This family day weekend took me by surprise. I didn’t make any grand plans, in fact, I barely acknowledged that it was even a long weekend. I was planning on waking up early Monday morning, getting all my writing done on Sunday. You know, the usual bill for us Eurotrash girls. Until Sunday night – I got a text with an invite to go out on the town. That’s when I realized that I had been partying since Friday. Drinking an average of 5 coronas/night. I did the Raptor’s game, Lakeview Diner, two homemade pizza and wine nights, 7 episodes of Boardwalk Empire, got my hair done, did a Bagel run, danced til 3am, waited in line, did shots. This is not the usual bill for Eurotrash. So on that faithful Sunday evening, I said yes – why the heck not? At least it gave me an excuse to take a quick snap for Wednesday’s outfit post. For the rest of the images from that night check my instagram feed…

H&M FAUX LEATHER SKIRT

LACE STOCKINGS BY FILODORO

JEFFREY CAMPBELL CLINIC WEDGE

FREE PEOPLE KNIT SWEATER

BREIL CHAOS NECKLACE

Donna Karan look from Net-A-Porter.com

How I plan on getting through the rest of winter came from an inspiration I had while eavesdropping on an utterly intolerable fashion model. She was trying on a pair of Brian Atwood booties, coached by her ex-model-cum-agent on how they were going to turn the model’s recent punk haircut into a total image overhaul. Kinda like Rihanna – minus the domestic violence. The model chopped off all her hair the day before and now stood there like a poor man’s Agyness Deyn.

“Oh, we are going to get like piercings and tattoos today on Queen street. She needs to play the part completely” – chimes the agent.
“Oh totally, like, uh, my friend, like omg, she – wait a second, I think I just came a little. I look so fucking gorgeous in these boots. Anyways yeah, she used to be like an intern for Brian Atwood and now she’s like tots living the dream. Tory Burch wants her cause like she’s THAT good. Anyways I’m gonna walk into his office in Soho with my new hair cut and this fur and just be like ‘hey remember me? You booked me once’. I mean fuck it, I live in New York City. I’m totally bookable. Especially with this new hair – eyebrows are my life” – she came a little in her pants, I barfed a little in my mouth.

This poor child was a walking, talking puppet. None of the things she said mattered to anything or anyone in this world. It was just FASHION SPEAK – the only language you can speak for hours without saying anything at all.

I must admit that sometimes I find myself adopting the lingo when trying to prove my credentials to an insufferable newbie blogger during fashion week. Why speak to them like a human being? No, instead we must assert our superiority by putting on a tour de force performance of the fashion stereotype. This model was probably doing just that – now living in NYC she had to prove to her hometown, an inferior fashion city, that she could walk the walk and talk the talk; just like her fresh nose piercing and imminent tattoo would convince NYC of her punk pedigree.

She was dressed like an off-duty model par excellence, though. Two things I thought were genius: layers and length. I’ll explain why.

It’s February – and after comes March – the two worst months for dressing fashionably. Winter clothes are so over with and who can really bring themselves to buying refills when all the stores have pretty pastel jeans and thin t-shirts on display, taunting our better judgment. Sure, we can start stockpiling for May but what do you do tomorrow morning when those tag-still-on purchases start the catcalls as you approach your closet, clad in flannel pyjamas? Winter clothes definitely won’t do – and Spring clothes as attractive as they seem, are not in season just yet. Our Agyness Deyn wannabe had on long layers – a collared shirt, an oversized tee, a long cardigan and a long coat. She looked stunning AND warm.

By layering your winter clothes there’s a nuance in never-before pairings that should keep you going until temperatures rise. Take a cardigan you are so completely tired of, layer it with a shirt and vest, add leggings and voila – you have a semi-new outfit. The Donna Karan example above is how I plan on dressing the next little while as I await the dawn of pastels. Like, totally.

This time last year I was heading home from Los Angeles. Venice Beach, Abbot Kinney Blvd, Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Marina del Rey, West Hollywood… top down on my Mitsubishi convertible! Ok, I was on a budget. Didn’t cop the Balenciaga sunglasses I found at Kitson, but I splurged on a Tarina Tarantino pink skull bracelet. All $18.00′s worth. I found it at It’s A Wrap – a store that sells clothing and accessories from movies and TV show wardrobes. They had everything from Zac Posen to Isabel Marant. Read about it HERE. As the winter clouds descend upon us today in Toronto, I’ll revisit a place where Eurotrash feels at home. Beach, great food, amazing shopping and a touch of Hollywood decadence.

Enjoy the photos!

Taking in the Pacific in Venice Beach

Driving with the palm trees along Sunset Blvd.

