Get your kicks on route sixty-six

If I were a car, I’d be a Futura. I saw one at the garage down the street from me. Gus, the mechanic, usually has two or three beauties getting a little work done. Nothing removed, puffed up, or otherwise altered, just a little tune-up underneath the hood.

Wikipedia tells me (do you actually have to cite wikipedia?): “The Classic Car Club of America maintains that a car must be between 20 and 45 years old to be a classic, while cars over 45 years fall into the Antique Class.”

Um. I think I’m an antique. But if you’d be so kind, I’d prefer to be referred to as “vintage.”

Speaking of which, Vivienne Westwood is a rare vintage, always worth a listen!

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What Becomes a Legend Most


Not sure what this has to do with fashion exactly. Something about “style icons” perhaps?

Ben Brantley wrote an article recently {Among Celebrities, Mystery’s Not Fashionable} about how our newfound capacity to stay in the spotlight—tabloids and twitter, wordpress and wikipedia—has undermined the whole reason we want to know anything about each other. There’s no mystery if we keep flaunting ourselves, and mystery is desire I suppose. Okay, that’s a bit of a leap. But compare Jackie Kennedy to Lindsay Lohan, and yeah, that does make his point…

What Goes On

I find myself obsessed, yet again, with the Beatles. The first time was in the 1960s, when they were brand-spankin’ new. My father would read out loud New York Post’s headlines such as “Ringo’s Getting His Tonsils Out” or “Ringo’s Getting Married” and my sister and I would prance around our living room singing “Ringo’s getting married, Ringo’s getting married!” Hilarity incarnate. I couldn’t have been more than 6 years old, and not entirely sure what tonsils, or even marriage, meant, but I understood it was big.

Then in college, circa 1980, my compadres and I went through some sort of pop-nostalgia thing. Grownup-hood impending, trying on the coolest version of our parents we could imagine. We weren’t alone. Would there have been Ramones without Beatles? Or even more significantly, what about the Ruttles?

Now here it is, 40 years after the grande demise, and my 9- and 6-year old boys demand (whine, cajole) Beatles whenever we’re in the car. They can tell you which song is on which album, they discuss who’s their favorite (Ellis: Paul, Lowell: John).

Good is always great, oh and, “Ringo’s Wearing Red Patent Leather!”

A Doppelgänger Aspiration

Eunice Johnson Dies at 93; Gave Ebony Its Name

I confess I troll the obituaries. I love reading about interesting people’s lives, in brief. So I came across Eunice Johnson’s death notice in the NY Times (one of my favorite haunting grounds) in January, and I was moved. If I could be half the woman she was, well, I’d be short, now wouldn’t I? Okay, that’s not what I meant to say. No, I was going to say, I’d be quite accomplished—I’d have climbed some very tall metaphorical mountains. I so admire her ability to identify problems that mattered to her, and most significantly, to solve them.