Sunday, April 28, 2013

Shhh, its a secret, with three h's.

You know what popped like fucking crazy ?


I am having a bita trouble remembering my night, but I'll give you my best shot at describing every scrumptious, drunken & cray cray moment.
So we began the night at a friends warehouse. Drank our troubles away, along with our dignity, sensible judgement and a little bit of our ability to string a sentence.
I was three Elevates deep when we made our way to the supra secret location. supra secret.
BYO. Minimal security. No police. I quickly found I had everything I needed there to create a lovely little night for myself. The only downside was there was one bathroom for 200 people, male and female, and while I had the sensibility to close and lock the door, a lot of patrons, mostly male, forgot to lock it at least, which did lead to several awkward encounters.
People were openly carrying their goon sacks, throwing them over their shoulders, and politely being asked to leave them at the door when they stepped outside for a smoke. Like a lovely coat service for your alcohol. At this point, I had smashed through the 4 Elevates and was mooching off any goon sack I could find, and maybe even some cider. I do remember having cider.
When the First lady of techno granted us with her presence, I remember lurching my head as high as I could to catch a glimpse. And then, that's it.
Seriously guys, that's it.
I know she dropped one bomb, because I woke up, fully dressed, make-up stinging my eyes, hugging my sequinned bag, with the words 'some magic, some raw nerve, surrender' ringing and ringing.
To put it simply, that night was so delicious, I want to spread it on a crumpet.
It was great. And I will definitely be at the next one, and the next one, and ERRY ONE.

The theme was black, so I didn't have much freedom. Black wet-looks, a fringed over-shirt and a high neck top. And, as always, my embroidered sequinned bag, found at the back of my childhood closet.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Overpriced t-$hirt: I'm my own Creeper

I'll leave you weeping when I tell you this shirt was $60. To be fair, I bought it in an impossibly cool thrift store in Denmark, one which you had to climb down stairs to get to, and also fight your way through disco pants, and fur collars to get to.
It was a shirt, a tight collared, long and oversized shirt, so naturally I took to it with scissors, like a true crop-top lovin' soul. I paid for it with Kroners, thinking it would be the equivalent to the average thrifted tee, but found later on it was a whole $60. But I thought nothing of it, because I loved the perfectly worn, torn, and faded feel and look of it. Someone before me, whether they were a retired rocker with a long head of hair and a balding crown, or a slim, twiggy young woman who couldn't get enough of her 'BØ rne Radio', wore this shirt to absolute death, and I'm fully thankful for that. Because no one loves those first few awkward months of a piece of clothing, its a little stiff, scuff-free and just too new. Like new white shoes. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

I'm my own Creeper.