Jennifer is a Party Pooper....

I have to admit, I have a soft spot in my heart for misunderstood English. Whether it was all the years living abroad in Switzerland when English wasn't the native tongue, or living in Scotland when it seemed as though English was not the first language. This German DJ really tickles my funny bone, because you know what. This guy is darn right on the money. Exactly, right on the money. Directly translated, this would confuse someone into thinking you were standing on a dollar bill. I'm a lover of language, especially when someone exposes the parts of our language that make no sense at all. 

 His video, my reaction.

Beauty in your skin

There are things that really make you connect somewhere inside. This woman's tattoo says it all.

Um, is that a pink elephant in the room? The Superman/Clark Kent life of Banksy.

Join me in a discussion about Banksy. First, if you don't know who Banksy is, let me fill you in. But only after I say 'What?! Have you lived under a rock for the past, oh, 20 years? Get with the now!"

That being said, here's the 411. Banksy was a mysterious graffiti artist known for his stencil work and political statements. Starting in the UK, Banksy did more than tag. Footnote: tagging being a simple "autograph" or "I was here." His work across London included spray paint work as well as multi media.

I love his work. I love the anonymity of it, the message is always powerful and perverse and, well, obvious. To me he is the superman of the art world, made even sexier by the documentary Exit Through The Gift Shop, where he appears like some faceless Jesus of the graffiti political public art world. Swoon. His voice made raspy only adding to his appeal, like some kind of avant garde witness protection program. And through the production modified voice the subtle yet clear accent of a public school boy. Hmmmmmm.

Wait what?

Spoiler alert... if you havent been following the art world: Banksy is Robin Banks. Banksy WAS anonymous. He is from Bristol. His mom probably calls him Robbie. His buddies at the pub I'm thinking call him Rob. How normal. I feel like Lois Lane and I just discovered Superman is Clark Kent. Except I'm super bummed. She probably envisioned children and the chance of settling down with a semi-normal guy that has sick abs. No, not me. I will never meet "Banksy" if that's what you still want to be called. Nor will I meet "Rob", "Robin", or "Bob". I feel a bit saddened by his loss of anonymity. Who thought it was a good idea to tell me about the surprise party? Cause that is NEVER a good idea.

Even thought I know Robin grew up a middle class British boy, there is still something about his work that gives me the shivers. Somehow art made by stencil has the simplicity to really be evocative of so much more. Not to mention he has the guts to put it out in the public, under the guise of a hoodie.

And what will happen to the market value of his work. Before his identity was revealed his work brought hundreds of thousands at auction. He is right up there with Damien Hirst when it comes to high value modern art. Purchased by collectors who want art that will increase in value. Well, now that his identity has been revealed, will he be able to maintain? Will he be arrested? He's certainly crossed the line many times (which I adore) but will he be able to continue producing work with a known identity or is it the anonymity that makes it work? It will have to be seen.

Animal Print, the Good, the Bad and the Best.

I don't typically have a thing to say about fashion. It's not my area of expertise. Ask me about Abstract Expressionism, horse hooves that have thrush, or how to make the perfect Manhattan and I can give you some information (notice the degree of variety in my knowledge, it's pretty broad). In the trifecta of Mohan sisters, I am the boy. When it comes to what to wear I frequently have to phone the youngest most fashion savvy Mohan, Hayley, to get advice.

I made the horrendous mistake of wearing two much animal print this week and even I shudder at the memory. It was not an intentional selection, more out of 1. needing a layer because I was cold and 2. I was too lazy to switch purses before running out the door. So here I was, leopard print bag and cheetah print sweater (I redeemed several points here, it was cashmere and soft as butter). But still, I looked like the Jersey shore had beaten me with a tacky stick. Bridget, what were you thinking? Hayley, I'm sorry. I just wasnt.

But this whole animal print concept got me thinking.... when is it worn best? Obviously not when it's on overload and you feel like you just stepped out of a safari hosted by TJ Max. Yikes.

I did a little research, and yes animal print can be worn. And it can be worn well.

Example #1 (and #1 for oh so many reasons).

The gorgous and glamorous Jackie O.

