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Timing: Within the last week or so Location: Whichever cemetery is closest to the harbor probably Feat: @recoveringdreamer & @kodiacast Warnings: None! Summary: Just two confused folks lookin at a lobster
Felix had never really understood the appeal of cemeteries. It had always seemed a little morbid, the idea of standing on top of your buried dead and speaking to them as if they were there. Maybe it was the balam’s ability to see ghosts that made the concept a strange one, or maybe it was more tied to the fact that the dead person they’d loved the most hadn’t been buried in a graveyard. (Cremation had made more sense, their father said; the idea of someone digging up his mother for her pelt had been more than enough to convince Felix to agree.)
So they didn’t spend a lot of time in places like this, tended to avoid them altogether when they could. But… cutting through this particular cemetery was the quickest way home tonight, and Felix was tired enough to put aside their discomfort in favor of the shortcut. They had their hands in their pockets as they trudged past the tombstones, trying not to look at the names carved into the granite. Some were familiar; that was a side effect of growing up in Wicked’s Rest for the fourteen years they’d lived here before their father whisked them away.
A scuffling nearby caught their attention, and their head turned towards it instinctively. They were expecting to see a mourner or another passerby. They were not expecting to see a giant lobster. Maybe that was their first mistake.
Blinking, Felix stopped in their tracks to stare, eyes wide. They heard someone else approaching and quickly put their hands up. “Careful!” They warned, turning towards the stranger. Whoa, was he dressed like a fireman? Was it Halloween? Felix stared at him, too, for a moment before snapping out of it. “Um, careful. There’s a lobster.”
—
On the ranch, the weirdest thing Otis ever saw was a cow born with two heads. Only strange as a quirk of nature, rather than something truly bizarre. Wicked’s Rest however, had a panoply of oddities around every corner. The distinction between the stories in the writer’s head and the sights he’d spy on the streets had never been thinner. Never been so unclear.
He’d always seen things. Ones that shouldn’t have been possible, shouldn’t have existed. But hell, he could turn into a bear. Often would, if lacking in the esoteric eating habit he couldn’t seem to shake. Who was he to judge? Even so, he was hard pressed to find much else supernatural on the ranch. He was just an anomaly. Alone in kind but not in heart. His mother’s both saw to that. They didn’t care whatever he was, so he didn’t really put much stock into it either. Still, every so often, they’d be out in town and pass by someone who neither Brenda or Patti noticed a difference in yet Otis saw them for something distinctly un-human.
Maybe he just had a big imagination. Always had, actually. Maybe this was just a part of it. So why couldn’t he just be seeing things as that expansive mind thought they might be, rather than what they were. Otis never minded. Never brought it up even when talking to someone who looked much more like a bush than a barista, more like a shadow than a sales clerk. Wicked’s Rest was full of these strange visions. Otis assumed it was just because he was somewhere new. Somewhere more populated. Maybe the cold and dealing with northern attitudes had made him seek comfort in the strange. That made sense. He was content to leave it at that until, well, right up until–
“A lobster?” The firefighter’s path home had taken him through the cemetery. It wasn’t a great place to be at night (Otis’ relief had been late again, but the bear didn’t mind much) but it was much faster to get back to the shitty little apartment by going through, then circling the length of the whole field. He expected he might see some oddities. Always a daydream of a goth kid or two, some people pretending to be vampires, or an imagining of a zombie or something. He did not expect someone else to see the very same chitinous creature the bear assumed he’d conjured from his thoughts.
“You– you mean the big guy?”
—
The stranger — the firefighter? Were there firefighters in Wicked’s Rest? There must have been, since there were fires and all, but some part of Felix found it strange, somehow, like firefighters were too normal to exist in a town full of giant lobsters. — didn’t seem entirely put off by the lobster, and there was a moment where the balam wondered if they’d somehow imagined it. Had their mind invented a lobster where there wasn’t one? They had been under a pretty great amount of stress lately. Stressed minds saw things that weren’t there, and that probably included giant lobsters. But… no. That was ridiculous. This was Wicked’s Rest. If you thought you saw a giant lobster, there was probably a giant lobster.
This was confirmed when the probably-a-firefighter spoke again, asking about the big guy. Felix blinked, looking back to the lobster and holding up his hands. Palms out, thumbs together, carefully placing the lobster between his fingers as if to measure it before turning back to the stranger with a satisfied nod. “He’s pretty big, yeah,” they agreed, feeling fairly confident in the response. “I, uh… I don’t know if he’s friendly or not, but a lot of things aren’t, and he’s in the graveyard, and maybe he wants to eat someone, so I’d, um… Make a wide path.”
—
The scene was something out of a sunday comic strip. Two tall figures at the edge of a winding path, both staring out in disbelief and confusion at a sight that shouldn’t have been possible, but somehow they could both perceive. The monstrous lobster was scuttling to and fro. It paid little mind to the living, fancying itself with the fresh lump of earth it appeared to be quite fascinated by. Otis couldn’t help but be taken by musings. Observations.
Descriptions blossomed in his mind, the way he’d describe such a thing if it were to appear in Tales from Beyond. A mass of bright red bone-like structure, entirely too still until it began to twitch this way and that. Not unlike a spider, but much more bulbous, spiky. Its body swayed with a groaning grind of carapace against carapace as it dug at the freshly turned earth. Long spindly limbs akimbo. Too far to properly get a glimpse of its maw, though that particular fact was more of a blessing than any kind of problem.
