With conspicuous prominent features comparative with that of Kate Moss I felt obliged to snap her photo before flicking through Frankie magazine and seeing it there .
all this makes me wanna say is: “whats ya dick like homie what are you into?”
for those of you who aren’t blissfully aware of Azealia Banks’ lewd, crude bordering on obscene tune ‘212’ this is my most favourite line from it.
we all know that the world loves a hot black chick with attitude: macy gray, lauryn hill , M.I.A, beyonce, santigold and the newest member of this genetically blessed, overly talented group…Azealia Banks are just a few. whats not to love? they’re sassy, sexy and just so fuckin’ cool that they’re allowed to say ‘cunt’ more than 26 times in the space of 4 minutes. i’m not sure whether to bow down in thanks or punch myself in the face. us white girls, notorious as ever for being the biggest culprits of perpetuating the idea of ‘wanting what we can’t have’ make no exception in trying to imitate the ultra-cool-as-fuck look that these babes carry off so well.
denim shorts, boys kappa jeans (remember those?!), vintage basket ball singlets, chuckie taylors, oversized hoodies, genie pants, bandanas, adidas trackies and threadbare tees with rasta slogans on them get paired, no rhyme or rhythm with clashing garish tribal prints, hoop earrings, patches of glitter, flat brimmed hats and diamond encrusted bling teeth to create a look thats perfectly constructed yet looks more like it was haphazardly thrown together after priscilla got in fight with 50 cent. (my bad. fiddy.)
in her clip for 212 azalea looks like she’s rolled outta bed and on the way down to the local ball court to kick it with her homies has thrown on her shortest denim cut offs, favourite mickey mouse knit from kindergarten and high top nikes.
aside from gwen stefani, though, i don’t know many white gals who can carry this look off without looking like a tom-boy drowning in their big brother’s basketball kit, or britney spears impersonating lil’ kim..in other words, white trash.
perhaps ooli knew that a white girl stepping into the sass boots of a black girl was treading a fine line between being mothafuckin’ dope asssss or being buried but never one to shy away from a challenge she promptly changed her name to ooli-eeesha, snapped her fingers and got her ‘ooh run run’ on with the full fervour of snoop sippin’ gin & juice.
i like to think that 212 homegirl ooli developed before my very eyes in europe while we were clutching at fashion angel straws desperately attempting to construct some sort of original/borrowed/painted/stolen version of an outfit we’d been wearing for 3 months already. i was already vaguely aware of ooli’s bizarre penchant for flat brimmed hats but it really peaked when she dragged all of us into a surf shop, very inebriated, at 1am to painstakingly try on and then purchase a hat bearing the slogan ‘girls sk8’, or something similarly as ‘original’.
and, don’t even question why said shop was open at 1am, everything is upside down in Lagos, or, perhaps it was a sort of ooli type secret wardrobe shop which opens for precisely 47 minutes following the consumption of exactly 3 tequila shots, a nibble of a smurf, 3 sickly pink drinks and 12 high kicks then promptly disappears in a puff of smoke several minutes after her exit. with the flat brimmed cap as a sort of secret ghetto weapon, ooli’s outfits, dancing and whole demeanour steadily became more ghetto until ‘the 212’ was a fully fledged, rude, crude, poppin, crip walkin, crunkin, grinding new addition to ooli’s repertoire. behold.
i don’t know about you but i get a very gwen stefani feeling from this. at the time of the ooli-gwen-212 debut i was too drunk to fully appreciate the gloriousness of this outfit. its only with the beauty of hindsight that i realise that this is where ghetto fab ooli really booty popped her way into the world. the best bit about this whole outfit is the gym bra/crop top which looks like it should belong to scuba steve. moreover, i have NO fucking clue where this top came from. clearly ooli had a private moment where she rubbed her paws together and prayed for biggy to fed ex it to her via ‘dope ass express’ cuz i sure as shit never laid eyes on it before.
as ooli-esha grew more bold she proved to the world that an inner tinkerbell can blossom into an inner tupac. she took her home girl staples of chuckie t’s, the flat brim caps and oversized bling and married them with denim overalls, tye dye bikini tops, superman undies, suspenders, cheerleader socks and bandanas crip walked around town and perfected the ‘hey, boys can we kick it?’ look with just the elements of sassy and sex chucked into the mix.
