Just the tip...

...of the iceberg, that is. 

At the Clover Grill, preparing to tear myself away from New Orleans and hop on a plane. This shirt always puts me in a great mood. THE COLORS. 

(Just the tip! Just for a minute! Just to see how it feels!)

Because maybe it feels like 1/4 pound of pure Beef Pleasure!

Seriously, though, I'm about to get deep on your asses.

I found myself, this past week, in earshot of a statement that went something like this:

"Anyone who cares about fashion, or puts any stock in appearance, must not have much going on upstairs. You've got to be pretty shallow for that kind of thing to matter."

...and I was like, IS THIS DUDE FOR REAL?

I consequently found myself thinking, Oh dear, what a dickbag. 

This got me to wondering about the people I know-- male, female, and in between --who I count among the most stylish individuals in my life. The funny thing is, these are some of the most brilliant, thoughtful, creative, well-adjusted, remarkable people that I know. The lot of them are a drawer full of really fucking sharp knives. Or so the saying would go. 

The more I thought about these amazing human beings, who embody this accused "shallowness" with the accuracy of a fucking abyssal plane, I found myself thinking about why it is that they all might share this trait. These are artists, entrepreneurs, teachers, and stay-at-home parents. These are lawyers, students, baristas, politicos and NPO champions. These are people who think amazing thoughts, do amazing things, and in my humble opinion, help to create a reality that nourishes, nurtures, and provokes thought, all in very different ways. Also, most of them are unspeakably funny to boot. On the point of ye olde (aforementioned) bag of dicks, they could not be a farther cry from his assumption. 

Doesn't it just make you smile?

(It should be noted, perhaps, that this particular person appeared to excel in the styling of one practiced, perfectly ironic fashion. Just saying.)

If I think about this collection of people, I realize I have never actually asked them about why they find themselves in a love affair with style. If I did, I know I would get one very sassy, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just this naturally fucking fabulous." I would hear a lot about personal expression, identity, and creative passion. I would receive, I am certain, endless answers speaking to the human mystery of adornment and all of that. 

If I ask myself, it is simply this:

I dress for a feeling. Sometimes that feeling translates as a color; sometimes, it is a silhouette, a texture, or a print. When I see it in the mirror, it just makes sense. Sometimes that feeling is the power I seem to gain from donning a piece. Clothing (and all facets of self-adornment) can sometimes be an armor for me. Not in the sense that I am attempting to shield myself from the world, or keep myself withdrawn; rather, it is simply stepping into my day knowing that I am equipped properly for whatever battle I might face so that I may be more present (and in the mindset of kicking ass). Different days, each mood and perspective, simply require their own war paint, so to speak. I don't think I'm alone in that. 

Life feeling completely askew? It's cool. TRIBAL PATTERNS FOR EVERYONE!

This "war paint," or what have you, is done in the style of, some shit is going down with my health, and it's nothing new, and I'm okay... but it's still uncomfortable as fuck and kind of scary.

It's not that you will see me running the streets in chainmail anytime soon (though I am totally unopposed to this idea, WHAT'S UP LAYERING), it is just this: 

I have so many moving parts. If my decoration of the outside can make all of the internal gears turn a little more easily, I'm sure as fuck going to take that route. It is a kindness. And If I'm feeling peaceful, I want to paint that still bit of water all across myself. Maybe it will make someone smile. Maybe I feel connected to a sweatshirt with a doughnut on it that day, and someone is tickled enough to strike up an awesome conversation. Maybe I find within myself that I absolutely have to wear daytime sequins and hot pink cowboy boots, because, you know what? We don't have to take ourselves so seriously all the damn time. 

This is me, partying with my shit, shadows or none. 

Anyway, guy-who-made-that-comment, I would love to be able to ask this question of you. What would you say? 

Hugs, kisses, and every encouragement to wear whatever the fuck you want and do it proudly,

-Ash

Balls.

I wore this guy a couple days ago, and so many people stopped me on the street to compliment me on my balls (look closely... these silky shorts are hemmed with tiny pom poms). I can't think of another time I've heard so much talk about balls from total strangers... Except at the drag show I went to later that night, where *ball* talk abounded. 

Greatest Romper Ever.

Black Sandals I Pretend Are NOT Flip Flops...