Otis tore his eyes away for a moment, realizing how wrapped up he’d been, and how it had made him forget his manners. “...’preciate it.” He nodded, offering the stranger what he believed to be a smile, but in reality was no more than a twitch where his lips met his cheek. “...The heads up, I mean.”
—
It wasn’t as if Felix had never seen strange things in Wicked’s Rest. Felix was a strange thing in Wicked’s Rest. But you never really expected to see a giant lobster scuttering through a cemetery, did you? It wasn’t really something you put on your list of possible activities for the day. And yet, there it was. Undeniably present, unless the stranger at Felix’s side was messing with them. (But he probably wouldn’t do that, right? Firefighters were upstanding citizens. They had to be. They fought fires.)
Glancing over as the man spoke, Felix offered him a small smile. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “Um, of course. I wouldn’t want you to get… Do lobsters pinch people? Is that — Is that something we should be worried about here? I wouldn’t want you to get pinched. He’s got really big claws, right? It’d probably hurt. My, uh, my brother used to say that normal-sized lobsters could pinch your fingers off. I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, I bet a lobster that big could take off your whole arm. And you probably need your arms, for the firefighter thing. I mean, assuming you’re a firefighter. And not just dressed as one. I know other people dress as firefighters sometimes. I went as one for Halloween when I was a kid. Not that it’s Halloween now! It’s winter. Or spring. And Halloween is in fall. So…”
Trailing off, Felix looked sheepishly back to the lobster. They’d never been much good at this — at the talking. They always wound up saying too much, rambling on and on about things that didn’t make sense. Leo used to cut them off in the middle, remind them that no one really cared what they were saying. In some ways, Felix had come to rely on that. Without it… They’d go on forever, wouldn’t they? Rambling about things no one cared about to strangers while giant lobsters dug at the dirt. Embarrassing.
—
“...yeah.” While Otis wanted to wax poetic about the size of lobsters, and how he’d heard that up north they got big, and yet he wasn’t prepared to see something quite like the creature a few yards away. Instead, he nodded along. Soaking up the stranger’s words. Considering their position. The firefighter blinked a few times, tried to collect his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Makes sense with the… big claws.” He nodded knowingly, despite how much he didn’t. “Bigger pinchers, bigger… appendages…right? Like it could take an arm maybe.”
A curiosity spread into inspiration, and the bear took out his sketchbook. Pulling it from the side pocket of the duffle bag he had slung around his back. Otis figured it wasn’t often that he’d get another up close encounter with the local wildlife. Certainly not on his way home. “...You dressed up as a firefighter?” Conversation, people liked that sorta thing, right? The other seemed better at it than he was. Not that that was a hard act to follow. “That’s… sweet.”
—
“Right! Right, yeah.” There was some relief in the way the firefighter seemed to understand the rambling stream of consciousness that tumbled from Felix’s mouth. Most people didn’t. The nice ones would just let him talk, while the less polite would snap at him to shut up. No one had ever agreed with them before, though. They weren’t really sure how to feel about it. It was nice, but it kind of felt wrong. There was something almost sad about the thought.
Craning their head a little as the man pulled out his sketchbook, Felix nodded absently. “Uh, one year, yeah. Another year I was Superman. I went as something different every year. I didn’t really dig repeats, you know? My brother went as Peter Pan every year for five years in a row, but I didn’t like that. I wanted to be different. And — And his Peter Pan costume wasn’t even really a Peter Pan costume, anyway. It was Robin Hood, and our mom just made adjustments, so it wasn’t…” Not important. “Um, are you drawing? In the sketchbook. Are you drawing the lobster?”
—
“... Superman? Fan of…comics then?” Otis liked comics. His moms kept a variety in their ‘library’. Everything from old anthologies to whatever came out recently, if they had a chance to run into the closest town with a geeky store anyway. “...Repetitive could get old, I see what ya mean. But if he liked it… s’pose that's well and good for him. Ta each their own pancakes, er somethin’ like that.”
The firefighter didn't look over at the other, might have felt a little bad about it but it seemed they were fairly interested in whatever he was doing anyway, and it required a lot of his attention. The pencil floated over the page, slowly shading in the details that he could see. Multiple angles, gestures and studies.
“Ah, yeah. Y’know. Never seen somethin’ like that before. Are…they common ‘round here?” Otis finally peeled his gaze away, fairly satisfied with the sketches for the moment, back to his manners and his new acquaintance. “I mean, if yer also from ‘round here. Guess there's lots a–” he paused, searching for the word transplants, but failing to find it. “–folks who moved from yonder.” He nodded. Nice. “Me– me too. I'm one of them. Guess you could pick that like a prize pie at a state fair, what with the accent…”
—
“Not really. I just kind of thought his costume was cool. I liked the cape.” And the spandex, though that felt a stranger thing to admit to. “Yeah, he liked it a lot, so that’s his, uh, pancakes, I guess.” They’d never heard it phrased like that before, but the firefighter seemed smart, so Felix figured he knew what he was talking about. If he said pancake metaphors were the way to go, Felix would support him.
It was fascinating, watching the man draw. Felix had never been much of an artist themself — they could manage stick figures, but anything more complex was out of their wheelhouse — so it was interesting to see someone work through a process like this. The firefighter made the pencil look like an extension of his own hand, and Felix didn’t think they could do that with anything. Not a pencil or a paintbrush or a knife or a sculpting tool. They didn’t even know what it was to have full control of their own body, given the jaguar of it all.
