I Remember Fashion

Salsaccio Fiorentino

One thing that is unavoidable in Florence is sausage in both its literal and metaphorical forms.

The farther north one travels in Italy the more meat specialties one encounters. In Florence the ‘menu turistico’ typically feature ‘ragu’ sauces, hearty stews and some lovely sausage. At the family-run and thus highly entertaining Trattoria Buzzino, located at the exit to the Uffizi, we enjoyed a lovely lunch of penne al ragu followed by salsaccio e fagioli. Homemade sausage, fresh and very good.

We encountered a more entertaining - or sinister, depending on how one sees it - form a sausage in the window of a pet store. Perhaps it was our disorientation from having wandered for over an hour in the twisting streets north of the Duomo, or perhaps it was the surprise at seeing a middle-aged, bottle-blond prosie exiting a car, doing up her pants while pocketing loose change, but this window of a pet store near l’Accademia both enthralled and frightened us just a little bit. All those aggressive plastic bulldogs and regimented legions of mice made of catnip and bunny fur.

And then we spotted all those grinning, plastic sausage links. No wonder Italian dogs are so weird.

The next day, while waiting our turn to tour the Uffizi Gallery, we were reminded what makes all men happy. Is that a feedbag strapped to your face or are you just happy to see us?

Of course, one doesn’t have to go too far in Florence before spotting the ‘salsaccio di marmora’, the most common form of sausage in the city. At l’Accademia we saw the city’s (likely the world’s) most famous marble sausage on Michelangelo’s David. Unfortunately, in his case, big feet just means he wears large sandals. Still, surrounded by Mapplethorpe’s nudes, there was enough well-muscled sausage to satisfy even the most ravenous appetite.

On that happy thought, our trip to Florence was at an end.

No Money, No Honey

While in Rome we’ve been staying around the corner from the Campo dei Fiori. Famous now for its daily open-air market, this square was famous a few centuries ago for being the site of public executions, including that of freedom-of-speech icon Giordano Bruno who was set alight by the Inquisition in 1600. The Inquisition may be long gone, but torture is still taking place near the Campo, only now in the form of a decrepit IKEA sofa bed. After a week and a half at its mercy we decided to escape to Florence for a couple of days, if only so we could get one good night’s sleep.

And so it was that we found ourselves, after a quick early morning train ride north, lying on a king bed in our room at the Tourist House Ghiberti, staring at this:

After a giddy half hour flipping through the 10 English satellite news channels (still bad, but not Italian bad), perusing the contents of the mini bar, salivating at the thought of a bath in the full-size tub (! Full-size tub! Full-size tub! Did I mention it was full-size?), and generally luxuriating in the acres of space in our room, we decided to go out and see what the city looked like.

Where Rome looks, well, Roman with a creamy Medieval filling and an exuberant Baroque frosting, old Florence is all solidly late-Medieval/Renaissance. The streets are narrow and they twist and turn and roll over the Arno and come back again. And the best part is that they are all filled with shops! Lovely shops full of nice things we might actually consider wearing, even those souvenir t-shirts that say “Florence is for Lovers”.

Sure the shiny people are here too, using the drab bland people as human crutches while they ply the gold and silver shops of the Ponte Vecchio, but so what? They are out-numbered by the refreshingly normal-looking Florentines who somehow manage to be incredibly cheery and pleasant despite the crush of tourists that descend on their city day after day. Because of this I will forgive the occasional gold lame running shoe.

Once we had the lay of the land we quickly decided that we had to purchase our two fashion wish-list items here: a pair slouchy biker boots and a fitted leather jacket. The boots were an easy decision as they were spotted in the Oltrarno within 30 minutes of our venturing out of our hotel room. The right look, the right fit and of course the right price at 109 Euros. The leather jacket was another matter, as Florence is awash in leather stores and stalls. We took our time and poked around the rest of the afternoon and early evening. First we decided that we would not be buying one from any place called the “Leather Outlet”. We’re in Italy - at the very least call it “Outlet de Pelle” or something. We also tried the stalls around San Lorenzo, even though we despise haggling. We’re convinced we were lured into it because anyone who wears a t-shirt like this must surely be fun to talk to for a little while.

