February 25, 2010

A photographic journey with ELENA Marshall.

If you agree that the name alone is damn pretty, check DayGlow VINTAGE for more prettyness.

Why use post-it notes when you can have some Cardboard LOVE???

Some good ol’ stuff like Sheryl Crow’s Hard To Make A Stand.

Hello Sleepy, if you happen to have a wondering mind at night, watch those Cute Things Falling Asleep.



February 21, 2010

‘You know what I think? … That people’s MEMORIES maybe are the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn’t matter as far as the maintenance of LIFE is concerned. They’re all just fuel. Advertising fillers in the newspaper, philosophy books, dirty pictures in a magazine, a bundle of 10,000 yen bills: when you feed them to the fire, they are all just paper. The fire isn’t thinking, ‘Oh, this is Kant’ or ‘Oh, this is the YOMIURI evening edition,’ or ‘Nice tits,’ while it burns. To the fire, they are NOTHING but scraps of paper. It’s the exact same thing. Important memories, not so important memories, totally useless memories: there’s no distinction – they are all just FUEL.’ (HaRuki MuraKami)


February 18, 2010

3 wOrds=1 nAme: Indgila Samad Ali.

Paper plaNes, orimaTo doLLs & UpOn a fOld is a unique collection of paper artistry from around theGLOBE. Enyoy, give, read & write this MAGICAL journey into the world of paper.

Family aFFairs can be quite fabulOus & artsy. In acse of doubt, check Toujours TOI.

Till we RUN out of ROAD by jeWel.

Just lOOOving these paisley / 60s & 70s mod / Japanese inspired / b&W or fab floral printed purses by FUGU Fashion.

V-Day Contemplations, Part I

Someone once said that 2 halves make a WHOLE. But who says that one half isn’t whole enough? Why wait for 2 comparable halves if you can have it all in 1 single PIECE?

And then there are those who say it takes two to TANGO, and you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few EGGS – but the truth is: you can! What’s wrong about dancing the night away with no one but yourself for COMPANY? And what about an omelette consisting of just one egg for one SINGLE serve?

For some, coming home to the cat is more than enough. For others, a hairy other is just a mere substitute, a very weak serve of tea and little sympathy for the real thing yet to come. But no matter what LIFE is hard enough as it is without choosing someone difficult to share it with – not just on Valentine’s Day.

V-Day Contemplations, Part II

New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s day have a lot more in common than anyone might think. Both events come with a competitive component – say New Year’s Eve [NYE] is the grand final of the year, then Valentine’s day [V-Day] is the annual state championships for romance (or the ultimate challenge to survive the lack of it).

Apart from that both are nothing but an expectation fuelled BEAST, feared by loads of people again & again on an annual basis. While many approach NYE with anything but social pressure & high hopes for the year to come, V-Day comes with a hell lot of attention & puts pressure on the heart as everyone is desperate to be shot with cupid’s arrow.
All in all, both events are just another superfluous American tradition, coming close to Halloween horror and 4th of July hoorays, where everyone goes crazy over yet another celebration of our commercial culture.

No matter what, one thing is certain: there is no escape from NYE & V-Day. Like NYE, the best survival strategy for V-Day is to accept that things are probably going to be disappointing or that life at least will be the same again, once the race is over. There will be no big bang and a happy-ever-after, nor will there be a Prince Charming turning up on your front porch. Crackers and roses alone won’t cure it all…


February 11, 2010

A touch of Leigh’s PHOTOwonderLAND.

Welcome to Ruby & the DODO, a site for all those gorgeous peeps who are looking for something TERRIBLY fabulous for the little individual in their lives.

What beTTer way to start a (MON)day off with a sneak-pEEk at David’s site 27b/6 full of hilarious, random letters to all those annoying people in his life.

HAPPY-preppy sounds like NEW SHOES by Paolo Nutini (what a name!).

Living prOOf that Claire’s IncoRRuptible – this lady only sells ONE-OFF gems & styling and eXclusive drapery.

There are but a handful of moments in our lifetime that truly stay with you for the rest of your life. Amongst mine are those that relate to my grandparents, all bittersweet memories filled with glee, comfort and some ‘pleasant’ pot belly ache over my Opa’s stories and my Oma Christel’s ‘magic’ Christmas cake.

When I was little and both my dear grandparents still alive, we would spend every Christmas day down at their place. My favourite thing to do there was to crawl underneath the side-table in the living room, becoming completely invisible under the crochet lace tablecloth, neatly tucked away from the adult world. In my secret little hidey hole I’d do furtive kiddie things like playing detective and eaves dropping on the enemy’s adult conversation, singing self-composed little songs and for most of all, listen to the stories my Opa would tell about those days when he and my Oma were both young and bold and beautiful.

Every Christmas my grandpa would pull out this old story on how he and my Oma met during the war in December 1942 – she a young pretty nurse at medical school, he a proud assistant doctor that would become ‘weak at his knees’ by the mere sight of her. According to my Opa (this part of the story he would tell me in a whisper), he did not so much fell in love with my Oma’s blonde locks and good looks but more with her ‘magic’ Christmas cake, filled with ’the taste of love’ that led to the romance unfold and eventually develop into something more.

