Deja Vu

Is plagiarism the new black?

To those of us (cough) who aren't on any guest lists to Fashion Wank, it doesn’t look like we are missing much. There is insufficient novelty to stave off the over-whelming sensation of deja vu.

Juliette Hogan's show started in reverse to the usual order, with all her models sent out together instead of at the curtain call. Innovative? Not so much. Marc Jacobs did the same thing for his Spring show.

Deborah Sweeney looks like she is channelling her inner Denise L’Estrange-Corbet, while her gold leggings/leather jerkin outfit looked like a cheap, shitty version of Balenciaga’s S/S 2007 offering.

I don't really need to point out which is which, do I?
Yvonne Bennetti – patent-leather trench coat? Seen it already with Lanvin, Valentino, and a host of others. Fringing? Prada. Stifled yawn.

Left - Lanvin, Right - Bennetti
There are many other outfits that have a distinct air of familiarity, but I can’t remember where I might have seen them.

Our local designers are coming across a bit like school-girls on a budget, who, thumbing through an old issue of Vogue, exclaim, “I could make that!” and whip out their mum's Bernina. While I am not saying NZ designers have been deliberately ripping off other’s ideas (actually, I guess I am), I think this is a bit embarrassing with regards to overseas buyers, who will also, surely, be suffering the same “Haven’t I seen this already?” malaise.

Additional Notes:
Everyone is doing leggings. And smocks.

Designer Salasi wins my prize for ugliest clothes ever.

Holy crap, is that a unitard?

Whoops!

Liar, liar, XL pants on fire!

Plagiarism may save time, Glucina, but it's awfully embarrassing when you are caught doing it.

Answers

Now for the answers to some of the questions received. Firstly, a few brief responses;

Evad – Yes, but don’t tell anyone.
Mark – A resounding slap for your impertinence.

Now for the more challenging queries:

I have one I have thought about from time to time but never asked anyone.
Butros Butros Ghali.
I mean, why? What was his mother thinking? Is he brother to Butros and Butros Butros Butros?
from Laughy Kate

Dear Laughy Kate,
I googled Mr BBG, and discovered that his grandfather was Butros Ghali, hence I imagine that a repetition of a name is the Egyptian version of 'Butros Junior.'

One hopes then, if this is true, that the Egyptians are imaginative with their name selection, as while eight English Kings called Henry can be readily distinguished by a Roman numeral (e.g., Henry VIII), the equivalent in this case would be Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Ghali.

Which is silly, but I would expect no less from shifty foreigners.

Dear Mrs Smith
Please tell me what answer to give when people ask "so, what will you be selling?" Not knowing is making me look decidedly unprofessional.
Chur,
Martha Craig
Babylicious

Dear Martha,
With a business name like ‘Babylicious’ you could try replying, "Baby-flavoured sandwiches." It may not be a very professional answer, but that’s what you get for asking me.

Kia ora, Smithy
Here is my question pour vous:
Legendary Hollywood slutpants Tallulah Bankhead once said, "It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time."
Substituting "blogs" for "diaries", do you find this is the case with respect to how often you update your blog?
Chur,
Robyn

Dear Robyn,
I kept a diary until I was nineteen, then didn’t resume jotting down my daily life until I started mon petite blog. Suffice it to say, by observing my own life, it appeared Miss Bankhead was right.

However, to further explore the Bankhead Equation (wherein Goodness correlates to frequency of diary/blog entries), I did some research, and found that in August, I wrote sixteen posts, while in the same month, Cactus Kate wrote fifty.

So I think that explodes that theory.

You didn't answer the question two posts below:
"I heard you like a cock sandwich?"
Well....?
from Seamonkey Madness

Dear Seamonkey Madness,
A good girl would say "no," a bad girl would say "yes." However, a wise girl would just evade answering.

Fog

The seasons are turning - and mornings are wreathed in fog. Fog is like a good foundation, it hides the unpleasant blotches and spots, and makes the city look soft and pretty. I couldn't resist it on the weekend, and ran out the door for an early walk.

What a different world the city is before everyone else gets up! Ponsonby Road was almost deserted, save for the delivery men, the dairies opening, and an unusual number of women wearing Juicy Couture trackies out walking small dogs. People called out hello to each other, and smiled at those they didn't know - it was like being a member of some strange club that closes down as soon as the late-risers start to get out of bed.

But try getting a coffee! It wasn't worth trying the Dida's deli - I had once called in at 6.55am, only to be sternly told that I "should come back in five minutes, when we open." Five minutes! Go fuck yourself. However, the 'One 2 One' Cafe (at - surprise! 121 Ponsonby Road) was open at 6.30, despite a sign saying 7am. Now that's service.

Random assortment of photos I took along the way;

Questions

I shall now open the floor to questions. I may be able to provide sage advice on all sorts of life's pressing problems. Go on - email me (link on the left).

If I am so inclined, I will post my answers tomorrow. Or perhaps next week - I'm very busy and important, you know.

Anonymity is assured, if so desired.

Disclaimer: It seems a good idea right now, but the truth is, I am quite unreliable. Answers cannot be guaranteed. I may have gone off the idea by tomorrow.

Spiky Red Thing

The sculpture by the Nelson Street off-ramp doesn't do much for me. The yellow tips light up at night, which is slightly pretty, I suppose. It is meant to be a representation of a pohutukawa flower, but rather reminds me of a primary school art project involving pipe-cleaners.



Known locally as "The Spiky Red Thing," it even has it's own My Space page. Spiky Red Thing has 1952 friends! That's more than me, so it just goes to show that there is no accounting for poor taste.

Note: Spiky's friends include Rodney Hide, Aja Rock, and Robyn; shame on you all.

Text

Received an odd text yesterday evening. "I heard you like a cock sandwich," was the message. I didn’t recognise the number. "What?" I texted back, with no reply.

In a rage, I rang the number. A man answered. He sounded young, Polynesian.
"Why did you text me about a cock sandwich?" I demanded. "Who are you? Where did you get my number?"

He laughed. "I don’t know what you're talking about, lady," he said, sounding genuinely surprised, then hung up.

It’s very curious. For no particular reason, I suspect Mrs L is behind this.

Fashion

Tickets for Fashion Wank have gone out, and there has been much gnashing of porcelain crowns from those whose letter-boxes have remained resolutely empty. But not me. My teeth are au naturel. Also, I never expect invites to anything anymore – I have made far too many enemies to get invited to the good stuff, and have far too much pride to go anywhere that does stoop to invite me. "One gets what one deserves," as Mother would say, the frightful cow.

Mrs N was parading the contents of her goodie bag, and mentioned that she had an extra ticket. I perked up. Trelise has really picked up her game lately; no more lurid circus tents with mutton-leg sleeves – last season she made some things I would actually wear (and do). But no – she is taking her husband. This is quite unfair. His suits are shiny with age and he probably thinks Costume National is what the Maoris wear.

Still – one must be gracious. I understand room is limited, what with all the space the front-row will need for their walker-frames and colostomy bags.

Online, one can find out what one will be missing. Nom D is using loads of black (Quelle surprise!), and Deborah Sweeney is channelling ZZ Top (large ginger beards on all models, I assume).

Meanwhile, State of Grace has been stirred by Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ (bloodied eye-sockets are to be the Next Big Thing), and Karen Walker has been inspired by racing jockey attire and maternity wear – so expect lurid circus tents with capped sleeves.