Category Archives: Pop culture

God Attack the Queen! (Send Big Dogs After Her, That Bite Her Bum.)

Oh creamy old England! I must say, I don’t quite share their enthusiasm…though Hugh Laurie can drive his bus down my Garboldisham Lane any day (gross!…but seriously, there’s a lovely village there). I’ve never been much of an anglophile, mostly due to my full-blooded, second-generation, Irish-American father, who throughout my life has thrown me gems like “When I was a kid, I used to march in the St. Patrick’s day holding a sign that said ‘England Free Ireland!'” and, my all-time favorite, “The English are tremendous pricks” (best Thanksgiving convo EVER).

Still, in light of working for an English company, and in an effort to subvert the bottomless mire of eternal negativity that is, unfortunately, my natural disposition, I’m trying to be more Brit-positive (and just more positive in general, HENCE THE DELIGHTFUL BLOG DUH). SO, since I haven’t made a list in quite a while (holy coincidence Batman! That list is American themed!), I’ve compiled my top five favorite awesome-looking English things.

#5 – Eddie Izzard.

Need I say more? He’s funny, he’s sexy, and you can borrow his tuxedo jackets and high-heel boots. Also, in real life he wears glasses, which means you can trust him.

#4 – Fish & Chips

Ok, so you can’t exactly wear it (or can you? Seriously Hugh Laurie, let’s do this), but awesome nonetheless. Besides, I enjoy how the vaguely handsome Englishmen at A Salt & Battery nostalgically flirt with me, as they recognize a pretty girl desperately trying to control the bad teeth and skin she inherited from her British Isle ancestors, and it makes them long for home.

#3 – The Mod Movement

I almost chose Teddy Boys, but I thought that movement wasn’t specific enough to England (despite the Edwardian twist, they’re too similar to American Greasers). Besides, the best part of the Teddy Boy-ish style were Widgies,

an Australian/Kiwi phenomenon.

I digress, comme d’habitude. I’m distressed. I feel oppressed. I’ve become depressed. Kidding, I’m doing it again! Anyway, despite the fact that everyone looks hungry all the time, the mod movement remains one of my biggest style influences. I’d like to travel back to 1960’s London and feed everyone deep-fried turkeys and ham sandwiches while looking awesome, a la Mama Cass.

#2 – This Commercial (note the references to Widgies AND Mods, though oddly not in that order)

In honor of a new shopping center in East London, some sexy ad men (I naturally assume that all ad men are sexy…Don Draper, Spider Cahoots, etc. And that they’re all men, because I’m ragingly sexist) made this RIDICULOUS commercial, which I cannot stop watching. It combines two of my very favorite things: dance and historical fashion.

#1 – Lauralou

Best thing to hit London since…reverse pilgrams? I don’t know, ever. If I’m not mistaken, the story goes something like this: Lauralou’s ancestor’s emigrate from England to the US during early colonization. When the colonists rebel, they flee to Canada, since they are strict loyalists and Canada is still under unwavering British rule. (What I’ve learned about Canadian history: X arrives on Canadian shores; current Canadian settlers capitulate without a fight; offer them polite tea and resentment; Canada is eventually offered independence from UK on moving day; Quebec is denied independence from greater Canada but granted the right to hold infinite parades and rallies; the Queen continues to hang out there on holiday, Kate Middleton wears awesome dresses.) One hundred and forty-four and a half years later Lauralou moves back to England and TAKES THE PUBLISHING WORLD BY STORM!!!!! I love her.

Strawberries and England y’all.


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We Got the [Tayisha Busay] Virus.

So a couple of months ago, Ariel texted me with a fashion EMERGENCY: she needed to borrow ALL of my flesh colored lingerie for the new Tayisha Busay video. Jumping at the chance to make my panties famous, I stuffed all my naughty second skins into a Petco bag and did a quick exchange with my fave glamour girl. Sadly, my panties didn’t make the cut, but the video is, nevertheless, AWESOME:


Damn, even their bruises are glitterly.

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There’s a Better Life, and You Think About it Dontcha?

Ok, so are you PUMPED for this post??? Yeah!

9 to 5 can be tough. You can’t sleep until 11am. Museums are crowded whenever you’re free to visit. Sometimes people drink the organic milk you left in the fridge as a special treat for yourself because the milk delivery was delayed until Monday afternoon.

Essential to survival in these harsh conditions? Drinking lunches:

Tying up your boss and taking over management of the company:

(This option should only be employed in extreme circumstances, i.e., sexual harassment, theft of intellectual property, etc. As the old saying goes, don’t commit felony kidnapping over “missing” organic milk. For further clarity, see full feature film.)