After we escaped the back of the store around the corner from the stall, having been cajoled, compared to a Barbie doll, had the flame of a lighter set to our breast and then harassed half way out of the market for not wanting the “top quality Italian leather” jacket in which we had shown a mild interest, we decided it was best to stick with a well-lit shop on a main street that posted its prices in the window. And so it was the next day, we trekked back to the Oltrano and we found our jacket for 169 Euros. We even had it tailored and ferried to our hotel while we saw the rest of the city. Ah, Florence, you know how to treat a lady.

Basta!

We’ve been in Italy for just over a week now, and we’ve certainly got a feel for the street fashion popular right now. What we like, which is true throughout continental Europe really, is that it’s perfectly acceptable to remain an attractive and well-dressed woman at any age. Plastic surgery is frowned upon, but non-invasive procedures are A-OK. In Italy, at least, the most popular non-invasive procedure is sucking on a cigarette every waking hour. To be fair, in most cities there is a fair amount of walking or cycling involved during the day too. And food is made in human-sized portions rather than the elephantine-sized meals on offer back in the US, which certainly also helps keep one trim. All of which is to say, most women - and men - here make an effort with their appearance.

Now, that said, not everyone is successful. For the ladies, Italian fashion tends to the tarty, blingy side, which isn’t quite our thing. Still, kudos for most being able to pull it off and not look totally ridiculous.

On the other hand…

This specimen was found at the Termini train station. We are unsure if she a member of the oldest profession (she has no luggage, after all), or if she’s just trying a little too hard. The over-the-knee boots are definitely of-the-moment, but she had trouble maintaining vertical in them (which may not be an issue if we’re correct about her job…). The pastel yellow, high-waisted pants and polka-dot shirt definitely reflect an Italian sensibility that it would be hard to pull off in any other country.

Just to prove that women aren’t the only offenders, this fellow was found on the Campo Dei Fiori the other night. At first we debated whether he was really from Italy, but his male and female friends clearly were so we figured something must have gone terribly awry with this guy’s day. A horrific pasta accident at lunch take the dress pants out? Perhaps, but that doesn’t explain the flip-flops. OK, maybe his dog exploded leaving a horrible mess on both pants and shoes. Possibly, but seems far-fetched. Whatever the reason, between work day and evening, this guy somehow ended up like this and thought it would pass in public. In Rome. In Italy. Oh my.

Then there are those for which we are totally mystified and do not bother to seek an explanation.

Sometimes the best thing to do, is to do as the Romans do, and let it all hang out…

Dirty Feet and Lamb Chops

One of the things we wanted to do in Rome was visit the Caravaggio paintings that are still located where they were originally meant to be, in church chapels here and there around the city. We’re not fans of the Baroque, but we like Caravaggio. A supremely talented but hot-tempered and violent bad-boy, he was always that close to jail or the wrong end of a sword. Living to a ripe old age was not in the cards for him, and he produced a body of great work in the brief time he had.

So, why is he great? We could give you the canonical explanation but we’ll go with our personal reasons. Caravaggio really knew how to grab a viewer. If he were around today he’d make a great action flick director or ad man (or possibly producer for some unhinged personality like Glenn Beck). Caravaggio pulls you in with his technical abilities - how he composes the painting, his use of dark shadows and bright light - but the zinger is the subtext he brings to the subject. Caravaggio was commissioned to paint standard religious stories, but he cocked a snook at both his patrons and the Catholic church in the way he did it. Caravaggio used the neighborhood thugs and low-lifes as models, and he didn’t pretty them up for the purpose. They are dirty, aggressive and the worse for wear. His Madonnas vs. our Madonna would make an interesting cage-match, in fact.