now she sits balanced perfectly on the very small platform of gwen-stefani-esque ghetto chic where most white girls never make it dressed in a midriff bearing t-shirt with the words ‘we cool‘ doodled haphazardly across the chest in gold sequinned cursive writing and yelling out to the rest of the world “bring ya doo rag too son?!”
peace out homies,
though i confess that i covet some celebrities’ style so much that i frequently claim that i want to ‘fucking cut off their skin and wear them’ i’ve never been much good at being a loyal follower of anyone In particular. quite simply my attention span mirrors that of a goldfish. nonetheless the idea of profiling is a writing style that i like. so here i go with the amalgamation of visuals, love and many-a-personal joke type description.
ooli (as her alter ego is so aptly named), isn’t a celebrity, (though she sure as shit should be) but is the one person, out of all the people i know who claim to be similar to carrie bradshaw who actually is. i’ve stolen that sentence directly from her mouth. she used it to address me, but, in contrast to her vision of me perched all bradshaw-esque at my window sill, tap-tap-tapitying away at my lap top, chain smoking, sipping an espresso martini and inhaling banana chips (yeh thats right 3 hands – que pasa bitches?) leg up on the desk, dressed in some amazingly ridiculous outfit of sparkly grandma bloomers, a basketball singlet and happily whiling away the hours deep in analytical virgo thought about ‘black hearts’ or ‘the death of chivalry’… my vision of her is interwoven with bradshaw’s by her wardrobe, though i like to think of ooli’s wardrobe more like a treasure box.
in actual fact victoria (the aforementioned ooli) presents nothing like bradshaw but it is her utter disregard for rules (both societal or style) and reckless abandon with which she approaches dressing that links them together.
having met victoria overseas and travelled to many a dusty paradise our friendship has evolved over countless primping, outfit assembling, fashion angel sessions. despite the obvious restrictions that travel places on you in terms of rules of practicality and following weight guidelines on aeroplanes victoria heeds none and apologises just as often. her ‘bags’ (multiple) spew out the most bizarre, wonderful and ludicrous items of ‘clothing’ imaginable; denim overalls, skirts, skorts, maxi dresses, mini dresses, ponchos, genie pants, boy’s t-shirts, one-zies, promo shirts from EVERY bar in town, body suits, scuba suits, drances, and more bikinis than you can find at bondi on a summers day. and i say ‘clothing’ because it doesn’t stop there…somewhere she manages to find room for flat brimmed caps, suspenders, platformed sneakers, head wreaths woven from plastic flowers, bandanas, scarves, water pistols, blow up bambi’s and all the other shiny objects she manages to collect – not dissimilar to a maternal magpie carrying out their interior decorating chores.
ooli follows no rules or style guidelines; she wears jackets as skirts, bandanas as bras, sunflowers as big as her head on her head, skirts as tops, pairs florals with stripes, paisley with football socks and rainbow crochet with tye dye denim.
when you watch ooli dress (very pervy!) you start to comprehend that its not so much a chore or a human process, it’s a fucken full stage theatrical performance complete with shiny props and mishaps where she trips over a wooden platform or gets a lacy pink g-string stuck to her foot (usually mine). when she sets out to dress this girl isn’t just covering her body or even endeavouring to impress a boy.. no, i fully believe that vic dresses to character every single time she goes out, or at least she conceptualises a certain look and evolves with it until it is her. one day she’s a dishevelled, guitar playing gypsy in a white lounge-suit, the next she’s a frat boy-esque meets science nerd cheer leader, a munted yellow-haired golliwog in deep orange overalls that look like they were made out of heshian sacks stolen from the bakery or a barefooted sunflower so innocent looking you think she has rainbows flavoured nipples.