Humming, Felix shrugged at the question. “I’ve never seen one before, but I don’t know. That doesn’t mean they’re not common, right?” A lot of things like this had ways of avoiding detection. That was why so many humans lived in Wicked’s Rest without knowing that there was anything odd about the town, wasn’t it? “I grew up here. I mean, kind of. I moved away when I was a kid. But then I came back! So…” They trailed off with a vague gesture. “Yeah, um, it’s a cool accent. Like Bones in Star Trek. Or the cowboy in Night at the Museum. Where are you from?”
—
He could appreciate that. The taller figure nodded along. Thinking it through, remembering the sheet of crimson flowing behind the blue suit. Picturing it and rolling the idea around in his mind. Each thought bubble meandering through a syrup thick stream of consciousness, they met and multiplied, carrying off the bear’s attention through the roster of all things Kal El related. He was a nice boy. That memory stuck out amongst the rest. Otis’ mum had made sure to stress the importance of that to the young bear as he grew up. Superman was strong, but people liked him because Clark Kent was kind.
When the fog lifted, Felix had added more questions to the roster. Ones the man had missed. Lost to the night like the many, many, many limbs lost to the large crustacean by the small pile of corpses it was amassing behind its spiny legs. Otis’ brows lowered, coming to a halt in a straight line over his eyes. His lips responded in kind, curling into his cheeks making him look like an exceptionally confused and confounded chipmunk.
The very last question was the only one to sink past the fortress of frolicking thoughts. Otis shook the concern from his face, chalking down the lobster’s display as just ‘one of those weird WR things’. One he might have to talk to someone about. Probably. Whenever he had a moment. “Uh– yeah, I’m from Georgia. Just a bit outside Savannah, my mamas own a big ranch.”
—
Felix had never really been much of a superhero person. The outfits were cool — they’d always like the idea of wearing a cape — but the concept was a little too much for them. The idea of helping people by hurting them wasn’t one Felix could really get behind, even when the people being hurt were the bad guys. It was something their father had used as an excuse for decades, after all, a thing he’d spouted while Felix was stuck burying bodies. Felix didn’t want to be like that. Having freeze breath or laser vision or whatever superpowers comic books boasted seemed just as stressful as having a jaguar spirit living inside you who’d really like it if you started eating people more often.
The firefighter shot Felix a confused look, and Felix blinked, wondering if they’d said something wrong. They knew they talked a lot, in situations like this one; it was a nervous habit. They liked to fill the silence, liked to make sure there was always something to listen to even if it was only their own voice.
Still, the man didn’t seem annoyed with them, and Felix decided to take that at face value. If someone was mad at you, they thought, it was that person’s job to tell you they were rather than leave you guessing about it, right? They offered him a smile, nodding. “Georgia! I bet Georgia’s cool. There’s a lot of songs about Georgia, right? Um, did you like it? The ranch. Hey, do you know why they call ranch dressing ranch?”
—
“I mean– It’s actually pretty warm. Even in winter.” Otis misunderstood. It wasn’t that he’d never heard the phrase. One of the ranch hands used it pretty liberally, it was just never in the context of a chilly night in Maine where his mind was fairly preoccupied with the large creature going about its business, oblivious to the two chatting away at the edge of the cemetery. “S’pose there is songs, yeah.”
The other question was a lot more to consider. His moms hated the smell of ranch dressing, but Tawny, yet another ranch hand, loved the stuff. Put it on everything. Fries, burgers, peaches. It was a bit much. The sauce had a nasty acerbic stank that wafted out and around. Hurt the bear’s nose, made it itch and twitch and feel like he couldn’t orient himself. Fair to say he avoided the stuff as often as possible. So again, he was quiet for a bit. Stirring the thoughts inside like a big old pot of risotto, until it came together, finally. “Has milk in it.” Otis nodded.
“But- uh– You?” He realized, a moment later, that he’d been rude. When people asked questions, they liked to be asked them in return, right? “Where you from?”
—
“Oh,” Felix let out an uncertain laugh, not sure if the firefighter was joking but not wanting to be impolite either way. Was it worse to not laugh at a person’s joke, or to laugh at something they meant genuinely? Sometimes, it was difficult for Felix to pick up on little things like that. After all, they’d spent most of their life only interacting with their own family. Social interactions weren’t something they were great at. It was difficult to understand tone, sometimes, when the person speaking wasn’t someone you’d known since you were a baby. “Do you, uh… like the songs?” It seemed odd to make small talk in front of a giant lobster, but Felix wasn’t sure what else to do.
Milk? Of all the things Felix might have expected ranch dressing to contain, milk wasn’t one of them. Maybe it should have been, though — why else would it be white? Felix had never cared for the taste and, given their lactose intolerance, that was probably a good thing. Maybe their distaste for ranch had saved them an upset stomach more than once. “Do you eat a lot of it? On a ranch, I mean. Is that why it’s called ranch?” They were half curious, half filling the silence, but they really did hope that the guy might have an answer for them.
“Uh, I’m from here. Wicked’s Rest. I moved away for a while with my family, but I moved back a few years ago on my own. What brought you here? I know it’s kind of got, um, a reputation.”
—
It only ever dawned on Otis that the quip was quop in the presence of a laugh. Half-hearted as it may have been, the great bear was glad to have brought forth any amount of joy. Of course he always sought to add more, but fell short on any additional puns in the present moment. Instead, he nodded along. Thinking briefly on the second question before coming to a response.