Maybe it was because this story somehow depicts one crucial chapter in my family’s history or really because of the magic and ’the taste of love’ in my Oma’s cake but I remember the incredible amount of love and safeness I felt each time upon hearing my grandparents’ tale (and still feel every time I think back to those days). And my little pot belly would comfortably ache in agreement, the result of eating too much of the warm cake’s custard filling too fast.

After my Oma passed away, her recipe book became a way for me to remember her, to keep her in my life. All in all my Oma was a damn fine lady. She was soft-spoken and sweet. And she loved to share good, home-made food. She came of her cooking age in an era where food was scarce yet said to be ‘the heart of everything,’ a mantra she would pass on throughout her recipes, all living proof of her love for cooking, baking and creating, and above all, the people she catered and cared for.

And just as I could never have imagined my life without having to get to know both my grandparents, I can no longer imagine my life without making that ‘magic’ cake each Christmas, recalling the story of how my Opa and Oma fell in love and remembering how their presence shaped me to become the person I am today. No, Christmas wouldn’t taste the same without that ‘magic’ cake and the memories of love attached to each slice.

LeaVing TIME aGain…

February 7, 2010

I talked to Lou, he quit back in ’92.
Says he misses it bad, those were the BEST TIME he ever had.
He said ‘Give it hell to the end ’cause once you quit you can’t get it back again,”

We’re leaving, LEAVING again
Can’t recall where are we’ve been.
I guess we’ll just go
Go till we’re too old
Or we run out of ROAD. (jeWel)


February 4, 2010

Going on a ROAD TRIP with Rockie Nolan & her PHOTOshoots.

In TOUGH times of credit crunch & market meltdown stores like CuteAbility come to your rescue. Cuties like ‘Don’t Break The Eggs’ earrings, “Bringing Home The Bacon’ necklace & ‘Pink Log Cake With Fruit’ for world DOMINATION!

Sites like The Jealous Curator that turn vintage landscapes into typographic treasures.

GOLDFRAPP’s wonderfully weird clip to ‘Eat YOURself.’

Giggles over hysterical & hilarious headlines at America’s finest & funniest newspaper, THE ONION.

Even trivial moments can turn into adventurous childhood ventures. Part of mine were those days when my mama and I would take a trip into town. That was a big deal for me – on that day I would be an early bird, rising up from the pillow pile before everyone else in the house just to be ready and on time for all the exciting city adventure yet to come.

The bus would depart at 8.10AM sharp – a miss would mean going 3 hrs later or not all. In any case this would suck a lot, after all these 1-day trips into town would be my fortnightly highlight. When finally on the bus, I would spend the entire trip staring outside the window, catching houses grow and faint on the horizon, seeing fields of gold in autumn, brown snow match in winter, tint of grass in spring and green grass in summer as season sceneries passing me by; and then, the closer we would get, city buildings appear like gatekeepers to another world. The times I wouldn’t be glued to the window, mama and I would chat about ‘the list’ and the ‘VIP missions’ we had to accomplish in town, including buying some fabrics and other crafty things for my little doll house, chasing after a new pair of pink shoes or browsing through the Joan Aiken or C.S. Lewis collection in the small but cramped bookshop in the side alley. And then there would be the ‘obligatory lunch’ on level 3, followed by a chocolate coated, vanilla dripping Choc Nig.

Nothing fancy yet special to me would be having lunch at that restaurant on level 3 in the one and only centralised shopping mall, one of these canteen-like food-chain supplies where people queue in front of glass counters with chunky food piles on display and grumpy old check-out chicks past their prime (time) and far far away from making your day with even the slightest crack of a smile. Even though the location wasn’t that great I enjoyed every single bite, a chunky-punky meal was just part of the deal of some quality time spent with mama in town.

As a special treat, there would be a chocolate coated ice-cream cone waiting for me outside on the way to see great-grand ma. In a language that is not appropriate to use anymore that dark brown ice cream would be called a Chocolate Nigger. Despite the controversial naming convention, it was yum. I still remember the first bite that cracked the frozen chocolate coat and the melted vanilla ice-cream below that would drip on my shirt. Over the years I witnessed the sign of the little ice-cream trolley change from the inappropriate term mentioned above to a mere Ice-cream Cones with Chocolate Coat. Pfft, adult world – who get’s it? Words should be judged according to their meaning not for the abuse they are used by irresponsible adultrish idiots.

And then after the BIG day out there would come the ride home. Sitting in the bus, I would spend the entire trip staring outside the window, seeing city buildings disappear in the back-rear window, and then fields of gold in autumn, brown snow match in winter, tint of grass in spring and green grass in summer passing me by. Getting off the bus, the smell of country in the air and mama’s hand as safety-net to guide me home, trashed but soaked up with contentment from the city-venture. In retrospect, this trip to town with my mama was all worth it – early bird rise, mass canteen food and the Choc Nig just to slide back into rural bliss called home.