The more pressing question is how is the Miu Miu FW11 collection like the Beastie Boys?

If you thought, same answer, crazy, you’d be wrong. Allow me to enlighten you.

Exhibit A

The Beastie Boys like to dress up,

and Miu Miu is all about dress up.

Exhibit B

Miu Miu’s collection is inspired by WWII-era ladylike stylings.

The Beastie Boys Hey Ladies video is inspired by 1970s funky lady stylings.

Exhibit C

I’ll admit my comparisons have been tenuous so far, but this exhibit is the irrefutable clincher. The exhibit to end all exhibits. In these three key looks:

Mrs. Prada is clearly channeling Ad Rock.

My case? Consider it rested.

It’s an ad promoting safe gay sex and it was on bus shelters around Brisbane.

Among their complaints that would definitely earn them 100% on a logic exam were these:

“Firstly, one of the men is wearing a wedding band. This suggests that either (A) they are a married gay couple (which is illegal in Australia), or (B) that at least one of them is married and is cheating on his wife.”

“[It] promotes sexuality as a desirable lifestyle; suggests that homosexual intercourse is ’safe’ with the use of a condom; [and] confronts children and impressionable teenagers with images of a lifestyle the majority of their parents would not want their children exposed to.”

If you’re going to complain about something, you should at least have the guts to say what you really mean: gay people make you uncomfortable and you don’t like looking at them. If you must be a bigot, be an honest one.

Adshel, the company that owns the bus shelters, took the ad down. A shit storm ensued, and now Adshel has put the ad back up.

To recap, we’re cool with seeing this on billboards:

But not this:

And incredibly creepy images like this on the website of a company whose target market is aged 14-25 is cool too:

But not this:

They’re hugging, not leaping around in gimp masks with their boy parts out throwing pies in each other’s faces. Chill out people.

And kids, let’s not forget the very important, and probably long forgotten message of this ad: whether you’re gay, straight or somewhere in between, use a condom or you could get some nasty cooties.

In an aside that I promise will make sense in a minute, it’s important that I tell you we have a greyhound racing track in our neighbourhood. Whenever we feel like being a bit toothless and trashy, the Husband and I wander down to bet a gold coin on the cutest dog with the curliest tail.

Not unlike the obviously precise curly-tail system of choosing dogs that has so far made us very wealthy, I was going to base my designer choices on the scientific principles of I-don’t-think-they’re-famous or that’s-a-funny-name, (like Creatures of the Wind). I had a plan, see?

I had a plan until I saw the Marc Jacobs collection photos on The Sartorialist.

My former plan isn’t totally out the window, but it’s definitely on hold because today it’s imperative to pay homage to Marc Jacobs.

I love the askew mini-beret-head-scarf hybrids, the spotted everything, the colours that are at the same time muted and rich, the humpbacked coat and the funny little Wellington heel booties. Australian winter is just around the corner and now I have some great inspiration. It’s a brisk 26 celcius today, and for some perspective, consider that it was 46 celcius two weekends ago. I can’t wait for 20 degrees when I can crack out my mitts and my mini-beret. Brrrr.

Looking at the pieces I chose from what I thought was a pretty colourful collection, I think it’s safe to assume that I really like the colour navy. Like, a lot.

I don’t know what it’s like in other cities, but in Sydney, there’s a scourge of tight mini dresses afflicting the fashionable sensibilities of women under 35. Women walk down the street, lower halves stuffed into tiny skirts that are like sausage casings, yanking them down after every step so they don’t spring up and reveal the parts unknown. It gets worse when there’s drinking involved. Poor strangers like me, minding our own business, maybe getting some gelato, have our eyeballs assaulted with underpants in every colour of the rainbow. And then we lose our appetites. And then the gelato vendors lose money. This trend doesn’t just damage eyeballs; it damages the economy.

I hate to say it because usually I really like American Apparel, but I think their photos featuring their improbably sexy factory workers  in sausage mini dresses are partially to blame. The pictures are  airbrushed, covering bruises, shaving wounds, celullite — all kinds of reality. Your legs in that tiny dress are not airbrushed, so unless your skin is totally unblemished and you have the svelte physique of a model or maybe a sprinter, cover up a bit.

The beauty of clothing is that we can use it to enhance the good bits and hide the bad. Like Dan Savage of Savage Love fame always says of relationships, fashion isn’t a deposition. It’s not about full disclosure or even a lick of honesty. Fashion makes it ok to lie about what’s really under your clothes, so let the dishonesty drip from your closet in swathes of lovely, figure-flattering, skin-tone-complimenting fabric. Cover up. It’s ok to tell a little fib.