Yummy vegan burger in Beverly Hills

Taking a long lunch at Planet Raw in Santa Monica.

Planet Raw vegan jerk “chicken” wrap

vegan sushi at Planet Raw

Driving home from Venice Beach. Traffic Jam photo op.

Top down, traffic.

Beverly Hills Sunset. 

Driving to Melrose…first stop Whole Foods for $300 worth of vegan groceries.

Some cute little purse store on Melrose

Allsaints Spitalfields.

Vintage Balenciaga faceshields at Kitson

Walking around Venice Beach

Venice Beach sunset.

Taschen book store, Beverly Hills.

Nightlife that I didn’t care about so I wore a sweater.

“Seduta in mezzo al letto lei promette: cosa non farà più. Cosa farà di nuovo, cosa farà di meno. Con un prudente margine d’incerto.”   Lucio Battisti, Cosa farà di nuovo.

***

You think what she wears doesn’t matter. It could be American Apparel. It could be vintage. It could be a high luxe brand; it could secretly be made in China. She admits right away that she’s obsessed with fashion, but not in that slavish, trend follower way. “It’s more like refusing to go even to the corner store without a bit of Missoni”, she explains so matter-of-fact to my face. I’ve read about people like her before. Anna Wintour, in her bleakest bouts of unemployment, wore head-to-toe Yves Saint Laurent. A pink slip didn’t preclude her attendance at Paris Fashion Week, front row. “It’s because fashion, for some people, has absolutely nothing to do with money – but for everybody else, it has everything to do with money”, she snickers. For her, fashion has everything to do with Missoni.

Just the other day we were driving around and she turns to me, Chanel lipstick in hand like heat aimed straight at my jugular: “You know what your problem is? You can’t imagine your life without all those designer clothes, of which you’ve augured a probable existence over a glass of wine. What the fuck is that? Just go to the store and get yourself that Balenciaga of your dreams”. She puts it bluntly. I miss the stop sign. Instead, I see gold rivets. Why is it that I dream about these clothes as if they are perpetually unattainable and she, Chanel lipstick on her lips, waltzes into the boutique and purchases my dream? “Because I’m not asleep. I need clothes to wear. And when I look in the mirror I want to see stripes, zigzags; kaleidoscopic colours. I want the light to hit my rings when I point to whatever and for this knit Missoni sweater to add the right amount of purpose to the whole picture. I want to look so good that I could die, immortalized in that picture.” And she climbed out of the car, terracotta shopping bag in hand.

Throughout the years we lost touch. She promised me everything she’d do. What she’d never do again. What she’d start doing. What she’d stop doing; do less of. A prudent margin of uncertainty in her eyes gave me that tiny shred of hope I needed. Maybe she was the one dreaming, and I was alive, awake. I was still wearing Missoni head-to-toe. I piled on a sweater in pastel knit, diaphanous over my zigzag bikini. Something like a headscarf keeping my hair in place.

It’s so windy here at times, I think to myself as I take a sip of something bitter. I think back to her. Those long discussions about why an Italian knit company conceived in a basement was so definitive of everything we should really be giving a damn about. Ice cream diets that go right to your thighs. Those were things of the past. Maybe I’ll shoot her an email; see if she’ll pose for a few pictures. Yes, I’ll do just that.

Photographed by JR Bernstein

A few weeks ago Emilia wrote a guest post about her love for Missoni here. I decided it would make a great bloggertorial. Emilia graciously posed for us in Missoni; all pieces are her own. The jewellery is also hers. Louis Vuitton rings and bangles; Chanel pearl necklace and earrings. JR Bernstein is behind the lens. He shot the photographs, edited and provided art direction when I was at a loss. The Black&White photographs are done on film and are untouched. Drake played in the background because somehow he managed to inspire all of us – Emilia mostly, though. The story is a fictitious recollection of a girl who is in love with Missoni and her friend who may just be an alter ego she’s dreamed up. I wrote the story with the hopes of providing an accompaniment to the visuals, however tenuously they appear to be related. That was sort of the point.

I hope you all enjoy it!

Hey there, sunshine. Looking for something to brighten up your un-pedicured toes? Of course you are. I bet you wanna Eurotrash yourself, too. You know, mules & clogs tend to be the most underrated category of footwear. Sure, blame it on their perversions: the jewish camp girl clog or brrrrrr, crocs. Not all mules are clogs, but all clogs are mules – and crocs should just not exist, period. But these Missoni mules get an A+ in my books. I have a pair of Gucci clogs that I revere more than life. While other girls wear pumps and sandals, the wooden heel clog is just that extra WTF in any outfit. Skinny jeans, cut-off shorts, a sundress; they all beg clogs. These Missoni clogs, with their pastel crochet and wood heel give me shoe goosebumps. Whip out the VISA – Mama’s got feet!

