Go Go Go Goyard!
I know y’all missed me. I’ll cut through the chaff and crash straight to certified, grade-AAAA Bryanboy Bragging Bonanza.
Trust me, they didn’t call the "dark ages" dark for nothing.
You see, like any self-respecting fashionvictimlabelwhorehomoerectuslabellusaddictus, yes, oh fucking yes, I did, at one point, carried the infamous black Prada nylon backpack. And yes, I even had the Loueey Vee version.
Times have changed, let there be light!
Blah blah bullshit.
All it took was a late night escapade to Harvey Nichols Hongky Tongk, some Engrish-speaking woman blaring "the store will close in 15 minutes, however, the fourth floor bar and restaurant will remain open till midnight" throughout the store’s sound system and 3 minutes to pose in front of the mirror whether or not the orange or the green suits my skin tone.
Meet my latest Goyard "acquisition". Everyone loves Goyard.
Well, I know I do.
I don’t know about you.
There is no other way to express your love for logo-a-gogo unless you’re carrying a Goyard.
This is the pinnacle, the apex, the apogee, the crest, the height, the meridian, the peak, the summit and the zenith of logo-a-gogo chic.
(See, I know how to fucking use the thesaurus you fuckin bitches.)
It’s the greatest bag ever… larger than a Louis Vuitton Speedy, smaller than a Keepall!
I’m telling you, had I spent longer than 10 minutes at Goyard, I would’ve declared myself bankrupt by now.
Those bright-coloured hardcore trunks can easily put most of my (often my mis-matched luggage of mine to shame.
Notice to the public: the blue suitcase/trunk is NOT a Prada. It’s a hand-made piece by Globe-Trotter, purveyors of fine luggage since 1897. Click here to read an online article about them.
Welcome to Cape Town, capital city of The Zara-rah Republic!
I’ve never had so much unfashionable fashion fun in my entire life.
You see, I’m not really a Zara fan. I saw a ton of Zara stores in the London back in my hey day and the only people that I see go inside their stores are mid-30s, not-so-young-but-still-have-that-yuppy-mentality women who have outgrown TopShop.
Since that damn gorgeous bitch with genes not even Bill and Melinda Gates can buy (who I really really love) started popping up on their ad campaigns, I changed my mind towards them and thought, hey, their stuff aren’t bad at all.
Jenni and moi spent around 30 minutes in Zara and boy oh boy I fell in love with a ton of their stuff. They have the chicest black coats ever, tons and tons and tons and tons of black jackets, colourful "house clothes/doomed for domestication" cotton hoodies with sequins and appliques.
I wanted to buy many, many, many pieces. Heck, I could’ve bought my entire fall/winter wardrobe right then and there.
The only thing that stopped me from doing so is the prevailing inner fashion victim "mother-knows-best" type of voice that told me "do you realy want your pretentious self seen by the staff at the Valentino boutique nearby, carrying shopping bags with the word Zara on them?"
I say screw what people think. I bought a black cape and an olive green hoodie. They’re fucking cheap-oh as in cheap-oh-my-god. You can probably buy a hundred or so of their coats at the same price of a J. Mendel fur shawl.
Imagine how mortified I was when I tried the cape where we stayed at.
I wore my Linda Farrow Gallery sunglasses and my Vivienne Westwood hat for some theatrical effect and presto – I look like a damn lampshade.
That little moment was priceless. It was history in the making.
Ok, maybe not.
Probably one of those "when good things happen to bad people" (or vice versa) moments.
It was soo funny that we were literally rolling like
bitches in heat dogs on the floor, laughing our fat asses off.
Nevertheless, I LOVE Zara. They’re just like Mango – Zara is my new best friend.
I can’t wait for the Zara store to open here. They better have those nice black ex-Gucci-esque coats.
And no, there’s no lesson to be learned here. I’m THE perfect customer. I DO NOT TRY THINGS ON at the STORE. I just buy em. The dressing room is my worst enemy. It’s like having a CT-scan/MRI scan except you can see yourself get defrauded by lighting and mirror magic.
We’re the Kids in America
Looking out a dirty old window, down below the cars in the city go rushing by… I sit here alone and I wonder why.
I came across this treasure chest of stimulating imagery while searching on google.
Friday night and everyone’s moving, I can feel the heat but it’s shooting heading down… I search for the beat in this dirty town.
I guess this is how people MY AGE do "it" in certain parts of the world.
Come on now everyone… sing with me!