Icon, yes. Wearing leopard print and pullling it off, yes. She exudes confidence. Perhaps this is because she was married to THE PRESIDENT. But also, she knows she looks good and she's right. This woman could probably pull off a burlap sack with the right high waist belt, but that's another topic. I love you and your leopard print coat. It's probably real leopard, which is pretty creepy and sad. But lookin good!

Example #2. Bettie Page.

I love you and it's not just your fantastic bangs.

Ok, so she isnt really wearing leopard print, rather it is draped seductively almost like a wild animal cape. She is still entirely alluring and owning the animal print.

Example #3:

Audrey Hepburn.

The rain in spain stays mainly on the plain.. and this lovely hat will keep those locks dry.

Three cheers for that adorable hat. With the cat eye mascar and heavy bang, this look is owned. Absolutely owned. Again, probably real fur.

Sooo, what have learned? Looks like our female forerunners pulled off animal print without looking like a nightmare. Part of the look involves a certain confidence and unabashed attitude that says "yes, this is a cheetah and I look fabulous".

"Buy the lobsters that look the meanest"

It feels like it took ages for me to get to Virginia. But after all of the planning, tying up loose ends and a good old rip of the proverbial band aid, I've made my way in to the welcoming arms of the south. A region, for which I am told the wind blows sweeter. I'm not sure, I do love home. And for new years, let's say I really brought the New England with a lobster feast. It was decided that cooking lobsters must be knowledge inherent to anyone from Maine, Mass, or NH. And fortunately for my fellow diners, that wasnt far from the truth.

Scott suggested we buy the meanest most bad-ass lobsters we could find, easing their minds about shoving a live critter headfirst into a pot of boiling water. Fortunately our lobsters were actually shipped in from Maine and had most likely heard stories about what happens.

We picked three lobsters that looked pretty peevish, all the while passing shoppers were FLIPPING OUT about the critters coming out of the tank. I couldnt help but laugh. These people must be what my father would call "cheap dates".

We got these bad boys home and shoved them in the sink where they could wrestle and decide who was the first to head into the pot. Photo op.

I regaled my guests with how I used to enjoy popping their eyeballs once cooked. They all thought I must be a certain kind of new england gladiator. They are probably right on the money. I then proceeded to "seduce the lobsters" before turning them upside-down so they can have a relaxing moment before heading to the hot tub.

Naturally the butter was simmering on low and in went the bugs.

Baby friend prefers sweet potatoes. I told him not to worry, he'll get down with the lobster when he is a little older. Aunt B will train him up in no time.

Can we say Delish!!

Here is Scott making excellent work of his lobster. We really didnt have the tools to make quick work. He's going at his with a stove thermometer. Why not?

I'm a yankee, y'all!

I haven't posted in this blog since college. And it's been a few years since the days of polo matches and Francesa Woodman. Quick recap: Graduated college, moved home, moved to Baltimore, moved to MA and worked back in the horse world, moved home again for a weekend, met lots of people, won some lost some, got a dog, a few more tattoos, did some traveling, learned some lessons etc etc. And now what?

I'm moving again! And this time, like all good stories, things have come full circle. Lauren from college (Karen to some apparently... I don't remember the joke's initial references. Must have been alcohol related ), and I are reuniting. I thought she was pretty BAMF in college, and frankly she's still pretty super. And I'm moving to the "dirty South", Norfolk to be exact, to work with her at her art museum! I also plan on doing some teaching while I'm down there and just generally seeing where life takes me.

What? Crazy right?! But also awesome and very exciting. I will probably be picked on mercilessly for saying "wicked" every third word. Honestly I say it so often I don't even know I threw it in the sentence. I was told by one of the curators that I need to replace "wicked" with "y'all". I'll let you know how that goes.

better than crack

Along with inspiring my to dye my hair, Lauren 'L-Sauce' Northup (Karen to some) has given me reason to live. Yes, this may sound a bit over the top, but Bridget is never half assed. I am addicted to the Avett brothers. Their bluegrass stylings get me up in the morning, help me procrastinate through my day, and make me run a little bit faster on the treadmill. How did I even exist before? I shudder remembering those days (the same days when my hair was a wee bit darker). They almost make me want to leave my baked beans and lobster New England for the sweet tea south. Almost.