There should be people who describe Jeremy Scott’s fashion with the beautiful word “imaginative”. We, however, find his fashion silly, stupid and uncool.
When we look at his ugly creations we must seriously ask ourselves: Who’s gonna wear this nonsense? Our guess: old men who somehow find themselves a little “crazy”. Or, worse, young people without a spark of aesthetics in her womb.
Also in the collection for Adidas, the U.S. designer pays no heed to his fellow man. This would be fair. But Scotty isn’t.
Even for the sports manufacturer he designed teddy bear and star pants and track suits, which inevitably make us think of badly made fake Versace. Evidence complacent, just browse through his latest Adidas collection. Or rather don’t.
Scott makes unreasonable demands, not fashion. Textile nonsense. Not even John Galliano has brought more harm to humanity with his collections. And that’s something.
IGGY POP usually does not wear too much: skin-tight leather pants, with that his well-trained, plastic-like upper body. In case the rockstar Iggy gets cold, he puts on a leather jacket.
From now on, The Stooges front-man is going to be seen more wearing a vest. Because Iggy has designed a denim-vest with patches in cooperation with the label SAILOR JERRY. The punk-ish patches are delivered separately, so you can decide yourself which of Iggys hot patches fits you (the selection is: death, shall, triumph). A main inspiration were punks and especially the punkettes of the 70s in London and Los Angeles.
If you walk through the pedestrian zone in your home town, wearing an Iggy Pop THE FLASH vest, every Hells Angels member will freeze out of jealousy, promise. All in all there are 50 vests – each of them signed by hand by Iggy Pop personally. For one of Iggys vest you would have to spare 600 US Dollars.
The deal with Sailor Jerry has been arranged by Matt Sorum of Guns ‘N Roses. A band, which became famous in 90s for their extremely cool bandanas and stars and stripes leggings. The year before, Paul Simonon from The Clash has designed for Sailor Jerry.
Let’s see, which oldie-rockstar is in it the next time!
Next to the hard work here at DANDY DIARY, David and me are connected by many things: We were both into our black-haired economics-teacher and into Janine from the first row, we were both fans of BVB in the 90s, we both love the small 0,25 l Heineken-bottles and spicy vegan food, we both read the Spiegel on sundays and, and, and, and, and – there is much more. And: We both hate nothing more than rats.
Actually hatred is very understated. We have a huge fucking fear for them, that bad that David once jumped on the table of a restaurant, screaming, in Shanghai, because he saw a rat passing by, and I had to be aware of the attacks by my siblings, who would always kick against garbage bags in New York City and then rats would jump out, and most of the times cross my feet. Already looking at a rat causes a rigid barrier in us, even-though we are these hard fashion-guys, also high screaming, pure desperation and a few embarrassing jumps. One of us also has wetted himself once out of fear and shock. We will not tell who that was, out of fairness.
When we recently were in Mumbai (India), the, until now, hardest task, concerning rats, has come. About half of the 12 million inhabitants are living in slums, many of them without a solid house and therefore without water and without toilets. Big parts of the city are similar to a garbage field: Plastic garbage everywhere, junk, dead cats, undefinable brown puddles. And there is a frightening amount of rats. Very many. Brutally many. Disgustingly many.
While the people in Mumbai apparently have bigger problems, than taking care of all the nibbling rats in the corners, us idiotic, spoiled western-people were permanently anxious. We were frightened as hell by those beasts – our biggest enemies.
To give you an idea what we looked like speeding through the streets of Mumbai, anxious about meeting a rats, we made a video, which you can see here. In the video we are racing towards the only place where there are no rats: the ocean. There we stayed for three days and nights, close to dehydration, and had us picked up by a golden yacht of our trillionaire-friend, and flew back to the clean, cold and a bit less rat-sy Berlin.
During the rat-race we were wearing Converse Chuck Taylor “Rubber” shoes, David was wearing pants by Weekday and a shirt by Hugo Boss, I was wearing a wifebeater and hotpants by American Apparel.