A-musing: Iggy the Oracle

So, there's a fashion spread in the Italian Vogue.  They've finally found a trend to usurp heroin chic.  It elevates the threat of death (overdose) to a new level:  consumption by oil spill.  Think bird, Gulf, oil soaked, draped over rocks like feathery battered seaweed.  The best part is, the use of black can now be extended from rimming the eyes and the occasional bruise to the whole body...nay, the whole dang mise-en-scene.  Here, see the photos at Styleite and the links to various media stories and takes at the devil's handmaiden Google.

Oh, did I make clear that this was my opinion?  My opinion, it is, I say.  Go look at the pictures.  Share your opinion here, if you like.

While I wait to hear from you, I want you to know that in the Random Connectedness that is my life, one of my favorite websites, Letters of Note (there's been a link to them over on the left practically since I started this blog) happened to publish a rant letter from Iggy Pop himself.  Mr. Pop, as the New York Times would say, had this to offer, and I found it relevant:

I hate the inane worship of gross 'supermodels' and i positively loathe Calvin Klein ads and that whole school of photography. it is not beautiful. Our gods are assholes. 

There are continual 'shock and rage' movements in the performing/conceptual arts, but are they bringing anybody a good time? they bring filth death & loathing of self as fashion. I understand them, though. People are lost and frustrated, AND UNSKILLED. 

I offer you a direct link to that letter here, largely because if you go to the main page you have to scroll through is a slew of amusing screed from a gentleman bossman at Tiger Oil who I think I worked for once, except he was not in Texas but the midwest and the business was entirely different.  If you are ready for diversion, check out the whole site.

Anyway, so there you have it.  The Oracle had spoken.  Our gods are a**holes.

And then yesterday I opened the August 9 issue of The New Yorker.  Guess what The Oracle is up to?  Mr. Pop was apparently at the Barney's Co-Op in NYC, making an appearance in support of a line of t-shirts.  (The author of the piece gets straight to the anachronism; Iggy in ANY shirt?  In fact, he is apparently shirtless at the appearance.  But I digress.  A bit.)  We learn that Mr. Pop is equally dis-fond of underwear and socks, that he is not fond of The Shirts in the music industry, and when he is "the shirt" (minus the "r").

Following that item, comes a piece on the P&J Oyster Company in New Orleans.  A beautiful little bit of straightforward interview of a fifth-generation owner who, as he says, "needs a plan."

As you will recall, that oil spill that made for Steven Meisel's art has already somewhat blackened the state of affairs on the Gulf coast.  Mr. Sunseri, the fifth generation of P&J, is developing an exit strategy. Just in case.

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I am going to try to learn a lot more about Hove perfumes.  If you want to come along, you can start with this article at Yesterday's Perfume.  I know there are other blogs I go to who have written about Hove; as I turn up the links, I'll add them here.