Sushi Bar

Pre-barhopping this Saturday night, Kara posting as John since I never log him out. I just wanted to share a story about the jacket I'm wearing in the video, which might not be totally visible behind my mass of hair.

See, I have a class on Lyndale Ave. on Thursdays at the Jungle Theatre, and it happens to be right across the street from one of my favorite MPLS thrift/vintage stores, Tatters. So of course I go in, having given myself plenty of time to map out the bus schedule and that ilk, and what do I find but this jacket, the jacket of my dreams. Seriously, I've been looking for this jacket for three months or so, and in no way is that exaggeration.

I think it's from the 1940s or 1950s; it's black crepe silk, with a gold detailing on the lapels in a design reminiscent of what I like to call Sgt. Pepper jackets. Perfection, and it fit. Flawless. It was $45, but I figured that's a small price to pay for the jacket of my dreams and lust.

The owner of Tatters told me he's kept the jacket at his house for about ten years after buying it, simply because he didn't want to let it go. He called it his Cinderella jacket, because it was so magical, and told me he was so happy it was going home with me, since I clearly loved it to the point of obsession. I'm going to pair it with teeny miniskirts and gold chains come spring (and a tan), and with lots of black for the rest of this winter.

<3 k

Things

Things we're endorsing:

Raspberry Beret and Kama Sutra Mama from Chino Latino
Wearing cardigans every day
Wayne Newton and Gilbert O'Sullivan
"She's So Cold" - Golden Republic

Movin' to Salinas Valley

I used to obsess with James Dean from afar (slightly ironic seeing as I had never seen a film starring him). Yesterday, I checked out East of Eden from the Rochester Public Library (aptly acronymed RPL) and watched it twice (cried both times, because I'm quite the mess during films). Hello, James Dean. Good-bye, heart.

Of course, the RPL only stocked the re-colored version of the movie. "Restored" black and white films are a little pet peeve of mine, when producers try to appeal to youthful audiences whose rods and cones somehow can't seem to stomach 110 minutes without color (something I thought was misguided until I spoke with my sisters, my connection to the pop culture world, who prefer this format).