The Case for the Hillary Clinton Headband

When I think of the early 90s, I think of an era under the creative control of my mum. I was NEVER a grungey kid. Not one day of my life. No plaid shirts, no cutoffs, no angst. I grew up in a cloud of Diorissimo and various innocent halcyon-day scents in the brand spanking new Khaleeji nineties full of match-your-socks-to-your-bag, poufy-dress-ism. It was a veritable whirlpool of lurex-flecked velvet, lace and life-like fruit appliqués. Everything was new, shiny and stiff. We were fresh and impactful children, aesthetically speaking. My mother dressed in pantsuits and dresses with blazers on top. She carried a sensible, Thatcher-esque handbag full of documents and wore practical two-tone pumps with a 50mm block heel and maybe a hint of braid detailing.

My favorite accessories of hers (they are still my favs) was her collection of twisted velvet headbands. My mum is a busy woman who has no time for hair falling about; she walks through the doors of life face-first. The Hillary Clinton headband was, to me, the trademark of the busy, intelligent 90s lady. It was regal, elegant and efficient. It pulled the hair back, bringing the face to prominence and framing the head with a thick halo of rich, soft velvets and silks. What a power tool. No room to hide with that on your head. No shrinking violets allowed.

Today I bought myself one from Alexandre de Paris, who BTW have a fantastic selection of them in countless variations.

I have never been a fan of lots of accessories. If I ever wear anything, it's one item. Masses of rings and bracelets and chains make me nervous. Way too drippy and high maintenance. My style is all massive impact with minimum pieces. I would like to see those clean, classic early-nineties accessories make a comeback. They spoke of optimism, simplicity and efficiency and I miss them. 


High Priestess of the Temple of Technological Wizardry

I was walking back home carrying this huge blender (rejoice! morning Acai bowls!) and stumbled upon this tiny vintage shop called Eclater on inside a building advertised as usual by a mannequin in the courtyard and a tiny sign. I fancied getting myself a Eid present and was trying to decide between a perfect gold twisted chain and a starry 1940s strand of crystals when I caught sight of this rare rare dream-cklace. It was a 1960s metal "armour" choker with a giant pearl suspended in the middle. AMAZING. I LOVE anything sci-fi (in Middle School, I actually read 80% of the Sci-Fi books in our school library- and never again) and this was just my cup of tea. The first thing that came to mind was that if I put Barbarella and the Mutants scene from Planet of the Apes, with all their pearly, pointed, metallic, cold, kind of S&M temple vibes in my newly-purchased blender, you would get this necklace. SO obsessed. I am convinced it has special powers. I'm going to wear it with a simple white silk cami dress, silver shoes and wild wild hair. Watch them turn to dust! 
I am not a big accessories person. I actually almost never wear them. I quite despise "statements necklaces" "statement rings" statement anything really. I feel so much of modern accessorizing is just meaningless, commercial noise that people use to mask and distract. I am much more interested in jewelry with a  story. A piece that conjures up a mood and works with the girl (or boy) to amplify, rather than ornament, their natural drama. Pieces of jewelry are powerful objects and need to work with your face, hair, outfit and personality to fit you. This is my idea of it, anyhow. It is for this reason that I am attracted to things that connect to strong memories or allow me to escape or assume another character. They work with me physically but also connect to my character and my desire. Portals! Kidding.
Something about the primitive landscape, glinting metal, ominous mood, and pearly, milky colours has always driven me craaazy. I want to live in that world! Without the birds and cages and vindictive apes, of course. 

What do we do after the apocalypse? SCI FI FABULOUS.


Rich People Who Copy Other Designers' Work To Make More Money

I really wish I could understand why fashion so often succumbs to this immoral laziness. Top brands, successful people just literally rip off an EXACT design from another designer and sell it under their own label. It is so outrageous and I don't understand why no one ever says anything! Like Ivanka bloody Trump** or Jessica Simpson or Mary Kate and Ashley or, for God's sake, Chiara Salad Ferragni need any more money! Can you at least alert your design department not to blatantly copy-paste a design from a brand which you probably WEAR (or are gifted!!) Imagine a blogger or celebrity getting a pair of shoes as a gift from the designer then taking it to their Chinese factory being all "hey copy this gift and make me money from it"! Outrageous! What is most demoralizing is the copies made even by incredible top brands like Prada/ Miu Miu. I mean Miu Miu! The temple of originality! The last non-sellout! I couldn't believe it! WHY. Not only the same exact heel, same cut, same style but the whole bloody SS14 collection was copied! What the framboise, people. JUST COME UP WITH SOME OTHER DESIGNS. Holy crap! It's your job! All designers do it: Michael Kors practically built his empire on copies. This sucks. Greed always does prevail. So gross. 