Aaaaand, of course, looking cute:

For seriously though, it ain’t a terrible life after all (but I want my milk replaced). I recently read a story called The Goblin and the Grocer, which was billed as a “fairy tale for adults” in The Annotated Hans Christian Anderson (yeah, that’s right), about a kept goblin. The goblin lives with a grocer  and his wife because they supply him with porridge, but in the story, he falls in love with the warm light of poetry. He considers moving in with a penniless student, who, though short on porridge, is rich with poetry. Then the building catches on fire for some reason (the destructive consequences of his unbridled passion?) and the story loses focus a bit, but it ends with this great line:

“‘I’ll simply have to divide myself between them,’ he declared. ‘That way, each one will have a little something. How can I give up the grocer? He’s the one with the porridge.’ And that was spoken in truly human terms! If we’re really honest about it, then we have to admit that the world is like that. The rest of us would end up at the grocer’s too. We need the porridge.”

Exactly. I don’t know about you, but my poetry sure comes with a price tag. So I’m off to make some porridge.


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TGIF: In Place of a Dark Lord You Would Have a QUEEN!!!!

Oh hey, happy Friday y’all. In the same vein as last post, and while I’m still conducting research for next post (i.e. watching Dolly Parton movies), this really nice guy said something awesome to me this morning:

“Your casual Friday outfits aren’t really casual, they’re more like ‘I am Kim, all shall love me and despair!!'”

Although I’ve always considered myself more of an Arwen (and a COMPLETE nerd, apparently), this was a nice way to summarize that uptight attitude toward dressing to which I was previously alluding:

(Side note: how do you like that totally ghetto video?) But seriously girl, get a grip. There are plenty of ways to accessorize besides that “one ring”. Oh hello pun town!

For more on the Dark Lord, please see:

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Weekend Wearriors

Truth be told, moving to Brooklyn has prompted a sartorial crisis in my life that’s sort of been getting me down. I am seriously too uptight to deal with the overall casualness that is the Williamsburg/Bushwick wardrobe, where as far as the eye can see deconstructed tops and cut-offs are uniformly paired with the perfect combat boot.

Really. Combat boots! In summer! And yet, not only does it look cool, no one is dying of heatstroke. Like I said, too uptight. Compound this with the common workplace dilemma of trying to dress well without looking either dowdy (like Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns, before she becomes  Catwoman)

or slutty (like Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns, after she becomes Catwoman)

and it becomes clear why I’ve fallen behind in documenting my beloved practice of looking awesome (aka anxiety is a dish best served alone, with only a cold bottle of flat inertia to wash it down).

So I took this weekend to cool my jets a bit by practicing my own version of super casual, better known (in my head) as sup-cas.

Friday, to work:

and possibly the worst picture ever taken of me.

Saturday, to the four hour wait at the Savage Beauty Exhibit:

oh wait, that’s not me…

Fuck, that’s not it either! Though I do sometimes like to wear this on a casual night out with the girls

But really,

yeah, that’s more like it.

Sunday [and the premiere of my gentleman photographer, who will surely up the production value of We Look Awesome with his mad skillz (aka new iPhone/Fine Arts degree)]:

Not so bad, eh? But alas, back to the grind tomorrow…are you sure that catsuit isn’t work appropriate?


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Nurdle Nails

Good news y’all, I’m still alive. And painting my nails all Aquafresh and shit.

Ok miss you see you soon!

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Here’s to You, Lauralou

In the midst of prolonged camera troubles, I must break the silence to honor the birth of one of the loveliest ladies around, the very event with which We Look Awesome got its start,

Sweet Lauralou’s birthday. Roommate, photographer, best friend, awkward co-dependent, fashion inspiration. At this point, Lauralou has pretty much transcended it all, firmly planting herself in my life, and the lives of most who know her, under the general category of “person I would die for, except I won’t because my death would probably make her sad and her happiness means more to me than anything else in the world.” You know, that category.

Above all else, the thing I find most inspiring about Lauralou’s ingenious style is her utter commitment to narrative. This manifests itself most prominently in one concept:


Never before have I seen a (technically) grown woman so joyously ecstatic over a large horse that, aside from cookies and bizarre synth music, her favorite markers of the holiday season are the Budweiser Christmas Clydesdales

Also often seen in Budweiser Superbowl commercials

which, though superfluous, I was forced to include on account of its excessive awesomeness. Seriously, that’s a fucking clydesdale high-fiving a dalmatian. Talk about inspirational.