“Some of ‘em.” Eloquence. Practically a monologue. Champion of conversation. He almost wished he could blame it on the lobster but, sadly, this was just kind of how the bear acted. Blundering along, all of his thoughts and all of his words so carefully kept and organized behind that thick skull. Never really making it out until he had a chance to put pen to paper or fingers to keys.
“Can't stand it, really.” Ranch dressing. Eugh. Put a bad name to what was a wonderful place in Otis’ mind. The most wonderful, probably. “Maybe… other ranches though.” He affirmed, not wanting to shut down the other’s idea. “We have more of a… peach thing.” A pause. “Orchard. Make all sorts of peach wines and mead. Got goats…. Honey too. For the– use it for the mead.” The words themselves seemed to mozy about with the same languid tempo his accent danced upon. Many pauses and noises that sounded an awful lot like a bear trying to root its way through a pile of rubbish. “Lots of stuff but not– no dressin’ or nothing. Though my mama did try and make a sauce, what with the peaches and the honey. Tasted mighty delicious on some fried chicken, I'll tell you what.” Something about being given space to complain a little was enough to open him up juuuust enough for a few more words to escape. A little more introspection to his introduction. Maybe more than he'd shared with most of the people he interacted with.
In the same respect, the big old lobster seemed to be satisfied with its haul and began to skuttle off, dragging the dirt laden bodies behind it. Heading in the direction Otis had to guess was towards the sea. He watched, half fascinated, half repulsed. “From here? You must be a whole lot more used to the…” A hand shuffled out in front of the tall man. Gesturing vaguely towards the creature. “Not so much of this back–” Half sentences were all he could muster each time before hearing another bone snap, or smelling the putrid essence of death.
“Came here for uhh– inspiration. Writing.” He admitted, though if Otis had been asked, he didn't know if he would answer truthfully to what he was writing. Couldn't risk losing the anonymity of his podcast. So maybe it was a novel. And hey, scary writers loved Maine. Look at Stephen King! Very plausible. “Bit too quiet back home. Strangely enough, it sorta… made it so I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. It's…. Nice to be busy up here. Tryin’ sum’n new.” Otis sighed and tugged at the bottom of his shirt absentmindedly. The fire department was a very different ball game to the ranch. Whole new team too. At first it was…. A bit too much. But it came to be one of the things he relied on now. The routine interlaced with just enough spontaneity to keep his mind flexible. To keep stories coming so he didn't have to… well. Use the strange stone that sat in the back of his closet and whispered in the deepest reaches of his mind.
“What brought you back?”
—
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” After all, weren’t there a variety of genres of songs starring Georgia? Country western seemed to be the most popular — for reasons Felix figured were pretty obvious — but there was no hard and fast rule saying a song about the state of Georgia had to be sung with a southern twang. And nobody liked every genre of music, did they? Even Felix, as flexible as they tried to be, had their preferences.
And clearly, the firefighter did, too. Felix wasn’t sure why they laughed at his response to the question of ranch dressing, but the noise slipped out followed by a quiet murmur of, “sorry.” Peaches, they thought, sounded a lot more appealing, anyway. “Oh, I like peach wine. It’s sweet. You know? I like sweet things more than the bitter stuff.” They couldn’t stand most alcohol because of the taste. More often than not, they found themself practically choking it down just to fit in with whoever they might be with at the moment. Leo had been fond of beer; he’d often chastised Felix for not enjoying the taste, tried to ‘sweet talk’ them into drinking more. Peach wine would have been better, they thought. “Does she make it often? I bet it’s great on chicken.” They smiled a little at the way he spoke about his mother, the look in his eyes, even if there was a distant pang in their gut at the thought of their own mother.
They’d almost forgotten about the giant lobster, what with the conversation and all. They only remembered it when it made a noise as it prepared for its departure, scuttling off towards home. Felix felt a strange sense of envy towards it, in a way; it must have been something wonderful, they thought, to be so sure of where you belonged. “Yeah,” they confirmed, wrinkling their nose at the stench. They were glad their abilities awarded them a way not to always have access to the jaguar’s enhanced sense of smell; they had a feeling this was the kind of thing that was bad enough with human senses. “This kind of thing happens sometimes. You learn to roll with the punches.”
They looked back to the firefighter as he spoke again, offering a small smile. “That’s cool. I always thought a writer looked like a fun job to have.” They’d wanted to try it once, had expressed some interest to Leo, who’d laughed and told them that writers were meant to be smart and Felix wasn’t. Like most other inclinations Felix had, this one had died in infancy, strangled before its first breath. Maybe it was better that way, in some sense. Better to never have a thing than to have it and lose it, right? “What kind of books do you write? Have you, um, published any?” It would be cool to read a book written by someone he knew, wouldn’t it?
The question sent Felix’s gaze back to their feet, and they shrugged. “I, um… I was dating someone who lived here. I moved back to move in with him, but…” They trailed off with another shrug, allowing a heavy, uncomfortable silence to settle. After a moment, they cleared their throat and looked back to the disturbed grave. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna fill it back in. I know the lobster made off with the body, but… It’s not really about the body, is it? And someone might come by in the morning. With flowers or something. So I’m gonna…” They took a step towards the grave.
—
Otis paused, eyes lifted up to the sky as if the stars peering out behind the partial cloud cover would act as some sort of cosmic shazam feature, letting him know all the Georgian songs he hadn’t heard of. When they didn’t, and he still didn’t know, he simply nodded again. A purse to his lips that still held deep consideration. “You got a mighty fine head on you, kin. Thinkin’ a things I ain’t ever pondered.”
