Lord, did I love those letters. Until of course, I apparently outgrew them. And then they were packed away. Never to be seen again. One of those tragedies that makes me go all misty and kind of sad on the inside. Especially because I had the great self-centred addiction of spelling my own name on the fridge. Countless times. Apparently cute when you're below five. Not so cute when you're above twenty. Something about age appropriateness?
Qualifying note: Friend of mine actually has a set of these - and you can now use them...in a very grown-up sense to write inappropriate messages on your fridge like...'X is a sexy f*cker'. Mature. Infinitely.

But praise the awesome powers above that be!
For I have re-found my block-tastic letters. But this time in solid gangster gold. So you know we're talking serious spelling bee goodness.

These babies are by Dallas & Carlos (no...sadly not two supremely hot South Americans I picked up in some sleazy bar who ideally would teach me to dance the flamenco on the beach while strumming their acoustic guitars...okay...too much information? Probably) but the beyond bling-tastic, amazing, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, bodaciously hot (was that possibly an overdose of adjectives...but no) lovechild of the lovely Jess & Katherine.

To which I should add - these beautiful lasses are suitably inspired by the awesome/slightly borderline trash-tastic goodness that is the South American continent.

Yes. Clearly Rebecca has not overgrown her obsession with spelling out her name for others to see countless times. Custom made goodness. But when it looks this hawt...why wouldn't you?

L-O-V-E

xx

B-E-C

You can find the full range of Dallas & Carlos goodness at their website:
http://www.dallasandcarlos.com/
Might I add - you should totally grab their bad-ass Catholic cord and gold crosses. I mean...if you're going to ward off vampires, you might as well do it in neon Hispanic style...but that's just me

If Billy & Ziggy Had A Lovechild...

On that kind of alterna-cool note.
Because that's the only type of vibe to rock these days.

Seriously. Or maybe I'm writing this on a bit of a bender from last night. Either way.

To finish that sentence...this video is TOTALLY a new obsession.

For a start, I'm a little scarily in love/intrigued/possibly borderline scared at the beautiful boy behind Diamond Rings. Rainbow eyeshadow. Patterned leggings. Chambray and gangster gold bling to outmatch me and my Asian grandmother combined. Like the lovechild of Billy Corgan (in his '96 Mellon Collie glory) and Ziggy Stardust(self explanatory unless you live under a rock and don't know who David Bowie is). It's a bit naff early 90s hip-hop. So that's real dope kids. Syncopation! And a dash grunge-misfit scene. It's all about hanging with the freaks and ghouls. It's making me embrace my inner awkward child. Grow up? Never. I just want to wait and see.

Oh yeah...I should also stop watching videos like this like a YouTube whore on crack.
Because new idea of the week: Totally dope house party with boomboxes and actual cassettes?

YES YES YES!

Don't forget your rainbow eyeliner.

Love

xx

Bec

Noir et Cuir

I really don't think there's alot for me to say at this point.
Except...I wish I had the actual panache, enigma and alterna-cool factor of the girl in this picture.

It's that frightening uber-cool vibe that we all know and love from those teen misfit movies of quality (cue early 90s)
Think Natalie Portman in Leon. Or Winona (yeah in them wild double denim, tattoo filled, hotel room trashing Johnny Depp days) in Reality Bites.

Screw the fluff of today!

But back on that X-factor:

Then and only then could I probably embrace my dark side with lashings of fur, signet rings, maxi leather skirts and scary/awesome boots (I like to think my new platform booties...which will be getting much love from and outside the camera...are kind of scary awesome in a kind of weird zombie love child of a trashtastic Lady Gaga-esque whore and a dandy Englishman...but story for another time)

I probably still wouldn't look half as amazing.

But they say they have cookies on the dark side...

Mmm...

Love

xx

Bec