Toilet Paper Times

I’m not one to cave into pandemonium, but if amazon sells out of toilet paper, I’m alarmed. I jolted out of bed this morning with one mission, and one mission only: buy toilet paper. And no, I didn’t subscribe to the panic, it’s more that I had none left, and apparently neither did amazon. What could have been a productive Friday turned into a fight or flight Friday, one in which I waited in a 45-minute lineup at Whole Foods amidst empty shelves, and hipsters upset non-organic produce was their only alternative in apocalyptic times. 

Corona spread across the globe, and Cancel Culture caught the viral bug real fast. Concerts, flights, small businesses and even Mercer Hype Kids are closing down shop. Basically, the world officially called in sick, and will be WFH via Zoom and Slack until the end of March. No one sounded the pandemic alarm while innocent Asians were getting sick, but once the stock market took a hit -- read, White Men of Power -- the world soaked itself in Purell and panic. The drought of canned goods and toilet paper are cookie crumb clues of bunkers being built in the stead of quarantines, but the empty subway cars point to a much bigger sign: 2020 has no chill. And not in a meme way, but in a wake the fuck up way. 

Realists point out the facts: Australia forest fires, war in Iran, Corona Virus, Global Warming and Donald Trump at risk of re-election. Optimists have another message: we are missing the point. Over the last few years, the message has been growing louder and clearer, yet we as a collective have grown more selfish, narcissistic and vain. The pedestal for the self was the initial quarantine. And now we’re in lock-down in community centers with our neighbors. Not cute, and not instagrammable.

We are all energy. We attract what we put out. And in the last 5 years, we’ve been spewing garbage. Literally. It’s in our oceans, and our ozone. Perhaps the Corona Virus is a blessing. It’s the Universe’s way of signaling that we as a species are growing out of control. We needed a slap in the face. One that would put us in a corner long enough to think about what we’ve done. 

We’re killing each other. 

We’re harming our planet. 

We’re destroying the homes of animals. 

We’re living in squalor. 

We’re terrible people.

We need this time out. We need to be benched. We need to regroup, and reconsider what it is we’re doing and how we are living. How it’s affecting us, as individuals but as a collective. Whether we want to or not, we’re all in this together.

Being this selfish can only take us so far: to toilet paper pandemonium.

Who is Virgil Abloh anyway?

You may know him as the Artistic Director of Louis Vuitton Menswear. Or maybe as Kanye West’s “Creative Director”, the “genius” behind G.O.O.D Music’s merch and album covers like “Watch the Throne”. You may also know him as a DJ. And, if you’re a devout follower, you know he’s studied architecture and engineering. But he’s so much more than that. He’s an Influencer with a capital “I” and the embodiment of everything wrong with today’s youth culture.

We live in a world where clout is now a relevance metric prioritizing “likes” over artistic vision, where wifi and narcissism trump talent and hustle, where fame is a science, and where authority is self-professed and widely accepted. Where Kylie Jenner is the most popular designer in the world right now – beating out Louis Vuitton. Smh.

Alas, there’s no unsubscribing; it’s reality. And if fashion is any reflection of society’s current state, substance is at high risk of extinction.

The hot brands right now are Gucci, Supreme, Balenciaga, Vetements and Yeezy because they’ve nailed Streetwear – a newly crowned influencer-lead zeitgeist pulling from skate culture, heavy metal, an alarming amount of 90’s “nostalgia” (ironically venerated by those born that very decade) and couture. Sounds pretty dope, right? But this thumb-stopping content leads to “need-it-now” hyperventilation, “crazy eyes” and false fame – all side-effects of “hype”.

And if you’re not participating, you have FOMO. Marketers included.

Influencers have nailed the “hype” Formula. You know, the aesthetic of structured pieces, minimalist background and street arrogance, “content creation” by “influencers”, off-brand branded “collabs”, and the vagueness of one’s personal brand.

It’s not rocket science. In fact, it’s so easy, anyone can become someone (cue “micro-influencers”), and everyone is a “creator”. Everyone is everything. And everything means nothing.

No one is single-minded.

No one is an expert.

And nothing is new.

With a formula so simple, of course everyone’s copying each other. Everyone looks the same, and everyone’s famous. More than ever, “influencers” are subjecting themselves to brands objectifying them as media buys. Because, fame. Obvi.

