Freddie Mercury

A couple of days ago the good folks over at Google released an animated Woody Allen/Mario Bros-esque clip commemorating Freddie Mercury's birth. The gaudiness. The mannerism. The artistry in motion. You can't fake that. Queen for ever. 

Adopted

The wood-framed doors of the hotels open wide, droves of individuals with cameras held up to their faces point and flash insidiously. It quickly turns into an organized mayhem. Two adults with a bevy of kids in tow step out. The man, who couldn't look more incredibly handsome is wearing a bespoke Armani suit and a child in diapers resting on his arm, while holding another kid by the hand. His female counterpart, with a noticeably robust lips and long wavy black hair is wearing a tan trench coat under a white summer dress, struggling to keep three kids on her near vicinity preoccupied she's in a middle of a spectacle, starring her extended family. The two Herculean-sized men in black suits and dark shades are standing at each end acting as shields protecting the couple from the rabid crowd, frantically shouting, "Brad!, Angelina! Over here!".   

A young boy in Peru is standing in front of his television, rapt in bewilderment. His world is far from theirs, yet he has been fed with images of the couple in similar circumstances for years. He watches them appear on films, as protagonists and antagonists. And he gazes at he bacchanalia-like spectacles their presence bestows. He is just an infant, but he's perfectly aware of the term "movie star". 

When Doug Liman's Mr. & Mrs. Smith was approaching, W Magazine saw an opportunity for a cover subject. They commissioned master photographer Steven Klein to document Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie and a couple of Caucasian kids in Palm Springs for the July 2005 issue. The shoot (which Pitt co-directed) resulted in a massive display of photography prowess by Klein, depicting "The Pitts" in a 60's (assumably it's 1963, the year Brad was born) domestic milieu. On the cover, Jolie is wearing a white swimsuit sprawled atop a beach chair hoisting a purple ball, while three kids are playing in a kiddie pool with Daddy. In other shots, she's wearing a Giambattista Valli ostrich feather and tulle dress wrapped in the arms of her man. In a more intimate setting, Angelina has a Bardot like coiffure, and Brad shirtless laying in bed. 

When W unearthed these relics on its website, the flashbulb lit. I was destined to have a moment. Since I was never part of any adoption agency in the middle of Kenya, they've never found me. Perhaps, if they were to look down in South America, I might've been more lucky (I guess I missed Madonna too). But what if I was christened Jimmy Pitt Jolie? How hot would that be? The photographs above might've just illustrate how my life would've been. Sitting in the lap of Daddy eating my veggies. Yup.

Food For The Soul

I've been raised with the principle of home cooking. Not that we lacked the means to eat out, but there was little desire to spend money on food that Grandma can easily cook at the convenience of home, even more tasteful than other places. She can whip out idiosyncratic Peruvian delicacies such as, ceviche, papa a la huancaina, lomo saltado and relleno, with the same deft and finesses as pizza, ice cream and hamburgers. It was her dedication and love for cooking that my mother carried on with her through the years. I guess it's genetics. There was a subtle misbalance or discontinuation of such genes when I came out of the woodwork. I'm not Mario Batali, but I will cook if I'm presented with Survivors-like scenarios. In my head, I'm the neglected latino son of Martha Stewart. 

Apparently, I've fallen into the trap of documenting what I digest. As ubiquitous as it is, I like this trend. Why not? If the majority of us can't afford a couture piece, it seems plausible that we find comfort in other places, food is not a bad source. I think the term "comfort", though, takes a slightly heighten expression in America. I'm not going to elaborate on the perilous obesity problems America is facing now, and how food contributes to that, just because this, sadly, is not a food blog nor bon appétit, but instead, underscore the opportunity I have to bring attention to this matter through this blog (shout-out to Michelle Obama). 

On a sunny, unsuspecting August day, I wended to Copper Canyon Grill in Downtown Silver Spring before heading to the cinema. I've never eaten there, but the outside decor looked welcoming. I believe there was a small bonfire display behind plexi glass, it caught my attention. Out of all the items I ordered (at heart, I'm a fat guy trapped in a slim's guy body - get me out!), the most visually appealing was this grilled chicken sandwich (above) accompanied by precisely cut tomato slices, delicious avocado, fresh pieces of lettuce and what I can only described as Chinese celery. It also came along a serving of slim cut potatoes sticks and a silver cup of good ol' ketchup. I'm not American, but I think this can be easily pigeonholed as an all-American meal. (The plate, by the way, made me feel like I was lunching at the Georgia O'Keeffe ranch, I was loving it). 

