Continuing with style/cultural icons I’ve been into these days, here are a few more random ones.
Jim Morrison (on a random note, it is pretty difficult to find pictures of the man himself, and not just actors dressed up as him in random film productions, but I’m pretty sure these are all real)
Fab Moretti (the only recent one in the bunch)
Yep, I was definitely born with the wrong hair. I am able to recreate a sort of Fab Moretti look with pincurls when my hair is shorter, and I usually kind of tease it so that it ventures into Bob Dylan territory…more on that special man to come, trust me…
Also, a workout buddy at the gym is a hair stylist by profession and wants to cut my hair. How am I supposed to explain that I want the Bob Dylan effect? She was already pretty confused when I said I liked (a) long, long hair with blunt bangs AND (b) on the other extreme, Morrissey hair. Of course, I’m pretty confused about my hair too.
I don’t think it’s any secret that I like guys. More specifically, I tend to like male vocals better than female vocals, my style inspirations are almost always men, etc. (Let’s remember that Morrissey haircut…) I tend to swing between superfemme and androgynous in my personal style. Right now, it’s tending more toward the latter. Time to highlight a few of the men whose pictures I’ve been hoarding on my desktop. This might have to come in a few installations.
Andy Warhol (and his Superstars, male and female)
It’s pretty clear that I was born in the wrong time period, and with the wrong hair. More later.
Every few months (especially because of summer!) I get the urge to chop off all my hair into a dramatic Morrissey haircut. Not sure it would look that great, so I am restraining myself to piling as much hair as I can onto the top of my head. This picture (me in Amsterdam) is the best example.
This, of course, brings up the bangs vs. no bangs issue. I love bangs, but I like this look more, so no bangs it is (for now).
For comparison, here is a picture of me + Allison, both in bangsland, long ago. (Just last October actually. Crazy how much my hair has grown!)
Not sure where I’m going with this. I’ll cut bangs again someday, but they’re usually more trouble than they’re worth. I love Morrissey. The End.
Today in bartending class we were making shooters, which are drinks served in low glasses without straws. 2 ounces of alcohol, sometime a mixer, shaken over ice and strained into a shooter glass (similar size to a rocks glass), meant to be gulped down. The Redheaded Slut is one of these drinks. 1 oz. jägermeister, 1 oz. peach schnapps, splash of cranberry.
Jerry was telling us how to make these…
“…if you add coke to it, it’s Lindsay Lohan.”
Also, on my first time trial I made 23 drinks in 8 minutes. I think I’m going to like my job.
So, as I mentioned in this post, I want to try submitting to the Bulwer-Lytton for 2011. The general idea of a pretty amusing sentence came to me the other night when I was trying to go to sleep. I was thinking about the way the sun would find a way to shine in my eyes at the Stone Mountain Highland Games every October, without fail, even though I would wear sunglasses. Then I thought that this kind of thing happened only in October, and then I started thinking about different kinds of sunlight.
Out of basic, random thoughts, a concept was born. Of course, my half-asleep brain came up with a great draft, which I forgot by the next morning. I just tried to recreate it, and this is what I got:
The sun shone down on this particular day in July, not in a mid-May way, the kind of sunshine that is clear and happy and piercing and full of that unbridled hope that one usually only encounters in well-lit romantic comedies, and definitely not in a late October, inescapable, nagging, wrapping around your wraparound sunglasses and rendering you as blind as Stevie Wonder way–no, this sun shone in the sort of way that one might expect a sun to shine in Atlanta on July 23 of any given year; in short, it was hot.
Clearly this needs some work in order to be splendidly awful. Writing badly is so much harder than I had thought! I am so self-conscious/critical about everything that I write (yes, including this awful sentence) that I assumed it would be pretty easy. Nope. Gotta work on this. Luckily, my everyday prose shows that I have the run-on sentence down cold, so at least that’s working in my favor.
ps–I just noticed that I switch from “one” to “you” to “one” and am wondering if I should do something about that. Should it be consistently “one” to add some extra pretentiousness into the mix, or should I keep it as-is because it’s already awful? CHOICES.