Eurotrash in front of Costes Roses Dani Roses

I was 19 years old when I first ever heard about Hotel Costes. Came to me in the form of Stéphane Pompougnac’s CD compilation Hotel Costes… Best of. So I was like completely head over heels for this Parisian boudoir music. Puffed cigarettes to it. Tried to emulate the life of Eva Green’s character, Isabel, with every listen. I was 19, people. The world to me was like living in the glossy pages of Vogue. Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t become so irrevocably jaded; still had that little bit of belief in the impossible.

Hotel Costes, Hotel Costes – this place MUST exist. 239 rue Saint honoré. I found the location of what has come to be an elusive Eurotrash destination – part of the Eurotrash canon, if you will. Let me begin by saying that yes, I’ve been there. I can tell you first hand what the air smells like inside. What the doorman looks like. The roses. Isn’t it the most curious thing that instead of some ostentatious entrance facade where supermodels flak themselves with planned appearances while paparazzi and fans stand by, hand on the trigger – the entrance to Hotel Costes is a flower shop?

Not just any flowers – ROSES! Apart from every shade of pink petals, everything is black. There are two large doors with no name – no hint of where you may be entering – just a doorman that smiles a knowing smile. Hotel Costes isn’t just some place you happen to stumble upon on your way home from work – it’s a destination. You know exactly where you’re going if you’re headed to Costes – that’s why its exterior bears no name in flashing lights. It attracts you for reasons beyond appearance. It has your attention without ever making a sound.

Stéphane Pompougnac is on the ones and twos. He mixed the hotel’s self titled series. Next comes the ‘Costes Présente’ series, produced by Masomenos – a funky, lovebird duo between the hotel owner’s daughter, Joan and her boy, Adrien. Their music is more like something you’d hear playing at Colette - sending spenders in a trance as they smash all their euros on Keith Haring coasters and expensive running shoes by Maison Martin Margiela. But who’s to judge? If I had money I would’ve coped more than a 13 euro MONO & ME skull bracelet.

Hotel Costes is the kind of place where you order champagne for lunch. Inside, it’s a world of deep velvety reds reminiscent of that Second Empire aesthetic. Ornate furniture and gold-gilded-everything. Lots of plants and flowers, too. An outdoor eating area that you wouldn’t dare go down to in your pyjamas. Red lips and heels only, s’il vous plait.

Something that brings the world of Costes back to me here in gloomy T.O. where a place like The Thompson Hotel is a thing (gosh), is the Hotel Costes luxury magazine, Palace Costes. Issues are scattered around the hotel for the taking. I’ve got 2. One from my sister’s sojourn to Paris in ’09, the other from my trip there this past summer. To walk in Hotel Costes, to breathe the fresh roses, the french wine uncorked at breakfast, the music in that tiny little boutique hotel store – it suddenly became a place where big things happen.

“One fancy cocktail, in the sky.” - Lovie Austin, Hotel Costes Best of CD.

 My two issues of Palace Costes

 In my room – some hotel memorabilia alongside a serving tray from the market in Florence, an old edition of LUNA magazine from Italy and my grandmother’s Sutherland China W Hudson bone china cup & saucer. 

These days are seemingly fashionable. Sure, I spend my mornings in a bathrobe and accessorize with a large Starbucks coffee mug, one with pink hearts on it, at best. But what the heck, I’ve run through so many blog-worthy outfits without so much as a lingering, self-approving nod in a full length mirror – the one I still have yet to purchase. So here I am in all my glory. Why I love my fox fur coat is its guilt free provenance. A hand-me-down from my aunt (it even has her name stitched in the lining), I don’t have to worry about P.E.T.A. coming after me with a can of Benjamin Moore paint in shade C231, ox blood. I picture me just yelling: “Halt! It’s vintage” to the Jackson Pollock animal lovers. I can say these things, I think, because I’m a vegetarian. Why I love my Ray Ban honeys? They add an extra pop of colour to an otherwise dreary outfit. My boyfriend bought them for me while on a boys trip to Vegas – I hope they too have a guilt free provenance…

Eurotrash Outfit:

RAY BAN HONEYS

REBECCA MINKOFF M.A.C. FROM A2ZANE 

VINTAGE FOX FUR COAT

H&M BASIC TEE

BCBG TIGHTS

SUEDE BOOTS FROM BROWNS

Bianca Balti illustration by Lisa Nishimura for Whatever Eurotrash.

