I love fashion.  I eat that stuff up with a spoon.  Every month I search for the first copy of the new Vogue, flipping through the pages with a zeal I reserve for few other things.  Vogue is a fantasy.  For them affordable pants are $300.  I prefer to remove a zero from that number.  They show handbags made from exotic skins.  I wait for the Target version.  Its all a fantasy, all a kind of a catalog. Long ago a friend asked if fashion magazines made me feel bad and I said no.  I treat it as sort of a catalog.  I look, I see what I like, I copy.

Fashion inherently involves some kind of talent.  Long ago I realized that I take photos because I can’t draw.  Now that also extends to fashion design, which is also fine for me.  I like clothes, but I don’t need to design them.  Daily fashion blogs like the Sartorialist, have entered to entertain people like me with what average people were.  Some extremely elite people, but sorta regular people in the grand scheme of things.

I have this blog and little time for anything else, so I don’t think I could start some kind of a Sartorialist kind of a blog.  I mean there already is one, so why would I make another?  Besides, I know tweeds and khakis are dandy together.  What I’d start is a blog where I chronicled the really interesting stuff people wear.  I mean the really interesting stuff.  Like the following:

Now this was not a fashion show.  This is what people wore to the annual, round the world pillow fight that happened today in Cambridge.  For Googling purposes “boston pillow fight April 2.”  Standing there in the midst of all of this it hit me — every public event I attend in Boston, people are wearing costumes.  I think they will use any excuse to take the horse mask out of their closet or wear their banana suit.  I don’t really understand it, but as long as they want to be photographed, fine by me.