This too, was something to sit on. They liked sweet things, and despite not even knowing their name, Otis filed that info away. After all, he’d have to find a way to thank the kind stranger for stopping him before becoming… lobster chow. “Sort of a special occasions thing. We had plenty of peaches, bein’ a peach farm n’ all. But Mama always had a mind about her that if we ate ‘em always, we’d grow tired right quick.” Otis didn’t think he’d ever get tired of them, but that was okay. It wasn’t like he couldn’t go out and sneak a stone fruit on the slightest of whims. What was more intriguing though, was the honey. More than once he’d gone and given himself a quick lick when the hives were calm enough. “Could try and get the recipe if ya like, though I ain’t much of a cook. Always… take it out… too early… More hungry than scared a’ raw stuff I guess.”
His gaze drifted again, on the wind, towards the beastie. Almost invisible beyond the treeline. Well enough out of their path that both of them could probably make their way forward, but ah– His new acquaintance had a better idea. A kinder one for sure. Otis followed, continuing the conversation as they moved to start filling in the emptied grave. “Couple of short stories, but not like… widely published.” His shoulders were built for hard labor. Nothing about this was too different from mucking out the horses' stables, or digging in the fields. Except maybe, the lack of shovel. But whatever. “S’pose if you see fit to give me a number or somethin’ I could send ‘em your way. Along with the chicken recipe.”
—
It wasn’t a compliment Felix got often, and they couldn’t help but smile at the words. They liked the firefighter, were glad that the two of them happened to be in the graveyard at the same time, glad that this strange experience had brought them together for a chat. It wasn’t the strangest way Felix had met a new person in this town, but it was one of the nicer ones. No harm done, no danger. Just two people who could find decent company in one another.
The promise of a recipe only made Felix’s smile widen, and they nodded their head. “Oh, I love to cook. Hey, maybe if I crack it I could make it for you! Then you can eat it without having to worry about being the one cooking it. Right?” After all, it was probably more than Felix would be able to eat on their own. They could share with Luci and Milo, too, of course, but… maybe the firefighter walking through the graveyard at night could use more friends to fall back on. Felix knew they could, at least. “And I promise, I won’t make it raw.”
Humming, they nodded again. Widely published or no, short or long, the stranger had finished something. That, to Felix, was a thing to be admired. Pulling out their phone, Felix offered it over for the man to add his number. Once he had, the balam sent him a quick text so he’d have theirs, too. “I’d love to read them sometime. And make the chicken, of course. Whenever you want…” They looked down at the contact that had been added with a smile. “Otis. It was great talking to you!”
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ON SUSTAINABILITY
by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans
The theme of sustainability and ethical consumption has now reached the #menswear magazine and blogging world. In brief, it manifests as a call to buy better and to buy local. This is laudable – it’s harder and harder to avoid shocking headlines like the one about the 15 largest ships in the world (all or almost all container ships that move the world’s merchandise around) emitting more nitrogen and sulfur than all of the world’s cars combined. However, as with so many other aspects of clothing, complications lurk under the surface. A suit made with British wool, for example, may have been made up in Mauritius, out of wool that was taken from sheep in New Zealand, that was then spun into yarn and dyed in Chile, and then woven in Scotland. It’s dizzying. And country-of-origin labelling laws are remarkably flexible, often allowing clothes to be largely made elsewhere as long as a vague significant step has been taken in the labelled country.
How much more do we have to pay to get out of the tangle of exploitative supply chains that burden most production? What does it take to both dress well and do good? We want to feel good about what we consume, to imagine that it was sheared off of happy sheep, woven by bluff blokes who get to go down the pub at five, sewn by dutiful grandmothers who treat the thread not just with wax, but with love. Perhaps we imagine smiling children carefully planting trees in a park under the watchful eyes of their parents, using a portion of the dollars we have paid for such a garment, while the sheep graze nearby. Certain makers have successfully sold it-takes-a-village narratives like this as part of their clothing’s mystique, apparently built into their exorbitant prices.
Unfortunately and despite the pleasing narrative, buying and consuming the new is still consumption. Our very behaviors and tastes will need to change before we can congratulate ourselves. For example, cotton is incredibly resource-intensive to grow and pick, compared to certain other textile sources. And even if our custom clothing is made locally to its tailor, air travel to and from that tailor’s town (assuming you’re not local) generates a shockingly large amount of carbon. (A round-trip flight across the United States generates approximately 0.9 metric tons of CO2 per passenger, while the annual American generates on average a bit more than 16 metric tons of CO2 per year.) So if you’ve ever travelled for a fitting, or met with a visiting tailor, you may already have offset much of the environmental benefit of local production. Not to mention that despite significant advances, the dyeing and tanning necessary for the production of textiles and leather are still poisonous, hazardous processes. And cashmere goats themselves are contributing to climate change.
The four R’s of sustainability are instructive: reduce consumption and waste, reuse, recycle, and recover what material and energy can be reused or recycled from items that otherwise can’t be. Thus, reducing implies not buying more in the first place, something that magazines beholden to advertisers would hesitate to suggest. Can luxury be an environmentally sustainable area? In a world of urgent environmental concerns, we may be forced to recall that luxuries are those parts of life that are unnecessary. Perhaps we could do without owning the panoply of garments for different occasions that luxury magazines recommend we own. Or at least owning them new.