Another one of my favourite Missoni ladies, Bianca Balti, is also one of those Eurotrash muses I like to talk about. So much so that Lisa Nishimura sketched and pixeled her up for me! Why is Balti eurotrash? First of all, she isn’t Britney Spears famous. Eurotrash prefers a small, but astute following. If you catch a glimpse of her, she always looks perfect – none of this stars are just like us bullshit hiding under a baseball cap without spanx. Secondly, she can make jeans and a tank work fucking miracles on a Fendi peek-a-boo bag that costs more than your last 2 mortgage payments. Bianca Balti. Remember her name because chances are, she won’t remind you.

Kuwait a minute, is that a Missoni hotel?

Maybe you haven’t noticed that the impulse to conquer the world didn’t die with Queen Cleopatra’s last snake bite, sending her to the realm of the dead – her hopes of Caesarion’s ascendence over both Western and Easter empires, last night’s dream. Families like the Rothschilds and probably to a lesser, more commercial degree, The Missonis, still propagate their wealth and power by dipping their hands into anything and everything. I mean, just look at Trump. The toupee on his head, which is most likely held in place by tiny gold threads to give it that rootstock appearance, would probably sell for a couple hundred thou just because it hovers oh-so-close enough to whatever that thing we call Trump is.

Why the world needs a Missoni hotel is hard to explain. But there it is, standing tall in Kuwait – and not so tall in Edinburgh, and soon in Brazil, Mauritius and Oman. The height of these latter edifices is still unknown. How tall will they be? Nobody knows!

I’ve always heard whispers about these s0-called Missoni hotels but never really thought that anybody actually stayed in them. For $365.00/night you can stay at the Hotel Missoni Kuwait this weekend. I got the price on hotwire.com, yo. But would you stay there? Or shudder at the risk of looking tacky? Like the woman decked out head-to-toe in the LV monogram – yes, including her fingernail art. I mean these concept hotels are great to blog about and visit on tours and stuff but after the novelty wears off wouldn’t you rather be at The Ritz?

(Quebec City’s Ice Hotel is an example par excellence. I took a tour of the hotel. It’s cool to visit for about 30 minutes. Then it gets really, really  cold. And completely uncomfortable. Plus you have to go OUTSIDE to a not-close-enough heated chalet, which has the interior decor of grade 8 overnight camp,  should you need to pee in the middle of the night. With my loosey-goosey bladder I might as well sleep in the goddamn cafeteria – also reminiscent of high school. There’s a vending machine. Lays chips and stuff).

Don’t get me wrong, I love Missoni. I probably wouldn’t stay in their hotels, though. If you’re an expert at knit sweaters and caftans then what the heck are you doing trying to design a bathtub!? (169 of them, to be exact). That’s just me. I’m a firm believer in going to the expert for every single thing you need. I’m not a fan of the Walmart mentality. The one-stop shop. Or a brand name that stamps its trademark onto all kinds of products. And I don’t think luxury brands fare too well adopting this said approach. They lose that rare cachet of specialization. Kinda like a cheesemonger selling iphone cases and cigarettes, I think.

 Eurotrash in Montreal (2007) and in Milan (2005) clad in Missoni. 

 Some people grow up with a silver spoon, or several, as I learned last night watching The Jazz Baroness – the story of Pannonica Rothschild’s departure from her silver spoons into the then-subversive American jazz scene of the 1950s. Sure, if I was Justine Rothschild I’d have many silver spoons. But would I have Missoni?

Something about money that just can’t buy you good taste. In fact, the Rothschilds who made appearances in the throwaway documentary were far from fashionable – far from presentable, if you ask me. First of all, none of them had ever heard of botox. Or dentists. A clan of billionaires with bad teeth and probably, bad breath. Gosh. Can you believe the Royal Family asked the Rothschilds for A LOAN? You would never know by looking at them, that’s for certain.

What’s all this got to do with the Missoni stripes that haven’t left my margins yet? Nothing really. Except that if I were a billionaire with the choice of duck milk, goose milk or half-sweetened lizard jizz for breakfast I’d certainly take the time to at least PAY someone to make me look presentable – and if we’re talking about me, personally, I’d want to look like an aristocratic version of Anna dello Russo minus her face.

My Missoni hat and scarf! OK, so they don’t match per se, but isn’t that the point of Missoni? 

So I’ve become quite content (ok, satiated for the time being) with my paltry collection of Missoni fare. I’ve got a knit scarf and I used to own a Missoni sport knit cardigan, which I bought in Florence when there used to be a Missoni Sport. (I sold the cardigan. Cacat!).
This Christmas I added a Missoni cashmere hat to my collection thanks to Mr. Eurotrash, who has recently added the ability to stop women in the street to compliment them on their Missoni pieces to his many talents. Eurotrash like me.