I’ve just been in Taipei for the wedding banquet of one of my bestest buddies and am now en route back home to Sydney. After an overnight flight tonight I’ll taxi straight to work and start my Tuesday. I’m going to be bleary eyed and grumpy, but I don’t mind. Before I settled into this uncomfortable seat, I found a Zara and did some shopping. And because modern technology is so magical (WiFi is free here), I can share the spoils of my conquest with you right this second.

I know we’re heading into summer in Sydney, but I just couldn’t resist this angora and cotton jumper. I love a good elbow patch. I’m pretty sure it makes me look more educated. Dr. Grace. When I wear this jumper, people are probably going to think I have a PhD or a talk show.

Sneaky striped raccoons after someone’s acorn stash? Don’t I know it. Bloody thieves.

I dare you to find me anything more majestic than an oversized sweatshirt with a scene of bears roaming through the forest.

1.

New, cooler wallet. Probably Prada

2.

Fancy overpriced Lamborghini type car for my sister that I think is a total waste of money but that I’d give her anyway because I’m nice and I know she loves dreaming about overpriced cars

3.

Bigger house with a yard to accommodate all the puppies I would get. Like about 50 puppies

4.

Three cat keyboard moon t-shirt for the Husband

The morning of the draw, I was sure I was going to win. I even tweeted about it, and we all know that tweeting things makes them true. When I checked my ticket later on, I found that I had indeed won.

Unfortunately I’m not the squazillionaire I thought I would be. I won $11.85, which after my $5 investment, was a net return of $6.85. Not quite enough for me to retire to Paris tomorrow and shop every day at Colette, but it’s not a bad start. You know, glass half full and all that stuff.

In Barcelona, my talent was tested when the Husband and I wandered by the window of a beautiful shop called Lotusse. Even through the glare of the afternoon sun on the window, I could spot the buttery soft leather that only graces the dearest of shoes, and I knew I shouldn’t go in. It had been a very extravagant day of shopping (and a few moments of concern that my suitcase would be overweight), and I’d just vowed not to buy any more stuff. But then the shoes sang their siren song; I was rendered helpless. Here are the enchanting, wee Spanish brogues:

Lotusse has gorgeous shoes, handmade in Spain, and I wish they had an online store, or even just a website, so I could fall in love with more of their shoes and give them more of my money.

The careful hand stitching and lovely craftsmanship makes me imagine an old Spanish shoemaker with a round belly, bent over a long wooden bench in a little village workshop. Most of the day he perches on a stool, working smooth, perfect leather around lasts. Maybe he has a small team of elves to assist, and he passes the shoes off to them to do all the delicate stitching. At lunchtime, when it’s too hot to work, they retire to the cool kitchen of the main house, where the the shoemaker’s wife has laid out a merienda of crusty bread, a rainbow of olives, mild sheep’s milk cheese, a few links of sausage and a hearty red wine. After lunch, they go for siesta, each finding a solitary spot in in the house, and there they nap until the day cools down and it’s time to resume the shoemaking.

Elves and a round-bellied old Spanish man. Those are definitely the people who made my shoes.

Alas, I can’t claim credit for these very clever photos. They’re the handiwork of my lovely friend Xanthe, who is eternally in my good book for helping me organise my apartment last month and more recently, for showing me that the zoom on my camera is not the same thing as the focus. Go figure.

It’s been a challenge going from adventure mode to sitting-in-a-chair-working-12-hour-days mode and I must admit, I’ve been a grumpy camper. I’ve been the sort of camper whose camping trip has been rained out. The sort of camper who is stuck inside a leaky one-person tent that she can’t stand up in and all her socks are wet and she can’t start a fire so all she’s been eating are cold cans of spaghetti and all she’s been doing is sulking and wondering if she’ll be eaten by a bear soon. Going back to work after holidaying in Europe is like eating cold cans of spaghetti in the rain and then getting eaten by a bear.

There’s one consolation that makes going back to work a little bit better: getting to be creative with my work wardrobe. Of course that creativity has to exist within the confines of a corporate environment where the boring, sometimes ill-fitting pin striped suit is king, but I try to live by the sage advice given to me by a very successful businesswoman: you’re not a man, so there’s no need to dress like one.

Carefully following that advice, I’ve put together a wardrobe full of bright, feminine dresses and silk blouses, skirts in different styles and shapes and colourful bags, belts and shoes that will set me apart from all the other worker bees. I was just starting to run out of creative ways to avoid wearing a suit when this editorial in the Australian Financial Review Magazine came along. It made me hop around the office in excitement because I had found my new inspiration.

Of course he’s checking her out. She’s wearing Prada.

Over the last week the Boyfriend says he often catches me sitting, fists clenched, staring bug-eyed and intensely off into space. He reminds me to relax and I try fruitlessly to stop my mind racing. We’re almost there though, and then in a few days, we’ll be on our way to Madrid, cameras in hand, ready to collect up photos, stories and new clothes to entertain you with.