Oh goddess of digression, lead me not astray! I learned that Lauralou’s obsession with clydesdales had bled into every aspect of her life pretty early in our relationship, when she explained to me that highlights of her 2009 Christmas break included the discovery of shoes that made her feet look like “a sparkly clydesdale”

In fact, when she sent me these pictures she described them as “pictures of me trying to be a sparkly clydesdale” (my emphasis), indicating that she didn’t merely think they made her feet look like a clydesdale’s, but that by wearing them, she may actually be transformed into a clydesdale with sparkly feet. Amazing.

But the point of this clydesdale quest that I found most admirable occurred about a year and a half later, when, during a skype date I’m pretty sure was exclusively dedicated to talking about and showing off new shoes, she told me that she had finally found the penultimate in cyldesdale-inspired shoes. She described them thus (tight paraphrase), “they’re not really flattering, but they make my feet look like a clydesdale’s, so I’ll probably get them.” That, dear friends, is commitment to narrative fashion.

She eventually did acquire said shoes:

and they lived happily ever after in horsey-foot heaven.

So follow your dreams y’all, and one day you too can be transformed, through style, into a majestic clydesdale, or whatever it is you want to be.

Happy birthday, Lauralou!!!

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Well, the Ides of March Have Come

Happy Ides! With Caeser 2055 years dead, and the spring festival right around the corner (’cause the color of the chocolate on the eggs matches the color of the wood on the cross…), I thought I’d reflect back on my favorite new-hat-related-winter-slash-year-round-face discovery before it’s too late. Well, not my discovery actually, but that of a really nice guy. This one requires few words, so please excuse my terseness

I was so ecstatic about the darling accuracy of this comparison that I took my gentleman friend out for breakfast, where I ordered pancakes

Only to later find, to my dismay, that he’d roofied my whipped topping

And I was like, “Et tu, Spider Cahoots?”

Ay, they have come, but they are not gone.

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I Have Found the One My Heart Loves. I Wore It and Would Not Take It Off.

Do you believe in love at first sight? Have you ever seen perfection and thought “I want that on me. NOW.”? Well, I have.

Now, I’ve been with a lot of sweaters. And I mean A LOT. Pullovers, cardigans, v-necks, crew-necks, turtlenecks, wool, cotton, short sleeve, long sleeve, three-quarter…you name it, I’ve had it. But it never really felt right. Sure, they would make me happy for a season or two, but then my eye would wander, or they would lose shape, or my tastes would change and they just wouldn’t suit me anymore. One way or another, we would grow apart.

Oh, bittersweet fickle fashion, don’t  you know that all I ever wanted was to find that sweater I could grow old with? You know, the sweater I would wear when I was having children? The one I would eventually die in? A beauty that’s a little bit Bardot…not crazy 21st century Arab-hating, PETA-loving Bardot,

but Nouvelle Vague sex-pot Bardot, in all her striped glory

and a whole lot of Audrey, in her infinite elegance,

with just a dash of my most under appreciated style influence

Alas, I’d all but given up hope. Where would I, how could I find such a beauty? Surely, a love like this could never exist in such cynical and untrustworthy world. I resigned to spending my life shivering in the cold, with only a meaningless string of the thinnest gray low-cut v-neck American Apparel shirts barely sheltering me from the harsh elements of this cruel world.

Then, just when I’d given up hope, I saw it,

and I knew this was the one. I mean, really, have you ever seen me so happy?

No, you haven’t.

Ain’t love grand?

As it is, these remain: faith, hope and love, the three of them; and the greatest of them is love. (1 Corinthians 13:13…Bible, y’all)

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You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebunny Loves You. But Even Then, You’re Probably Not Rihanna (You Know This)

About a month ago, I was utterly plagued by a question that I think is pretty common among women my age: how, exactly, do I get my gentleman callers to love me like I’m a hot guy? Putting the extreme fag-hagness of this ponderance, and of my life, aside, I made an important life decision to immediately cut, style, and dye my hair so I would look like Rihanna:

Then I would curl it and wear a tiered dress,

and my general quality of life would improve, right? Right? Well, not exactly. I know, I was as baffled my this misequation as you are, but despite my best efforts, the simple act of nearly shaving the sides of my head and dying my hair black was NOT enough to make me look like Rihanna:

I mean, ALMOST:

but not quite.

So WTF? How could this (not) happen? Is it because she looks like a My Little Pony,

and I more closely resemble a bunny?

Is that why? Can someone help me solve this mystery? In the meantime, I turban on.

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