For reuse, the second R, may be the sustainability savior for our luxury clothing tastes. (While certain luxury clothing companies have begun to act on R’s three and four, recycling and refurbishing their old garments for sale in select boutiques, or recovering materials from old clothes for use as filler in new coats, it’s yet a small activity unless we visit the strange world of etsy self-styled upcyclers.) If we are wealthy enough not to live physically on a landfill we are still beset by pollutants our forebears have put in the air and allowed to leach into our ground and our water, dumped in the sea, and on another level, the blitheness with which we have paved, cleared, burned the planet. We are surrounded by the detritus of others’ consumption. At least one positive of that is the array of existing items used by earlier, more formal generations. And in the midst of our degradations, the internet has at least made our excavations of others’ trash-treasure cleaner, simpler, easier, putting a world of heirlooms and cast-offs, including thousands of beautifully made older clothes that can be altered locally to oneself without further demands on natural resources. Or these vintage sterling julep straws, bought for a song and brought out each year in julep season. I shall use them and then, in the theory of best use, pass them on for reuse.
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Because fashion is, and always will be, an eternal restart, it's not uncommon for certain fashion trends from years past to reappear on the red carpet. Between the Mireille Darc-inspired "plunge neckline" dress identifiable by a stunning open back, the cut-out dress worn by Carla Bruni and Sharon Stone, or the see-through dress made popular by Emily Ratajkowski when she walked up the steps at the Cannes Film Festival 2022, there is another one that asserts its legitimacy: the bardot neck dress. Kate Middleton: + 293% searches for her "bardot neck" dress Irresistibly fashionable, Kate Middleton made a very prominent appearance at the London premiere of the new part of the saga top gun. Accompanied by her husband, Prince William, and Tom Cruise, the future queen of England stole the spotlight from the American actor by sculpting his V-shape in a black and white round neck dress, showing off her set of shoulders. Signed by Roland Mouret, the creation earned Catherine Middleton the credit of increasing +293% search for the keywords "bardot dress" +293% in less than 24 hours, depending on platform i love sales. A remarkable score thus premeditating the operational return of this spectacular clothing trend. Bardot neck dress: how to wear it in 2022? Terribly sensual, the boat neck dress It responds to the style of the 60s, a time in which the French actress Brigitte Bardot claimed to wear this homonymous dress cut. Paired with bare shoulders, this tailored bomber jacket has the merit of being worn outside of Red carpet. In the city, during our free time, we consider the bardot dress with pieces of character. Wedge mules, a sophisticated bag, or sunglasses... In other words, the entire stylistic panoply to respect the rule of less is more : stay connected without doing too much In a relaxed atmosphere, wear it with flip flops, sailor or sports sandals, and with a denim jacket if you feel like it. Head to work, in mode businesswoman activated, we wear the boat neck dress with more elegant pieces. A sober jacket with shoulder pads, a synthetic leather belt, colored pumps... This trend invites a thousand and one possibilities. Also read: (function() var _fbq = window._fbq )(); window._fbq = window._fbq || []; window._fbq.push(["track", "PixelInitialized", ]);
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The elaborate ceremony that says everything you need to know about India-Pakistan tensions
Shashank Bengali, Los Angeles Times, Jan. 10, 2017
Towering soldiers wearing wide fantail hats face off across a pair of metal gates on one of the most heavily militarized borders in the world.
Then, to the blaring beats of patriotic songs, they swing their arms and high-kick like can-can dancers as hundreds of spectators cheer and snap selfies.
On one side, Indians; on the other, Pakistanis. It is a military display unlike perhaps any other in the world.
The heavily choreographed flag-lowering ceremony--macho and camp in equal measure--takes place every day at dusk at the countries’ main border crossing. The ritual has endured through half a century of diplomatic dust-ups, border skirmishes, economic warfare and mutual misunderstandings.
It’s like the halftime show at a USC-UCLA game--if the marching bands had 200-plus nuclear warheads aimed at each other.
India and Pakistan have waged three wars, launched a tit-for-tat nuclear arms race and squabbled over a 17,000-foot glacier, where hundreds of troops from each side have died in avalanches and extreme cold.
With hostilities between the rival nations flaring in the disputed territory of Kashmir, ostentatious nationalism is finding its moment in South Asia. India has made standing for the national anthem mandatory in its movie theaters, and Pakistan banned Indian films from its theaters for two months.
The daily to-do at the Wagah border post--noisy, jingoistic, somewhat confusing, full of bravado and elaborate gestures--mirrors the fraught relationship between the countries themselves, separated at birth in 1947 into predominantly Hindu India and predominantly Muslim Pakistan.
Wagah is where the Grand Trunk Road, an ancient lifeline of South Asia, intersects with the India-Pakistan border in Punjab, the fertile territory split by the British partition.
Visitors at the popular stop on the tourist circuit in both countries spend as much time sizing up the people sitting in the opposite set of bleachers as they do their own soldiers in uniform--green and khaki for India’s Border Security Force, black for Pakistan’s Rangers.
On the Indian side late one recent afternoon, beneath an orange sun suspended in a smog-brown sky, spectators alighting from their taxis and tour buses waded through a gantlet of vendors hawking “I Love My India” hats and face paint.
After standing in a lengthy security line, Indian visitors were corralled into single file by horse-mounted personnel of the Border Security Force--while foreigners and VIP guests took a fast lane to reserved seats at the front of the viewing area.
The flags of both countries, the Indian tricolor and the Pakistani green, were strung up tightly over the twin gates, which are opened every morning without major fanfare and remain open throughout the day until they are shut at the end of the ceremony.
