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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked for over a year. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion even better with his brand new column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.
As you are probably aware, this winter has been particularly unpleasant. From the day we intended to start returning Christmas gifts to at least Valentine's Day (which was really just a Fashion Week Monday) we were pretty much buried in snow—black, fetid, trash-strewn, hideous snow. We've had solid ice-coatings and torrential rain; we've had almost bizarrely-low temperatures—much to the delight of anyone who doesn't believe in Global Warming; and the wind has been absolutely insane (neither scarf- nor hat-friendly).
It was not a winter for suede, to say the very least.
So, now it's March. And it's warmed up a bit here in New York—you can actually get away with going outside sans your hugest, heaviest winter coat (that said, it's still too chilly for a yellow rain slicker, even with an angora scarf). And the thaw has us thinking: Are you here yet?
We mean it. Spring—you need to sprung.
Not just because we want nicer weather and nicer weather means happier moods and the added bonus of not having to worry about the whole slipping-on-ice-and-almost-falling-into-a-hardened-glacier-of-yellow-snow-in-your-gutter; but because we have big, big plans for our spring and summer looks.
Picture it: Summer break in an artsy southern college town with a vintage indie soundtrack (ranging from Pylon, the Lightning Seeds, Let's Active and Murmur to Slint, Daniel Johnston and the Blake Babies (also: Fleetwood Mac and probably Heart)) and lots and lots of purple. We're thinking wire-rimmed sunglasses, blousy floral shirts, bandana prints, faded jeans, tie-dyes, a little it-takes-a-global-village exoticism, a lot of paisley and no socks ever.
And—this might just be how bad this winter in New York has been, and/or how absolutely miserable last summer was—but we don't just want to look like we're sitting on a front porch in Athens; we straight up want to be on a front porch in Athens.
Outdoor ceiling fans whirring, a noisy icebox stocked with icy domestics, people that sew and play records because they have the room for sewing machines and record players. Barbecues and wicker and road trips and convenience stores and mix tapes and swimming at night. Specifically, we're kind of picturing us plunked into that passage in Rob Sheffield's Love is a Mix Tape: Sitting on the porch with all the girls at the end of every warm-weather party, screaming along to Exile in Guyville en masse, and possibly wearing a color-blocked tank and cut-off overalls under a barely buttoned broadcloth.
We're in the midst of a major boho-hippie-hipster post-New Romantic, pre-grunge (but absolutely heavily-inspired by both) fantasy here—and all we can really do about it right now, in March, here in New York, is shop.
Our hot-list: A series of refreshingly inexpensive floral and paisley woven shirts at Banana Republic (cheaper than the Paul Smith versions), a tomato red leather belt at Freeman's, a little Gitman Bros. leopard print, a vaguely African-inspired silk scarf that is almost-definitely intended for women by Marc by Marc Jacobs, some slim khakis—maybe those new Dockers—in Nantucket red or olive, something in purple leather from Jack Spade, and a butt-load of thrift shop jewelry.
Don't deny us of our silk-scarf-and-slim-khaki fantasy, spring! Come early and stay long. And, can you relay a message? Tell that damn groundhog to not be a total pussy and relax even if he sees his stupid shadow which, frankly, he should just go ahead and not see. Thanks!
· Love, Frank [RNA]