Just recently, I visited The Dupont Italian Kitchen on 17th Street. The locale has a nice looking patio filled with round tables and a few patches of greenery. Conveniently, it was a slightly breeze, cool night, making our experience even more enjoyable. Perfect weather to eat outside. I ordered a Caprese Salad, consisting of 3 vine-ripe slices of tomatoes, fresh thick slices of mozzarella and basil leaves surreptitiously hidden in between the two. Since then, I've been transformed. If I could have this salad every day, I would. For the serious meal, I ordered a Fettucinne Alfredo. As the waiter was approaching, I could easily see the smoke slowly rising and dissipating in mid-air. The creamy Alfredo sauce swimming with the delicate angel hair made for a compelling observation. When it's eaten with a piece of garlic bread, the experience in your mouth is yet more scrumptious. 

One of the undeniably best areas in D.C. is Georgetown. On any day, you can find the best looking dressed gallivanting the cobble sidewalks of M Street and quite ordinarily you will find the most dreadful looking get ups all on the same place. All in all, it's a magnificent entertainment metropolis. I was suggested to eat at Ristorante Piccolo, right off 31st Street and M. The restaurant is unapologetic Italian, from the menu (which is all titled in Italian, but provides description in English) and the interior decor, to the manner in which the server go about their waiting duties. I was particularly overwhelmed with the precision and attention given to how the food is placed on the table and mannerism of staff. I've read the restaurant has been open since 1985 and is famous (or infamous) for being "a perfect spot for first dates and marriage proposals". Though I wasn't proposed, I knew why this family run business has been so successful in a very competitive market. 

The seemingly endless litany of choices was stunning; a dashing variety of poultry and veal, and well balanced salads, and succulent pasta dishes. I've opt-out from the obvious (pasta) and ordered something less obvious, chicken. The dish was dubbed, "Pollo all'Aglio", which basically consisted of a grilled chicken breast marinated in a subtle acidic concoction accompanied with a puree of baked potatoes and veggies, all served in a stark white squared plate. The chicken was tender, with a roasty, fumed aroma, and the veggies tasted as if they were just harvested. The whole spectacle did not only looked delicious, but tasted delicious. 

Not everything that I've digested lately is being documented within the premises of this blog, it would just take too long to elaborate. Let's keep it short and sweet. Though at times, it may seem, in my head, that I've been eating as if I was at The Last Supper, I've been just exploring "what's out there". It goes without saying, all this scrumptiousness was consumed with the help of good ol' wata!

Mcqueen As Background

Phones...what left is there to say? The world is in a constant search for the new, and it seems like each and every day we become more dependable on technology. It's scary. When the world comes to a standstill, in which technology fails to function, we will be doomed. But let's rejoice. Let's celebrate the advantageous features of technology now. Especially, relating to this post, my beloved iPhone 4 (No offense to Crackberry users). Thanks to Steve Jobs and company, I can hold a conversation, browse the net, look at pictures, utilize an app, and send an e-mail, all at the same time.  A quasi-uncanny luxurious practice, my grandmother and her counterparts would have never dreamt of occurring. It's a reality. Hopefully, the iPhone 5 would be equipped enough to perform laundry duties. 

Not too long ago I was in a conundrum, my iPhone 3 looked deficient (and functioned deficiently). During an ordinary day at work, I made the immortal error. My unprotected handheld insidiously slipped out of my hand, and hit the pavement. It cracked, along with my world. The following days were filled with slight embarrassment, apprehension and mea culpa. In order to uplift my morale, I wended to good ol' AT&T and purchased The 4. I must had to upgrade. I discarded The 3 (in case you're curious, yes - that's a picture of David Gandy wearing Dolce & Gabbana undies), and personalized my brand new acquisition. But I felt something was missing.