Thus, our feeds aren’t safe, and neither is the tangible world: we can’t attend a party without it being branded, hosted in a multi-purpose “gallery”, and with “speakers” leading “talks” on topics that feel titled specifically to be vague and innocuous, all in the name of content.

The whirlwind is exhausting. And it’s all our fault. We’re liking, following, and worse, hiring and pitching. People who technically aren’t influencing much are now influencing our briefs– aka our lives – all in the name of FOMO and Formula.

We’ve allowed Instagram and Youtube to dictate culture, and legitimize the illegitimate.

We’re the ones who’ve put these influencers on a pedestal so high, they’ve transcending into highly coveted jobs in the traditional space.

LVMH considered – as in, actually contemplated– Virgil as Riccardo Tisci’s successor for Givenchy before awarding him the artistic direction of Louis Vuitton menswear (lesser than womenswear in the fashion hierarchical scale, but nonetheless). IN-SA-NE. This prestigious role – the highest honor in the fashion world, actually, which once required the legitimacy of experience – has officially shifted into the legitimacy of cultural clout. There goes art.

If it can happen to fashion, it can happen to us. Us, as in marketers.

They’re already “Creative Directors” and CEO’s. Hell, they’re even presidents.

But it’s not too late. We forgot that we are the real influencers – we are the manipulators of messages. We’re the O.G.’s. We’re the artists summoned to shape society. That’s what we signed up for. The power is still ours. So if anyone can burst this bubble of “sameness”, “nothingness” and “hype” to save culture, it’s us.

It all starts with the brief.

NYC's NOT For YOU

I want NYC so badly. My soul cries. Younger me clenches tight. My neck hurts. Hell, my entire body aches. I’ve developed a part-time eating disorder and a twitch. But that won’t deter my focus, not even for a second. What about yours?

You think you want it badly? Work hard enough, and you’ll get it. Just remember the Universe gives you exactly what you asked for –nothing more, nothing less. So when you say you want it: are you ready for the hustle impatiently awaiting to swallow you whole? Are you ready for the “hardships” you were “warned” about. New York is a tough city. Think you can handle it? Think you can leave Mommy’s care, comfort and cradle?

New York will chew you up and spit you out before you can request an Uber back to said cradle. Are you ready to have your lash extensions plucked out, or your primped nails stripped bare? The answer is yes. Only the broken survive. Unless of course you have a trust fund inheritance, and in which case, this post isn’t for you.

Only the determined pull miracles out of their asses to ninja chop their way out of the web of obstacles cynically placed for one's breakage. Imagine, in one week – aka a New York Month –those luxuries you’re used to (thanks to your stage home, small town upbringing) di-sa-fucking-pear. Pouf! Gone. Welcome to a life where washer/dryer are no longer prerequisites but fifth on your wish list because, clean bathroom please.

Life is hard. Everything. Is. Hard. Laundry and groceries, although seemingly simple tasks magically conducted from an app, require organization and effort. Being a New Yorker takes skill and a shit ton of adulting, all of which further spin your already spun head into what you can only hope isn’t permanent whiplash damage.

NYC is real. Real money dangled like a dream at every corner. Then again, eclipsed by real poverty if you don’t watch your fucking step off the MTA tracks. Real hardships. Real dreams – the same as everyone else just like you. You may be Daddy’s Little Girl, but no, you ain’t special.

The special ones are the relentless ones. The special ones are the ambitious ones persevering against all odds –and that web of obstacles. But that’s not you. Daddy is still paying for your Mercedez that’s pulling your ass up to the bottle reservation at Trendster Douche Club so you can flirt with fuck-boys and a life you don’t really have. Oh, and that Benz also drove your post-yoga self home after your 9-5 workday. LOL at 5 p.m.

New York doesn’t sleep and neither will you if you give an ounce of a shit. Buh-bye Tulum tan. Oh hey, brown bags! Don’t kid yourself –they’re not Celine. They live under your eye ducts full of tears. And most likely, they’re recycled from Morton Williams and doubling as your garbage can, because turns out, you’re too fucking poor now to buy one even if it’s on $27.95 on Amazon Prime.

In 2017, Millennial Girls got smart: we know those chick flicks are full of shit. We know that storyline is like, a fairy tale. But you know what you didn’t see coming? The New York landscape decked in a Valencia filter blurring out all the guck. Yes, guck. We live in squalor. What did you think 8 million self-centered, American Dream pursuing people piled on top of each other would live in? How can anyone pick up after themselves if their tunnel vision is zoomed so far up their own asses? Sure, strangers seem nice, but only if they sense the New York in you. So don’t kid yourself, Tourist.

