Doc Fever.

My adorable sister, who currently lives on the West Coast in Los Angeles, California, was so inspired by my piece on Doc Martens, she did a photo shoot that revolved around my favorite shoe of all time. Dear readers, whoever you may be, feast your eyes on the very lovely Desiree AnnMarie Ponce:

Let's romp.

I confess. I have a serious guilty pleasure. But it may not be what you think (or is it?). Here goes: I'm addicted to rompers. Or onesies. Or whatever Fashion 101 decides to call them. No, I don't have a fetish for baby clothes, but I have a curious adoration for this sweet little grown up trend in the form of a mini jumpsuit. Am I crazy? Maybe. I've never been known to leave the house in flared jeans and flip flops (yawn). I wear what I want. And sometimes it's ridiculous. Do I care? I think you can answer that question on your own. So let's get to it. Rompers. They surfaced the fashion scene a couple of years ago, but I don't think many were quite ready for their abrupt entrance. A few hollydud starlets tried getting their stylists to dress them in the little gems, a grip of hipster girls up and down the east and west coast latched onto the trend like nose candy at a bad dance party. But the rompers didn't romp around for long. Were they just another ironic article of clothing to 'wow' and 'ahh' the fashionless world around us? Perhaps. The problem was they were never really worn right. They looked too much like underwear, they weren't accessorized enough, they were accessorized too much, or the person wearing it just didn't know what the fuck they were doing. Queue the new and improved romper: A sundress in the form of shorts. Thank you, Spring/Summer Fashion 2010. Rompers this time around know a little bit more about what they're trying to do. Pair them with a skinny belt and flats and you've got a fresh summer outfit. Or wear them with a bowler hat, combat boots, and a jean jacket, and you've just given your adorable little number an edge. But please, for the love of God, stay away from the rompers that resemble lingerie. Britney Spears did not. Need I say more?



















The romper pictured right is almost identical to the one I bought at one of my favorite vintage stores in Berkeley (they are also a hair salon), Down At Lulu's: http://www.downatlulus.com/






























Ok. Maybe if this came in my size I would wear it. But only because it says 'I love Morrissey'. And if you know me, you know that I do, indeed, love Morrissey.




Also, this band is rad. I'm listening to them right now. Just thought I'd mention. Because they're worth mentioning. Even when it's out of fucking nowhere.

I heart summer.

The Bay Area has been experiencing some nasty February weather (in the middle of August). But today the weather has decided to stop being mean and start being nice. Which, for a summer lover like myself, is a breath of fresh fashion air. Below is one of my favorite summer looks (I'm actually wearing the outfit right now). On paper it may not sound like much of a head turner, but it's the simple and classic articles of clothing that will stay with you long after the trend of the moment dies. And the lovely Rachel Bilson (pictured right), who's been one of my style icons for quite awhile now, has the look just about spot on (though I have tweaked it a bit to fit my personal taste). Ladies and Gents, I present you with my perfect summer look: A straw fedora, my boyfriend's Strokes teeshirt (living with a smokin' hot boyfriend is like having a second wardrobe), cut-off denim shorts, pink keds, an adorable chain mail purse (I have the exact one pictured below) and of course, a pair of vintage sunglasses I bought at the Ashby Flea Market. Ahhh.. I want a glass of lemonade.

Hello world, I'm your wild girl.

I was listening to The Runaways on iTunes this evening while perusing Craigslist for places to live, and a disturbing question came upon me: Why aren't there more tough chicks out there? Rather, why aren't there more tough looking chicks out there? Us girls are so quick to jump on the girly trendy train.. the florals, the pastels, the flowy skirts, the sundresses, the sunhats, the dainty sandals, the 'I'm really wearing makeup even though I don't look like I'm wearing any makeup' makeup, the softspoken, poetic indie music, the bicycle with the basket of daisies, etc. etc. etc. blah blah blah. Fuck that. I want to shed my pussy wings and grow a real pair. I don't see enough girls around here embracing their tough side. No, I don't mean the girls who talk behind your back at bars, or the girls who give you dirty looks when you're smoking a cigarette at a party and minding your own business, or the girls who have full sleeves, bartend at dives and call you honey when you want to order a drink but roll their eyes when you ask for a vodka sprite. I'm talking about the girls who don't give a shit about anything, including what people think. The girls who take risks in fashion and don't merely follow it. I love black, I love rips, I love holes, I love fringe, I love studs, I love metal, I love leather, I love combat boots, I love it all. And I love a chick who can wear any of that shit and wear it fucking brilliantly.

Speaking of tough girl chic, I recently came upon a Japanese clothing line called Moussy. A line that 'specializes in punk rock/new wave styles' (thank you thinkcontra.com). Why aren't there more lines like this?! Yeah, yeah, I may be a bit behind in this discovery, but I don't care. While many may know about Moussy, there are more that don't. So check it:

But let's not forget who brought me to write this blog in the first place: The Runaways. Joan, Cherie, Lita, Sandy and Jackie. Oh, girls. Why did you have to fall prey to the monsters of alcohol, drugs, fame and sex, that you could barely finish your first album, let alone start a sophomore one? Who the fuck cares. You were sixteen years old. You started the first all girl rock band in history. You were smoking hot and you wore whatever the fuck you wanted. I don't blame you. I'll be your cherry bomb.

A Little Bit Of This, A Little Bit of Boot.

I'm turning this blog into an everything blog. You know, because, I don't want to be a sad sack of brooding angst and have a blog with depressing prose watered all over it. So instead of a post about how my parents are in town and have barely expressed an interest in wanting to see me, I am going to post about fashion. Because fashion makes me happy. More specifically, boots make me happy:

The on-going trend of the vintage/antique/victorian-esque lace up boot is becoming quite an uproar. Almost everyday I see little budding fashionistas frolicking about Oakland in said boot. And while yeah, they're pretty trendy, and yeah, you can easily pick up a generic pair at Urban instead of taking the time to rummage through vintage stores for a more 'unique' find, I don't really care. They're fucking adorable. They put a warm spot in my heart. I used to have a pair when I was a kid. I would put them on and pretend to be Anne of Green Gables. And now, as they grow popular among the indie rockers and hipsters and scenesters and whatever other-ers are out there, I gotta say, I'm proud of you, comrades. Even if you are just jumping on another 'ironic article of clothing' train. Hey wolf shirt, you had your turn.

BUT WAIT! I'm not finished. Now that I've expressed my adoration for the trendy but lovely vintage lace up boot, it's time to defend the Doc Marten. They're classic, they're awesome, they last forever, and they can kick your ass. I wear them to work, I wear them with dresses, I wear them with shorts, I wear them with leggings. I'd even wear them with my bathing suit. Doc Martens, my friends, are the winner when it comes to boots. Period. If my vintage lace up boots and my Doc Martens were both dangling off of a cliff, and I could only save one, the Docs would survive. They're just so fucking cool. And the great part? They always will be.

I know she's not wearing either pair of the boots I was ranting about, but she looks fucking rad. I'm going to beat her up and steal her outfit... (if she doesn't beat me up first).