you’d be right in thinking that this is a lengthy process. correct. every single fucking night whilst yelling at her ‘ooli SIN MAMARDERING, i swear to god woman…STOP FUCKING SHUFFLING’ she carried on this ritualistic dance and every single night i thought to myself ‘what the fuck is she doing? (of course with all respect and love intended) there is no way those knee high socks will go with that bowtie/sequinned sash, tribal print poncho, polka dotted onesie, crocheted body suit, high waisted mustard denim shorts’ or that she’ll be able to carry off ‘preppy school boy meets debbie does dallas’ but every night, as i looked down at my own maxi uniform of denim cutoffs and a plain white/grey/black loose singlet I WAS WRONG.
so, herein lies my point; the girl takes risks, and yeh, so do a lot of people but i’m not convinced that for them it is purely organic. with vic, i’ve seen all of her superheroes floral and other develop from a miss mesh of colours and textures on the floor, i’ve seen her dance around her obese, exploding bags tripping on bikini strings and half sucked chupa chups and build it all from scratch. the risk bit is what makes her more carrie-esque than anyone else i know, who claim with a superficial affinity for labels or ability to (mis)match dior with something vintage or ‘from topshop’….whoop de fucking vintage fur whoooooop. remember that fugly newspaper dress that carrie wears to confront natasha after having an affair with Big? nobody likes that dress but carrie doesn’t give a fuck. nor would ooli.
without any further mamardering let me introduce you to eau de ooli; the princess herself, and, all the captivatingly, wildly beautiful facades, themes and characters of my wonderful friend victoria.
(all photographs stolen from ooli herself)
My toes are still slightly throbbing from the Louboutins . Despite falling over every 5 seconds when i first wore them they are the most amazing pair of shoes I own . Every time I wear them I can at least say I extend my walking distance by 20m without falling over . Tonight I didn’t even stumble, success!!
Xx M .
I spent 3 full days in Rome with the intention of sight seeing . No actually that’s a lie, I wanted to shop! I did attempt sight seeing, but I became bored and irritable at the exhausting heat that consumed Rome…and my make up!
After visiting the main attractions i.e. the colosseum, we detoured to the Via Condotti . Basically this is heaven for shopping; Chanel, Dior, Louboutin, YSL, Prada, Miu Miu and anything you could want in an arms reach – half of which is almost inaccessible or limited in Australia . I ended the day with a few more YSL rings, a large Louis Vuitton ‘never full’ bag and cosmetic case .
Despite my lack of interest at the time for the historical monuments around me Rome is a beautiful city . I’d love to go back and explore it more, actually walking in to the colosseum this time . And of course some more shopping wouldn’t hurt…besides you can never have enough YSL . or Louis . or Chanel . or maybe anything haha .
Xx M .
After sitting on the fence for almost 2 months I finally built up the courage to submit my application on Friday night to FBI Fashion College . As I nervously waited all weekend for their response, my phone rang this morning and I knew instantly . I ran out the door at work to answer and it was FBI congratulating me on a successful application and moving forward with the next step, an interview . Wednesday afternoon at 4pm . I’ve been shaking with nerves and excitement since that phone call .
What am I going to wear!? Eeep!
Coveted model mentor on Australia’s Next Top Model, Josh Flinn just happened to be standing next to me at the bar in Surry Hills – The Clock Hotel .
Oblivious to anything but my beverage being made in front of me, my sister nudged me and told me to look and see who was standing to my left .
“excuse me, sorry to interrupt but do I know you from somewhere you look familiar?”
“that’s ok!” he replies
“are you on tv?”
He smiles at me
“yes I am!” he replied, followed by a discussion entailing his envy for my hair and a photo!
He was so lovely, the moment I introduced myself he spoke to me as though we were old friends . Sometimes you forget that people with a celebrity status can be normal too .
Spooning Goats, a new 70’s themed bar located on York St, Sydney . The owner, my best friends boyfriend, Jason .
The unique name was established after receiving a free ‘i love goats’ badge coinciding with a passing joke in the family about who would inherit his grandmothers spoon collection . This spiked up some brainstorming between Jason and his friends . The two together resulted in the name “The Spooning Goats” .
The bar is well known for their boutique beers, innovative and unique decor, and their amazing gourmet sweet and savory pies – I highly recommend the caramelised pear and vanilla pie!
Did I mention they even have an Atari game console!?
Make sure you wonder down that way; 32 York St, Sydney 2000 .
the delicious pie as mentioned above, photos don’t do it justice!