The un-woke voice of our generation, Lena Dunham from TV show GIRLS, depicts Chinatown dive joints as “ cute”. That hole in the wall is exactly that: a HOLE IN A WALL, and it’s barely even C grade, which basically means, eat there and commit to a life of hepatitis.

Couture ads with a subway backdrop? You can’t smell the piss or see the shit-stained seat that was justifiably photoshopped out. You do realize you’re walking into some homeless guy’s humble abode, right? ZIKA at this point is the least of your worries because lice and bed bugs cohabitate every surface and are on standby waiting to pounce on you. And your pores... It’s a damn shame you can only dream of a facial. Your credit card is maxed from groceries and Malboros; the only luxury you have left.

I’m not sorry I’m harsh. It’s the truth, and I actually give a shit to forewarn you. I’ve always believed in sparing people from pain. And now, I’m sparing you from the pain you don’t deserve. You don’t deserve it because you’re not worthy of it.

The best part is the beauty in the struggle, and you can’t see the beauty if you’re not meant for the struggle. Hell, the love for that beauty is the only reason I’m still alive. Twitching, maybe, but tough AF. New York badge of merit, I guess. So, if I’m pissing you off, good. Accept the challenge of proving me wrong –and go be great.

A LITTLE DESTINY

The brand direction I believe WANT Les Essentiels should be taking...

What is meant for you will not pass you. There’s a reason the terminal was extra-crowded or that traffic struck at odd hours. No, it’s not Coincidence; that’s a religion created by cynics. It’s Destiny. It’s what placed that stranger next to you on your red-eye.  It’s what got you to bond with said stranger over your disdain for airplane “food”. It’s what now got you a date this Friday. You were both meant to sit in those seats because you were both meant to meet.

Destiny is what elevates travels to journeys. Don’t dismiss the dream just yet; it’s time you blindly believe. Because, why not? Opening your mind to the possibilities and welcoming in synchronicity will make life feel more fascinating, and well, more privileged. How’s that for luxury? And fashion-meets-function craftsmanship of coveted travel gear is merely the catalyst – no, the talisman – to living your best life.

It’s true. The creators of Want Les Essentiels believe in Destiny too, which is why every detail, every feature and every fabric has been thoughtfully integrated in the creation of their bags and accessories.

Those magnetic front pockets are designed for easy access because every moment counts. Being present trumps being preoccupied.

Materials, like top-grade Italian calf leather and Turkish organic cotton, are meticulously sourced, and are inspired by architecture as well as design. The supple construction of a weekender loosens up space for reflection, while the chic and utilitarian silhouette of a briefcase mirrors the success you deserve.

Timelessness is at the center of utility and quality because who knows where your journey will take you? Or who you will meet. Or better yet, who you will become.

While the product line may be a focused on functionality, the objective remains epitomizing the traveler’s journey. Thanks to Destiny. Which, by the way, brought you to read this piece.

“About Me” according to my past self.

Hi! I’m Nina. Copywriter, creative lead, journalist, content creator, word ninja, grammar geek, fashionado, dance nut, and music maniac.  Basically, a bad-ass b*tch.

Here’s why: I can school you from Les Lumières’ first theories to the Pink Rebellion in India, yet can also discuss at length all the ways culottes are the pant-form underdog and why their comeback is rightful and deserving. I’m also a quiet activist who mutes her opinions during world churning events, yet will shut down an uneducated, unstructured lengthy Facebook status update in 144 characters or less.

Sure, my enviable style at times discredit my legitimacy, but totally works for me when talking myself out of tickets and better yet, tardy timesheets. Is it my fault Celine knows the structural architecture of a bag? I didn’t ask her to punctuate them with ridic lush textures. And, did I call Stella McCartney suggesting she elevate the classic brogue into a tri-coloured slice of heaven? No, I didn’t. I’m the victim here.

Yet it’s my love for fashion that lead me to journalism; and my quest for constant, demanding intellectual pursuits brought me to advertising. I am who I am, and bottom line, that’s a kick-ass writer who relentlessly perseveres against all odds, especially her own. Just please don’t distract me with Chanel.

Oh, and I once tried to be vegan. But my choice in outerwear exposed my truths. So now I’m one of those vegetarians who’s chill with eggs – and whose leather skinnies don’t make her a hypocrite.