Whilst browsing a few art blogs, I came across an image that stopped me in my tracks. It was a pencil drawn sketch of Alexander Lee McQueen's face. It was unmistakably him. A McQ logo plastered over his forehand, a seemingly appropriate crown floating over his head, a portending skull to the left, a 3-D cross to the right, a cube covering part of his face, and heedless scribble written at the bottom, all attempt to create a story around the man. It's not only a tantalizing picture, but thoughtful. It belonged in my background.

Check out John Paul Thurlow's blog here (I later saw more of his work on Elle UK Collections with Kate Moss in Vuitton on the cover. Pure Talent!). 

From A Piece Of Fabric

If you were living in the middle of Mississippi and have no remote idea what a fashion designer does, this short clip would give you a glimpse of what the job entails. There is always a secretive allure to forthcoming collections, designers become reclusive in the confinements of their ateliers to concentrate on their work. I was pleasantly surprised when I unearthed the video above. Thailand-born, New York-based designer Thakoon Panichgul let cameras infiltrate his studio and record his creative process. He's working on his 2011 Fall/Winter collection, which was shown during New York Fashion Week last February. 

There is a model walking back and forth wearing what seems to be a Masai print blanket, she resembles a Kenyan tribe member. Thakoon, along with the help oh his team proceed to cut, nip and tuck the fabric. The draped dress slowly starts taking shape, and when it hits the runway, it evokes a relax chic sensibility that he's known for. I think it's also important to point out the fact that he's draping on a real woman, not on a mannequin form. This is a method that has been used by the likes of Christian Dior to Oscar de la Renta, and everybody in between. It's clear to see that Thakoon devotes preeminence to how the fabric falls on the body, and most importantly, how the woman in it feels. 

Sometimes, you have to touch your heart with one hand, and reach your pockets with the other one. He's releasing a limited edition Masai print scarfs which 100% of the proceeds would go directly to a children's relief efforts in Africa. Go help. 

Pin-Up Girls

In the past, I've expressed my sentiments on the objectification of women in fashion. Although this may not be a matter of concern for fashion only, music, cinema and media also do so. As a society, we have come to a state of fetichism where women, at times, are just blatantly seen as a marketing tool or sex toy. We have come to focus on sexuality rather than brains. Obviously, sexuality, as often said (and proven to be true) sells. It seems to me that society have unwittingly filtrated through various mediums to my generation mixed messaged on the prevalence on our appearance over intellectual value. We live in an era based on looks and fashion does nothing to discredit it. At the same time, rather complexing, fashion offers an idea of tasteful fashion imagery of women and their sexuality. That's Helmut Newton territory. I can appreciate a beautiful picture, a beautiful woman, a beautiful men. Beauty in general (brings memories of a scene in "The Last Emperor" when a reporter asks, "What do women want?" and Valentino, in his iconic italian accent, casually replies, "women just want to be beautiful" - so simple, yet so poignant). 

Muse, a fashionart Italian (provides translation in English) magazine boasts sex-driven, artistically inclined imagery that resonates with the visually stimulated crowd (including me). I've purchased a couple of past issues, but I can't quite pin-point at what exactly piqued my interest while looking at these photographs, including the cover photographed by Harri Peccinotti. The images elicit a vintage, voyeuristic, Lolita-esque attitude. The cover features Russian mannequin Anne Vyalitsyna wearing a ripped collegiate t-shirt, exposing part of her bosom. There is an innocence to her eyes, yet it seems like, through body language, she's inviting you to have a good time (if you know what I mean). The rest of the editorial boasts the same type of innocent sensuality. The models look as if they just stepped out of the pool, with their damp hair and sun-kissed lips. Something tells me that at least one of them is dating a surfer. 

Yes, you can argue these photographs objectifies them, but there is a certain aesthetic here that separate this Muse story from banal raunchy porn. 