We liked all the Caravaggios we visited, including the Crucifixion of St. Peter, the Conversion of St.Paul and the St.Matthew paintings, but our favorite was the Madonna di Loreto or the Madonna of the Pilgrims, which is in Sant’Agostino near the Piazza Navona. We like it because the Madonna looks a little cheesed that these two hard-luck cases have shown up at her door. You just know she’s having a bad day already, what with the kid getting into everything and the laundry piling up. The last thing she needed was these two showing up wanting what…? A look at her chubby kid? You can tell she’s thinking, what’s wrong with these people? Even better is the fact that the pilgrims filthy feet are all up it in your face. We liked it so much we sneezed really loudly and wet ourselves a little bit, and because a Mass was on while we were visiting, the whole situation was so funny we got the church giggles and had to exit, quickly, stage left.

Of course we’re not only here for the art. We’re also enjoying the street fashion. Roman men who work in some professional capacity are always very well dressed. They’re all wearing peg-legged pants and tailored jackets that somehow manage to make every one of them look totally pulled together. I guess it helps that, thanks to all the smoking, none of them sport the Ralph Kramden.

Spotted across the street from the Sant’Eustachio Cafe, our favorite was this fellow. Although his facial trim is technically the “mutton chops”, he’s so young we dubbed him “lamb chops” instead.

As for the ladies, well, what can we say? The 80s are back in full-swing and that’s not a good thing. There are a lot of leggings and oversized t-shirts. There’s studded leather. There are cavernous bags and slouchy flat booties. There are diaphanous scarves and suspenders. And beloved in Italy, there’s the bedazzled t-shirt. In other words, too much muchness.

One thing we do like, and we might just have to have before we leave, is the low-heeled, slightly baggy motorcycle or riding boot. Although it is unseasonably hot, wet and sticky here, all the ladies are wearing these right now.

Benvenuti a Roma!

For the next two weeks we’re in Rome, doing as the Romans do. Already we’ve learned that that means eating your main meal at lunch with wine (very civilized), smoking a lot while doing everything (questionable), and pressing your groin into anyone you please on a crowded bus (not so nice unless it’s welcomed by the party on the receiving end).

Since some of us have never visited the Eternal City before, our first stop was the Foro Romano. Located at the center of the city, it’s a huge archaeological site with the Campidoglio at one end and the Colosseum at the other. The most striking thing is the sheer size of the buildings. Even in ruin, they are massive. You can just imagine the impression this made on every rube from the provinces who had the good fortune to visit Rome back in the day.

These days, of course, the Foro Romano, in addition to still being an active archaeological site, is a huge tourist magnet. And where there are tourists, there are people trying to make a fast buck. In this case, it is a phalanx of rather sad-looking would-be Roman centurions. They are scattered about just outside the boundary of the Foro Romano enticing tourists to take photos with them for a fee. A typical invitation goes something like this, “Hey, big boy, I want your woman. Come fight for her”. I imagine there are variations on this theme, depending on the circumstances…

While I appreciate the hustle involved, the pulling-yourself-up-by-the-sandal-strap-piness of their endeavor, some of these fellows really need to try a little harder. At one end there are those who have really made effort to replicate the garb, right down to the shin guards and sandals. Then there are those who seem to decided to give it a go that day and pulled out their hallowe’en costume. The effect is the similar to the denizens that stand in front of Graumann’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood - they look the part from 20 feet away but when you get closer, you realize that SpongeBob has been spending his nights in a drunken stupor under a freeway and is much the worse for wear for it.

The others out for a buck around the Foro Romano are vendors of tschotkes, ice cold drinks and snacks. Happily, unlike in the US, most of these snacks are pretty healthy. Heavens, there was even a fruit stand near the statue of Julius Caesar.

Now, the name “Imperial Fruit” is funny enough on its own. But given that Caesar used to be taunted by his own men for a same-sex liaison he had in his youth, it is just that little bit funnier.