Ice cream and bottled water were for sale, as if at a cricket match.
The crowd reflected the panoply of modern India: schoolchildren in rumpled uniforms, working-class men in their 20s with lean faces and trendy haircuts, well-off families in down vests and caps bearing the names of vacation destinations, young women from the villages in conservative saris and chunky gold earrings.
A disc jockey played a succession of pop songs with pro-India themes, prompting a cascade of children to wash down from the bleachers and start a dance party in the middle of the road where the ceremony would take place.
Families clapped and sang along to the familiar Bollywood lyrics. (“We snatch victory from every loss, we badly beat our enemies, we Indians.”) Some glanced over the pair of gates to the Pakistani side, a few hundred yards away, where spectators were taking their seats beneath a grave-faced portrait of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of the nation. There was no raucous dance circle, more men wore beards and traditional shalwar kameez, and women sat in a separate section of the stands.
“They look so different,” one well-dressed Indian woman in the VIP section said to the man next to her.
A white-clad master of ceremonies took the microphone and ordered the children back to their seats. The show was about to begin.
Two uniformed Indian soldiers in sunglasses and rifles slung across their chests suddenly appeared at the far end of the road. They twirled their sculpted mustaches and preened for a moment with their hands on their hips, then goose-stepped forward before coming to an abrupt stop before the open gate.
They pointed long glares at the Pakistani side--where soldiers were doing a similar bit of posturing, partly obscured from view.
The crowds went crazy. “Pakistan Zindabad (long live Pakistan)!” screamed one side; “Hindustan Zindabad!” the other.
A dozen Indian soldiers were next, marching so forcefully that scarlet fantails crowning their heads seemed like they would tumble to the ground, followed by two high-stepping female soldiers--an unsubtle dig at the gender segregation on the other side.
It went on like this for 20 minutes, each set of Indian soldiers seemingly taller and more imposing than the last. Some hurtled themselves toward the gate and flexed their biceps in a gesture that seemed more silly than menacing.
Finally, as the flags were lowered, one Indian and one Pakistani soldier performed an elaborate pas de deux, facing each other between the gates and offering a pair of sharp salutes, followed by high kicks that nearly brought their legs to their foreheads, and ending with a perfunctory handshake. Each marched back to his side as the gates swung shut with a clang--not to be reopened until the morning.
Few travelers cross the border this way, as there is next to no tourism between the countries. The closing of the gates, officially known as “Beating Retreat,” is almost entirely symbolic, modeled on a British military ceremony that calls patrolling units back to their bases.
The spectacle has taken place since 1959 with growing crowds and few interruptions. Yet the recent tensions have added an edge. In September, after Indian forces carried out strikes in Pakistan to avenge a raid on an army base, the Border Security Force suspended its participation for three days.
“With escalating tension on the border, the aggression in the ceremony increases,” said Mubasher Bukhari, a Pakistani security analyst. “More people attend and shout slogans with more intensity. It makes it ferocious--and to some extent ludicrous, like the war is being fought at the Wagah border.”
Sushant Singh, a military affairs expert and associate editor of the Indian Express, has called the display “outrageous” and argued for it to be canceled on the grounds that it promotes anti-Pakistan sentiment.
“It makes no sense,” Singh said. “You could have film actors doing it. There is no reason for a professional force to be spending so much time and energy doing something that has so little value--except for the fact it creates great PR for the Border Security Force.”
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5 Old School Strategies To Improve Your Marketing
The greatest lesson you can learn about marketing is that it can take many different forms. Over time, you’ll figure out which ones work and which should work but don’t deserve any more of your attention.
Still, although you may find a few ideas that work remarkably well, this doesn’t mean that you should quit exploring new possibilities. You may find a few new delightful marketing techniques that will serve you well.
When it comes to what works today, digital marketing can easily be ranked as one of the greatest marketing inventions in the history of the world. In fact, no marketing plan can be considered complete unless it has a digital component.
What’s more, digital marketing works even if you’re selling tangible goods. For instance, there’s no reason why you can’t sell clothing from a website. Shirtspace.com, for example, which sells Gildan shirts wholesale, offers bargain-priced shirts to screen printers by leveraging the power of online shopping and dropshipping.
When developing a digital marketing plan, be sure to include organic search, statistics, content, social media, and mobile strategies.
Revisiting Old School Marketing
Despite the proven benefits of digital marketing, there are several old-school marketing ideas worth investigating as well. Some of them, after testing, you may want to add to your panoply of winning strategies.
For instance, it’s tempting to believe that direct mail doesn’t matter anymore because nobody bothers to read snail mail. Yes, landing pages, sales funnels, and graphics-rich digital sales copy are highly effective, but they are not the only way to reach customers.
Here’s the paradox: since online marketing conversion techniques have become so successful, consumers have become a little jaded, which makes direct mail something of a novelty again. For instance, customers know from experience that the low price they pay for an online offer will be followed by a series of one-time-offers once they’ve entered a sales funnel. As a result, most buyers defensively scroll to the bottom of the page without bothering to read the sales copy or watch the sales video. This way, they know they won’t be tempted to spend more money than they had planned.
Ironically, a direct mail piece with a simple coupon may convert better.
Here are a few other methods of offline marketing that you can use in conjunction with your web-based efforts.
Add the personal touch:
A natural assumption that you may have arrived at is that direct, person-to-person contact is an old-fashioned way of doing business.