Down town the young ones are going, down town the young ones are growing… we’re the kids in America… we’re the kids in America… everybody live for the music-go-round!!!!!!!!!
and don’t forget…
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
#1 – Bryanboy loves peope from Leeds, UK, Ridgewood, NY, Bridgeport, CT, Fairport, NY, Alajuela, Costa Rica, Alameda, CA, Beijing, China, Wallacia, NSW, Australia, Longjumeau, France and of course, Woodstock, GA. Bryanboy loves y’all – Identify yourselves bitches and say hi!
#2 – Thank you so much Jenni for the Fauchon chocolates. You really know the shortcut to a sheorhe-male’s heart.
#3 – Kelly is horny again!!!!!! See my best friend get 69′ed – for the first time.
#4 – All of the pictures that you see on today’s post are the only pictures on my camera. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to camwhore the entire weekend. More pictures will follow though… all I’m asking for is a little patience.
#5 – Bryanboy’s in da house… house of wax, that is, not house of Chanel.
God I need a haircut… and a facial.
As always, you know where to send your love. Email me, firstname.lastname@example.org or send me an SMS, +63-915-785-1492.
I’ve got 6 hours to go before I leave the house.
I’m jetting off to a place where being a label whore is de rigueur.
Look, I’m only fucking 16 years old. I’m allowed to wear bright colors, to display all my labels loud and proud.
I’m not a high almighty card-carrying member of the dead poets society. I’l save the Comme de Garcons, the Costume Nationals, the this and that when I turn friggin 45.
Seriously, no offense whatsoever but I’ll save the blacks, the whites, the neutrals, the tailoring and all that fashion hoola baloo to the intellectual fashionistas.
I’d rather celebrate my youth by being a full-blown label whore. The Dior, the Chanel, the Hermes, the Yves Saint Laurent, anything that has a label on it.
Heck, I evem got a silk bolero jacket from Hermes with the Hermes ribbon printed on it. Fabulous. Very bling bling.
Besides, discretion is for someone who is friggin old, wrinkled, botoxed, etc. In other words, anyone over 30 and above.
Of course they need friggin discretion. What would people think if they’re still a damn logo-a-gogo carrying senior citizen?
Anyway, I’m just enjoying it now because I’m young, I’m restless and I’m fucking carefree.
I am the epitome of consumerism. Without me, capitalism won’t exist.
I j’adore it when people look at me as if I’m a fucking walking billboard advertisement.
Make my fellow youth envious… jealous.
I’m sure, one day, when I hit 75, the only thing that will save my life is Zoran, Oscar de la Renta, a wheelchair, an oxygen tank and formaldedye.
Here’s suitcase number #1 (Globetrotter). Underneath all those clothes are dozens upon dozens of handbags and accessories.
I love Globetrotter. I think I’m definitely going collect more Globetrotter pieces. I first heard of them earlier this year from American Express Departures magazine. I LOVE them.
Here’s suitcase number #2 (Prada). Clothes, cosmetics, toiletries and sundries.
This suitcase contains clothes… a ton of Marc by Marc Jacobs, Gaultier, Neil Barrett, my oh-so-loyal LL. Bean toilety kit with my Obagi stuff, YSL and Dior sunglasses, Chanel box with goodies inside, etc
I hate it when my maid packs my stuff cause I want to oversee what is being packed etc. I’m a firm believer of overpacking… I like it whenever I have selection whenever I’m travelling… excess, excess, excess!
All this effort for a mere 2 day trip. I should be back on Monday early evening.
Big shout out too the Kangaroo Vogue forums. Bryanboy loves you all, and I’m honored to be the topic du jour of all the beautiful kangaroos on the discussion forums.
Who knew there’s a Vogue down where the underworld lives? I mean, I know there’s American Vogue, British Vogue (my favourite), Italian Vogue, French Vogue (Gotta love Carine).
As a closing note, my god, you Australian people have a really scary
scary socialites ex-Prime Minister’s wife. What on earth was she holding?
"The titans of the luxury business have a message for Sydney socialites such as Lady Sonia McMahon, who was recently photographed at a social function carrying a fake Hermes Birkin bag: that steal could cost you more than the real thing.
Should Lady Sonia ever take her fake Birkin to France, whose intellectual property laws are rigorously enforced , Australia’s former first lady could find herself detained at the airport, taken to the police station and fined thousands of dollars. Anyone who is considered part of a larger operation could go to jail."
Click here to read more.
Since I’m a label whore and I’m a certified AAAA fashion victim, the best thing about carrying a genuine Hermes Birkin bag is NOT the bag itself but the fucking bragging rights AND the envy that comes along with it.
I LOVE YOU ALL!
AND YES BRYANBOY LOVES AUSTRALIA, TOO!
I’ll update when I get back. You know where to contact me = +63-917-785-1492 or email@example.com.