I Love a Man in Uniform*

The past few weeks have been tough. One long meh. I have a long list of potential blog topics: Macrame is back - and it’s chic and expensive! How much more awful can the clothes on ‘The Fashion Show’ get? Who’s behind the return of distressed, acid-stained jeans (I mean, if you know, please let me know)? But they all left me, well, meh. Until recently, that is. Maybe it’s the antics of South Carolina’s Luv Gov giving us a new euphemism for extra-marital nookie. Maybe it’s the still-unfolding Sarah Palin implosion (oh please, oh please, oh please…). It feels like Christmas in July and my birthday on the 4th, all in one!

Of course no news has been bigger than the untimely demise of Michael Jackson. Poor Farrah had only 4 hours as the top headline before dropping like a rock to the bottom of the page. Ditto #iranelection and Neda. Poor Kim Jong-Il is so miffed that he keeps firing off rockets in a lame attempt to get the spotlight back on himself. You can just see him now, rolling around kicking and screaming on the floor of his marble palace screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!” Well, J-I, maybe you should take a page from MJ’s book. First you need to really look the part of a crazed tin-pot dictator before you’ll get the respect of one.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Jacko was a truly talented individual. Personally I prefer the Jackson 5 and Off The Wall MJ. He even had me for Billie Jean and Thriller, but really, what I liked most about that MJ was the dancing; the music was too pop-py for me. But when the be-sequined, quasi-military-suited MJ showed up - and stayed - he lost me for good. Every time I’d see a photo of him in one of his elaborate get-ups, I’d think, “Where is this coming from? What is this about?” When I saw the catalogue of Jackson items up for sale in the cancelled Spring 2009 auction, the extent of the - what would you call it, trend, delusion? - became clear. He clearly took his title of “King of Pop” literally, as though God had anointed him and given him a mission to rule (sound familiar Kim Jong-Il? Of course, it wasn’t “God” in your case…). And just as clear was the fact that Jackson’s country was a militarized one. He was at the head of a spangly, multi-hued army of pop fans battling against… Hate? Apathy? Heavy metal? Who knows.

The day of Jackson death, Cher added to the story of MJ’s love of all things shiny but telling of a teenage Michael’s fascination with her beaded Bob Mackie socks. Is that where it all started? Did it migrate from socks to glove to epauletted, crested military jackets? Like much of Jackson’s life, we’ll probably never know the why. But Kim Jong-Il, take note. Some of MJ’s stuff might come up for auction again. I think you’d look very impressive in black and gold number with the sash.

*For you kids out there, the title of this post comes from a 1982 song by the Gang of Four. Go look it up.

Harem/mer Pant Update… via Hammer

MCHammer

Times Square….Hammer Pants !!! WoW !! See Her Face !

It’s Harem/mer Time!

“Harem pant is just the couture name for Hammer pant.” Reco, contestant on The Fashion Show

Ah, the harem pant. A spawn of the disco 70s, harem pants were at their best when you were twirl- twirl- twirling under the mirror ball on the dance floor! They let you do the electric boogaloo without revealing your knickers or your knicker-less privates.

Norma Kamali, French Elle c. 1980 via the New York Times

Generally restricted to evening wear, the harem pant started to wane when we no longer had the urge to go down to Funkytown.

But the harem pant couldn’t be kept down for long. How could it, when the slightest breeze to its crotch sail would set it flying high in fashion again? When it resurfaced in the 80s, the harem pant was for day and for men as well as women - an equal opportunity gender offender! Like the devil, harem pants took on many forms, but, to my mind, they fell into two basic shapes:

1) the ‘Ethnic’. Made of some stiffer material like cotton, and highly patterned (batik was a favorite), this form of the harem pant gathered the bulk of its shape between the legs and around the rump, making the wearer look and feel as though they had on the world’s largest and droopiest adult diaper.

An updated version of the ‘Ethnic’, in a more forgiving fabric via Fasity 

I confess I owned a version of the ‘Ethnic’ around 1986. I wish I had a photo of them to share, but I was going through a bad patch back then. These harem pants were my fat pants. They may have been one notch above sweat pants, but they still screamed, “I give up! Just harpoon me and put me out of my misery!”. Now, not all ‘Ethnic’ harem pant wearers were depressed lard-asses like me. I once knew a fellow who wore his whenever he traveled because they made his participation in the mile-high club that much easier, thanks to the easy-access front-closing flap. True story.