** I especially call out Ivanka Trump for copying the work of a SMALL designer. So below the belt.


2 Summer Jamz. SWAG

Obviously. My favorite part of "Summertime is Great" is when they are both on the bridge and they turn for no reason. 



Allow us to be so bold as to posit that a barbecue is an inherently medieval affair. From where do we arrive at this conclusion? Pray consider it, dear reader: the customary American cookout is a fundamentally Gothic idea, updated with modern values and cuisine. The gathering involves communal seating, shared plates, festive music and fire-prepared victuals shoved into food-messed face-holes sans cutlery. With those same descriptors, one harkens back to ye days of olde, to the court of Richard the Lionheart, to the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer, to Lords and Ladies locked in scenes of chivalry.

Preparations for the fête champêtre1 hatch in the spirit of simplicity: Bid some courtly dudes and dope-looking damsels hither, stock the larder with beauteous burgers (beef, turkey or veggie), augment the ale supply and call forth a noble disc jockey.

Maidens and squires arrive at their leisure, on their own time, with their own ideas about how the feast shall unfurl. Some are here to court the opposite (or same) sex—it is summer, after all—some to tipple, some to sup. There are rule-followers, regulators, rebels. Some are husking corn dutifully while others regale the group with over-embellished tales. A wily knave is oft climbing a tree while a newly minted Lord ‘n Lady lay in the grass betwixt the thickets, bashful in the afternoon glow of the late summer sun.

At once structured and chaotic, the great American BBQ is, indubitably, a rollicking repast. To create such a wicked wassail²demands, first and foremost, a cast of characters as colorful and damned as Dante ever envisioned.

Firstly, consider the SUMMONER, our noble host. His or her foremost duty is to implore the guests that they may gather at a particular time and place. As a tithe to their invitation of daylong indulgence, the Summoner may demand supermarket stops for last-minute necessities. “Fetch me alluring ales, sparkling sips, cheese puffs,” he or she requests via smartphone text message, “marshmallows for s’mores and a bag of baked goods to boost our bounty of buns.”

The feudal Lord of the event is the GRILL MASTER. Sought-after and highly esteemed, this individual reigns supreme over the communal oven. Engaged in the smoky, primitive drama of an open flame, they place each hunk of well-chosen bellytimber on the grate just so, ensuring that each marvelous meaty morsel is neither too pink nor too charred.

Our villain, the TROUBADOUR (in modern parlance, Mister DJ) approaches his task with all requisite seriousness, with nary a token of regard for the sonorous inclinations of others. A fair damsel doth seek mellow music to accompany her meal? Let’s try Yoko Ono on eleven. Too much? John Cage at mid-volume then. What, you don’t like avant-electroacoustic? Okay fine, Laura Nyro. There, everybody’s happy.

As the festivities reach their zenith, knights and knaves, jesters and jezebels, maidens and wenches claim their seats at a long wooden table in the backyard-cum-feasting hall, tearing into large portions of flavorful fleshes and vivacious vegetables doused in sensory overload inducing spices and sauces. Surreptitiously spiked punches are imbibed, corn is stuck in teeth, seconds and thirds and fourths and fifths are had. All assembled speak in the vernacular about the pressing Instagram-based concerns of the moment.

Fireflies appear as dusk descends. Grogs are guzzled, desserts devastated, and sparklers begin to scintillate. But first, the SUMMONER turns down the tunes, raises a glass and reminds the beautiful and unruly crew what a fine olde tyme this day has been. All may drink once more to midsummer’s magic. The gracious grasp the notion that it’s time to get the eff out. Ne’er do wells linger with the lightening bugs, weariness be damned.

When I saw this on Entertainment Weekly, I THOUGHT IT WAS A JOKE. HAAAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA. No way. NO WAAY someone actually wrote this and thought they were being funny-smart-hipster. Holy crap. 


The Latest from Fatima Al Qadiri: Maybe Fabulous Sino-Babble Maybe Transportative Hyper-Urban Fantasy Chinimatic

So expansive, haunting, weirdly glamorous. I especially love the sad ascent-to-heaven-ish Sinead O'Connor cover in fake Mandarin**. Super cool. I would expect nothing less from Kuwait's best experimental musician. Well I guess she is more international than Kuwaiti but still! Listen to the rest on Spotify.

** okay apparently some youtube commenter says it's not fake Chinese.