I'm back in Chicago (I am mostly happy to be home-- family/puppies/neighbors/friends/charming nasal speech patterns/my lovely neighborhood and my lovely slice of the city...), but the South has followed me. I'm sitting in a cafe ( near the window, on the floor, on pillows, like a dirty hippie, which I'm pretty happy about), and even though the joint is washed in bright colors suggestive of a journey to Ashram, peddles Indonesian baubles and artisan-made soaps steps from its juice bar, and vibrates bohemian, Lynrd Skynrd is playing. Has been for the twenty minutes I've been here. And I'm missing New Orleans, but this place touts itself as a place for travelers. Maybe it will help.

I order tea and nachos. Um, that's what travelers eat, right? Full disclosure, this is my third go at a pile of nachos in two days, and I am a fucking nacho champion. Just saying. 

Missing the crap out of our little pink house... WHY GOD WHYYYY?!

Rain is falling now, unforgivably down the face of our sweet waitress, who's serving the jag-offs that insist she cater to their desires to exist just outside the reach of the deluge. They, covered and dry; she, left to the elements and handling it like a champ. Beyond the awning the rainfall has grown into rivers at the curbside.

I'm thinking of just a couple days ago: hot sun slapping my back as I wandered through the towering graves of a beautiful New Orleans cemetery. I'm remembering the absolute liberation I felt (even though it was hot as devil ass, which in NOLA in late July is a cold front) wearing this:

Shortly hereafter, I was approached by a kindly chick who offered me a tube of sunscreen because HOLY FUCK YOU GONNA BURN LITTLE GIRL! I'm not even a true redhead, guys. But my skin is totally ginger skin. Knock it off, skinz. Also, thank you, sunscreen lady!

Note the many X's and offerings, attempts at appeal to the favor of this passed Voodoo priestess.

They call these cemeteries "Cities of the Dead," but they couldn't feel more alive, somehow. Alive with regal palm trees thrusting themselves up in between tombs, swift scuttling lizards dancing about the vines at the bases of graves, mossy green flora fanning itself through the vacant spaces in burial structures, and the stories of tour guides bringing the deceased into being... again, and again, and again. Oh! And, also, this hat. 

The perfect thing to wear when you don't want anything to touch you because holy heat, or when you want to feel pretty awesome about the fact that your boobs are tiny, because otherwise I don't know how one might sport such a thang. This not a dig at you, big-tittied mommas, I still envy all your curves and edges, just like John Legend. Whatever, Chrissy Teigen. 

See, look at him, all falling in love with you and whatnot.

***

Freebird plays. The couple next to me (skinny jeans, ironic 90s tees, duplicate haircuts),
She to him: Oh! Isn't this your favorite song?
His reply: Um, no. That must be your other boyfriend.

Nachos: gone. Tea: a swig or so left.

The pillows I'm seated on are starting to feel lumpy and I can't find a polite way to sink my weight into them. The table to my right is occupied by two ladies about my age -- one, a patient listener; the other, OH MY GOD STOP BITCHING ABOUT YOUR CRAMPS (She's been reading the transcripts of some text message communication for about a hundred years, now). Please? I'm trying to digest nachos, over here. And it's kind of hard work. And I'm trying to meditate on how fantastic it was to see the (supposed, at least) tomb of Marie Laveau (for those who are not into creepy shit or history, Marie Laveau was a lauded Creole practitioner of Voodoo who helped to drive the practice, like a nail, into the foundation of the city's culture).

I'm not mad, for serious. It's just way too hot to move my face muscles. 

I would like to submit a formal request that should I die, which I plan never to do, that those who come to pay their respects bring equal amounts flowers and jewelry. Mardi Gras beads: totally acceptable. It is what it is. Don't care how ya bury me. Just appreciate that I'm probably haunting you if this request goes unmet. 

I'm trying to convince M. that a move to New Orleans is inevitable. If I could just take a boat ride through a swamp once a month, have tremendous live music bouncing off of me from every angle on the daily, and be surrounded by technicolor buildings and people, I think I would be quite satisfied. Once upon a time, I lived in NOLA. I played the parts of singer in a band, photographer's assistant, songwriter, and delinquent opera student. Having been back now, older and wiser (and mostly just not 19 anymore), the place is more invigorating than ever. Perhaps I am simply on a vacation high. I mean, I've heard people in such a stupor sing the praises of all manner of shit towns. Anyway, more to come on all of that. 

So, did you book your tickets yet? Where are you going? We're thinking New Mexico, next (I'm not sure why, but hey, when the call is there...). Then a European extravaganza (which must include  the pools of Sorrento, and every possible beautiful thing, obviously), an Indian jaunt, and maybe some Shamanic adventure through Peru. All of the reaches. ALL OF THEM. 

And a honeymoon in there, somewhere.

Dear Voodoo,

Please help?

Love and love and love. 

-Ash