2) the ‘Balloon’. A more traditional trouser shape, this version of the harem pant had pleats and gathers at the waist, ballooned out the length of the leg before tapering at the ankle.

‘Balloon’ harem pants via A Man Fashion

The ‘Balloon’ is a close relation of the Parachute pant and begat ‘Jams’, still beloved by those whose steroid-plumped quads and glutes do not fit easily into standard-sized clothing. For women, the ‘Balloon’ evolved to become closer-fitting, resulting in the pleated trouser that tapers at the ankle. Stacy and Clinton of TLC’s What Not to Wear purge America’s closets of this pernicious silhouette every week. I fear for their sanity now that the harem pant is back, and not just on the runway.

Jennifer Lopez, Maria Sharapova and Rachel Stevens via Threadbanger

Ladies, if the harem pant makes Maria Sharapova look as though she is smuggling a sack of potatoes in her pants, what can they possibly do to you? Think about it.

For kids like Reco, the contestant on Bravo’s The Fashion Show quoted at top, the harem pant will forever be the Hammer pant. For the sake of peace and harmony, I am renaming the harem pant the harem/mer pant. Now let’s dance!

BTW, all 3 of The Fashion Show’s ‘must have’ items are in Hammer’s video: harem pants, bolero jacket and tube skirt…

Questionable Fashion: The Full Cleveland

These days I read the Wall Street Journal to get the print version of the “news” I can’t bring myself to watch on Faux Gnus (I can’t sit through more than a few seconds before pulling a Really!?! with Seth and Amy), but today the WSJ taught me a phrase for a questionable fashion pairing that is back in fashion. Not only that, I learnt this from the Golf Journal column (registration required).

The “full Cleveland” applies to anyone wearing white shoes with a white belt, while a “half Cleveland” is just the belt or shoes. Which begs the question, what do you call white shoes, white pants and white belt? Over-the-top Cleveland? You’re-blinding-me Cleveland? Grandpa? But I digress.

The Golf Journal’s John Paul Newport explains:

For a baby boomer like myself, this is a disturbing development. When I took up the game in the 1980s, I did so with the understanding I would never be expected to wear white belts, plaid pants, canary-yellow sweaters, polyester Sansabelt slacks or any other flammable items of clothing. My assumption was that the 1980 movie “Caddyshack” had successfully parodied such attire into permanent oblivion. The cool guy in the film, played by Chevy Chase, wore classy Ben Hogan-esque outfits, while the buffoons, played by Rodney Dangerfield and Ted Knight, wore the white patent-leather belts and loud pants. By the late 1980s, even Johnny Miller had mostly abandoned the white-belt look.

But like the irrepressible gopher in Caddyshack, the full Cleveland just won’t die. The under-35s are putting the full Cleveland back into fashion rotation, and not just on the golf course:

Michael Kors Spring 2009 Collection (via About.com)

And not just on the runway:

Miami, February 2007 (via Streetpeepers)

Ladies, this trend is for you, too! I first encountered white high-heeled shoes in Scotland in 1977 and it left an indelible memory of what not to do. Something about the whiteness of the shoes and the whiteness of the goose-pimply, blue-veiny skin put me off. I couldn’t look at uncooked chicken quite the same way again after that. But if you are young enough - I think the cut-off here is 25 - and sensible enough to indicate with the rest of your outfit that you are being: 1) wacky! 2) retro! 3) ironic! then go for it. The Vine has some tips for you.

How to Wear White Shoes (via The Vine)

For the rest of us, I recommend not taking the advice of Marty Hackel, the fashion director for Golf Digest magazines, “Fashion comes full circle. This is absolutely the reason you should never throw out anything”. Um, no. Unless your white belt and shoes from the 70s are in immaculate, never-worn condition and you have saved them to give to your teenage son or grandson, the full Cleveland should meet the round file.