Kate Moss And Terry Richardson

This post was going to be titled, "Mango?", which might mislead you to wonder, the brand or the tropical fruit? But if you're the least familiar with this blog, then you know I'm referring to the brand. The question marks seems fitting. Mango, a Spanish-based fast fashion line, has not reach the level of popularity in America (or any other fashion metropolis besides Spain) as the likes of Swedish juggernaut H&M, or compatriot Zara. I'm not the most acquainted with Mango, but the most I've seen from their offerings are sherbet-colored short dresses. Nothing out of the ordinary, but wearable nonetheless. 
The clip above, shown at a special show at the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris, directed by naughty photographer Terry Richardson, starring himself and supermodel Kate Moss, might just be the panacea to place Mango in worldwide popular demand. The brief video depicts Kate and the director himself wearing Terry paper masks (I so want one, just so I can dress as Terry Richardson for Halloween), suspiciously escaping from a Mango store with cargo bags in tow (you know here they are up to no good). They hop in a white van and recklessly careen through the streets of Paris. While in there, Kate changes in and out of a couple of looks which were presented at the show. They arrive at some parking lot, walk through undergrounds halls, only to find a passel of (stalkers?) fans once they open a door. 
The 1:43 minute-long film is amusing, tantalizing, and exciting. Just by peeking at what Kate pulls out of the bag, it seems that the collection, which arrives in stores in July, might be a hit. It only leaves me wondering the sumptuous check Kate received to hop on a white van and change clothes. I kinda want that job. 
Check out Terry's Vimeo account here. He has videos of Francois Sagat, male models PJ and Dave Ransone, and a hilarious one of his Mom. 

The Fruit And Nut Issue

A few weeks ago I stopped by one of the D.C.'s best hidden magazine shops on 20th Street NW (and one of my favorites) in an attempt to appropriate yesteryear glossy issues from your good old Vogue to some of the rarest publications in Europe, and everything in between. I find amusing flipping through past issues, imbibing all the rich, inspiring visuals in form of editorials and thought-provoking writing. Just as fashion recycles itself, these issues become part of a pool of references that would provide a common ground for future issues. On an unusual trip to China a few months ago, Anna Wintour mentioned to a reporter, "I find my inspiration in the history and tradition of the magazine, that I'm so honored to be working at". Who can argue? If you had the privilege to be editing The Fashion Bible, there is not shortage of inspiration, taking into account the over 100 years worth of Vogue. 

Anyways, as I was segueing my way to the back of the rather small shop, I turn the corner and I see a magazine that stands out from its counterparts that were tightly stacked among each other. The title is not what catches my eyes at first, but the cover image. I immediately recognize Naomi Campbell displaying a timid face, while holding her head, atop is what seems to be a headpiece adorned with thin gold straps and green feathers. Naomi seems to be channeling her inner Carmen Miranda, perhaps inspired by Miuccia Prada's sensational summer collection.

The whole fashion story does not read Italian glamour, but a stylized abstract impressionism. If you see the images, you'll find Naomi wearing assorted designer garbs in some of the most odd poses (at the end of the day this is Pop). What struck me the most was this white blotchy substance smeared on Naomi's face. Excuse me, but this could easily be mistaken for something a men's scrotum produces and emerges during ejaculation. In addition, the subtitle, "The Fruit and Nut issue" does not help to disseminate any erotic thoughts away from this assumption. Regardless, the photographs, taken by Broomberg and Chanarin, were peculiarly intriguing, and leaves one wondering the thought process behind the story. 

Expounding on these hard-to-get-around oddity of images, I spotted a second cover from the same magazine on the shelf behind. Elton John is sporting a Gaga worthy pair of shades made of out spikes and baubles. In case there is any doubt Prada had anything to do with the concept of the cover, Elton is wearing the now ubiquitous banana-printed shirt from the collection. Typical Elton John. 

Follow Me Follow Me (Quem Que Caguetou) - (Tejo, Black Alien And Speed)
Staying within the tropical theme of this post, I thought sharing this song I was bumping to while watching Fast Five. Not only the movie contains enough eye candy (Dwayne Johnson, Tyrese Gibson and Vin Diesel) for both genders, this is actually an action-packed thriller. You must go watch it. Now, I've heard the song before, but I never actually took the time to research the artists. After I came back from the cinema, I got on iTunes, and finally found the darn song. It's probably something you'll hear at Carnival in Rio de Janeiro (one of the breathtaking scenes in Fast Five), or be found as one of the many additions in my iPhone. You're welcome.