While it isn’t necessary to meet customers, investors, and service provider face to face to conduct a business transaction (because you can communicate just as easily via the phone, email, or a collaboration platform), it’s certainly a good idea to get out and meet people.
Talking to someone in person is a quick way to build rapport and establish enduring trust. While it’s probably less expensive and time-consuming to interact digitally, an in-person connection might allow you to benefit from the relationship in more ways than you could imagine.
Renew your appreciation for the value of print advertising.
The interesting thing about print advertising is that it appeals to a higher-income demographic. Just as $2.99 e-books have not made $17 paperback books with the same information obsolete, so too, blogs have not made glossy magazines outmoded.
Luxury magazines have a nostalgic, old-world charm that still makes print advertising a highly effective medium. They are also known to be expensive. Seeing your advertisement will tell the viewer that you are successful enough to afford this type of advertising.
Enhance your business reputation through speaking engagements.
No doubt, a well-written long blog post of 2,000 + words does build your niche authority, but public speaking is still alive and well and it continues to be a distinctive way of establishing thought leadership.
Sharing your knowledge in person remains an invaluable way to woo an audience. Speaking engagements can also lead to back-end product sales and wonderful networking opportunities.
Leverage the benefits of networking.
Networking may be a business practice that dates back centuries–but it still works! While you can converse with people at length on Facebook while dressed in your pajamas, it’s not quite as effective as getting dressed and attending a conference.
The Power of Inclusive Thinking
Don’t think in terms of either digital marketing or traditional marketing; rather, think about the synergistic benefits of digital marketing AND traditional marketing.
This inclusive approach to marketing will have a positive impact on your business success.
from Blogger http://olivergwaltney.blogspot.com/2018/04/5-old-school-strategies-to-improve-your.html
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5 Old School Strategies To Improve Your Marketing
The greatest lesson you can learn about marketing is that it can take many different forms. Over time, you’ll figure out which ones work and which should work but don’t deserve any more of your attention.
Still, although you may find a few ideas that work remarkably well, this doesn’t mean that you should quit exploring new possibilities. You may find a few new delightful marketing techniques that will serve you well.
When it comes to what works today, digital marketing can easily be ranked as one of the greatest marketing inventions in the history of the world. In fact, no marketing plan can be considered complete unless it has a digital component.
What’s more, digital marketing works even if you’re selling tangible goods. For instance, there’s no reason why you can’t sell clothing from a website. Shirtspace.com, for example, which sells Gildan shirts wholesale, offers bargain-priced shirts to screen printers by leveraging the power of online shopping and dropshipping.
When developing a digital marketing plan, be sure to include organic search, statistics, content, social media, and mobile strategies.
Revisiting Old School Marketing
Despite the proven benefits of digital marketing, there are several old-school marketing ideas worth investigating as well. Some of them, after testing, you may want to add to your panoply of winning strategies.
For instance, it’s tempting to believe that direct mail doesn’t matter anymore because nobody bothers to read snail mail. Yes, landing pages, sales funnels, and graphics-rich digital sales copy are highly effective, but they are not the only way to reach customers.
Here’s the paradox: since online marketing conversion techniques have become so successful, consumers have become a little jaded, which makes direct mail something of a novelty again. For instance, customers know from experience that the low price they pay for an online offer will be followed by a series of one-time-offers once they’ve entered a sales funnel. As a result, most buyers defensively scroll to the bottom of the page without bothering to read the sales copy or watch the sales video. This way, they know they won’t be tempted to spend more money than they had planned.
Ironically, a direct mail piece with a simple coupon may convert better.
Here are a few other methods of offline marketing that you can use in conjunction with your web-based efforts.
Add the personal touch:
A natural assumption that you may have arrived at is that direct, person-to-person contact is an old-fashioned way of doing business.
While it isn’t necessary to meet customers, investors, and service provider face to face to conduct a business transaction (because you can communicate just as easily via the phone, email, or a collaboration platform), it’s certainly a good idea to get out and meet people.
Talking to someone in person is a quick way to build rapport and establish enduring trust. While it’s probably less expensive and time-consuming to interact digitally, an in-person connection might allow you to benefit from the relationship in more ways than you could imagine.
Renew your appreciation for the value of print advertising.
The interesting thing about print advertising is that it appeals to a higher-income demographic. Just as $2.99 e-books have not made $17 paperback books with the same information obsolete, so too, blogs have not made glossy magazines outmoded.
Luxury magazines have a nostalgic, old-world charm that still makes print advertising a highly effective medium. They are also known to be expensive. Seeing your advertisement will tell the viewer that you are successful enough to afford this type of advertising.
Enhance your business reputation through speaking engagements.
No doubt, a well-written long blog post of 2,000 + words does build your niche authority, but public speaking is still alive and well and it continues to be a distinctive way of establishing thought leadership.
Sharing your knowledge in person remains an invaluable way to woo an audience. Speaking engagements can also lead to back-end product sales and wonderful networking opportunities.
Leverage the benefits of networking.
Networking may be a business practice that dates back centuries–but it still works! While you can converse with people at length on Facebook while dressed in your pajamas, it’s not quite as effective as getting dressed and attending a conference.
The Power of Inclusive Thinking
Don’t think in terms of either digital marketing or traditional marketing; rather, think about the synergistic benefits of digital marketing AND traditional marketing.
This inclusive approach to marketing will have a positive impact on your business success.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NWT Panoply Hot Pink 14707 Dress.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Purple Panoply prom dress.
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