I'm sure those of you who went to the International Bicycle Film Festival kick off party last night and saw Bostonbiker also saw my hat on his head.
The picture above is the hat; although of course, you'll have to drop by the BFF to check out what's underneath that brim.
And if you're checking out the BFF this weekend, you'll probably even see me around. Except, yeah, you probably won't know it's me.
So maybe this whole idea was a bit like communist China.
Good in theory but didn't exactly work out as planned in practice.
I think my last two free hats are going out tomorrow...but that doesn't mean they won't be available anymore. People have expressed interest in getting a hat but I just can't seem to reach those people through a system of random distribution.
Which is why, like China, I just might be going capitalist. It seems like a fairly good system, you know, trading green sheets of paper with dead presidents on them for a handmade hat. Fully lined. Finished by hand. You'll want one, trust me. Sold on the idea yet?
If not, well, maybe you'll just have to see one for yourself. I've bribed someone to wear an s-class hat at the International Bicycle Film Festival. Apparently he'll be there all weekend. And if you see something you like, well, I like dead presidents.
Re-runs are great; there are some shows you can watch over and over and over again. And on those days you can barely drag yourself out of bed, starving but too hung over to actually make anything to eat, the warm glow of Law and Order marathons are God's gift to the now-latent raging alcoholic in you. They justify sitting on the couch all day. With a beer.
But you know, it sucks when your life becomes one.
Because while mindlessly watching TV re-runs at least gives you the pretense that you're doing something productive, that's not really the case when it's applied to your life. You just become something boring to look at, because nothing else is around, or something only tolerated because flipping through the channels is too much of an effort.
Which is kind of how I've been feeling lately. Cut, sew, finish, drop off, blog, silence, repeat. For some reason, Boston just doesn't seem to like my hats. And for some reason, people in other cities do. I've been putting off making hats for friends in other cities ("yeah, sure, after I finish these three hats I want to give out..."), and have had the word "commission" tossed my way (whatever that means). So for all the friends I've been neglecting, and to all the people who have asked for a hat...well, something seems to be in the works.
But Boston, what gives?
Everyone has something they denounce in public but are secretly proud of or own. Like popped collars and pink polos; the ones "your friend" has and you would never wear in Boston because it emits a beacon of douchery, but somehow it finds its way into your suitcase on a daytrip to the Cape.
Yeah, we're all two-faced. Old news, I know.
But sometimes you can't deny who you are, even if you try. Me, I've been cursed as being born in the 80s, that fabulous era of flock of seagulls haircuts, gold MC Hammer pants, faded blue denim jackets, and shoulder pads. And in terms of fashion, those gold MC Hammer pants should probably stay in the past. Still, I can't deny the appeal of the wearing the most mismatching colors in clashing patterns all in one outfit.
Or the appeal of Marky Mark. Or his brother, Donnie.
So on Saturday morning when I rolled into the Wheelhouse Diner and saw an autographed pictures of Donnie on the wall, I jumped to make this hat. The fabric's been lying around for a while and it's so awfully, perfectly 80s.
And no other fabric was as appropriate to make my first newly designed hat. I'm dropping this off somewhere today - hopefully to someone else who loves the 80s.
She will consistently fail you when you need her the most. Or at least when I depend on her the most.
She whispered in my ear that everything was fine - good, even! - while I spent sweaty hours at my sewing machine figuring out what worked for the hats and what didn't. She assured me that this was the best way to make the brim, or line the hat, or whatever. She told me everything I wanted to hear.
And then, like most relationships, something happened. I didn't believe in her enough. She didn't want to keep up the endless moral support. She pointed out everything that was wrong with the construction of the hats. I pouted furiously because they just confirmed all of my suspicions and hated her for her dishonesty.
Confidence can be such a fickle bitch.
But a few more frustrated sweaty hours in front of my machine at least gave me some new ideas, and the promise of a better product. The brims are better; hopefully sizing won't be such an issue, and just between you and me, I have some high hopes.
So fuck Confidence. I can roll out new (and better) hats without her.
A visit to NYC, deadlines, and a promisingly huge project. Those are my excuses of the day.
I have to admit, I'm excited about this project. Not the hats - that's something small and personal (at least for now). But there's something big starting up and it's right down my alley. Yesterday couldn't have been better with emails going back and forth and things being pushed forward. I might become part of something much bigger, and it feels good to know you're useful and part of the team.
And it didn't even rain on my way home.
So today, it's easier to forget that to some people, I'm just not visually interesting enough to spark a sense of curiosity. And I almost don't care that people need to judge everyone else without taking the time to learn the most obvious things about them. Chalk it up to their own insecurities; I'd like to think I'm not boring enough to merit a label.
On a more relevant note, I haven't given out any hats in about a week. I know. But I'm settling down in front of the sewing machine again; there's new fabric to be cut and sewn and hats, hats, hats.
Stay tuned!
