A Treasury Of… Minneapolis Fashion and Interior Design Blog

Two years ago, I felt I had to meticulously photograph all of my Christmas gifts before I could properly use or enjoy any of them. And out of that sudden, strong urge I launched The Treasury just a few days later.

The way I see it, there’s no point in something being delightful unless it’s dutifully documented.

My yuletide tradition continues for a third year. I present to you (and, really, to myself) a selection of the Christmas gifts I was lucky enough to have given and received this happy, holiday season.

1. Vintage French Workbooks.

2. Rogues Gallery Key Fob.

3. Gem-like Game Dice.

4. Bandit Boy Screen Print.

5. Retro-Perfect Stabilo Pens.

6. Not Chocolate-Covered Cherries, but Chocolate-Flavored Cherries!

7. Vintage Book on Style.

8. Made-In-America Robin’s Egg Colored Duct Tape.

More and more it’s the little things – the ones that typically show up in my stocking – that give me the biggest smiles at Christmas.

Other than shoes and obscene amounts of boots, I haven’t been buying as much vintage wear as I once did. When you’re young and broke and free, it’s easier to find the patience to flip through racks of Aeropostale polo shirts and Deee-Lite-ful polyester pants for hours on end to find the one rare and worthwhile wearable.

But, of course, if you never shoot, you’ll never score, and so now and then I return to my thrift-store roots in hopes I’ll hit the jackpot.

Last week’s find was a late 70s/early 80s mystery shirt by a brand called CAMPUS® Easy Life.

Its safari and sorta shutter-buggy at first glance, but the shirt’s quilted shoulders & pocket flaps, plus its rounded shawl collar take it to an almost Luke Skywalker-like universe.

It’s just the sort of unusual and interesting piece no label would have reason to design today, and which simply must be rescued from the fading force of yesterday.

So remind me not to forget again about the merits of valiant thrifting. Cause had I not flipped past hanger after hanger of irrelevant vintage for like a whole hour last Friday, I never would’ve nabbed the perfect top for photographing Ewoks or Elaine Irwin in some outer-spacy outback.

But now I do!

The beat-up best from around the country is once again up for grabs just south of the Twin Cities in Shakopee at the fifth annual Junk Bonanza.

Vendors and vintage-vultures alike are known to descend upon the epic event from as far away as Australia to witness hundreds of booths worth of weathered old wonders.

From emptied bottles of fizzled out soda pop brands to tattered telegrams to faded dressmaker’s forms the event is more or less an antiques assault on all one’s senses and a one-stop shop for battered but beautiful bargains.

The Junk Bonanza continues through September 18th down at Canterbury Park, so if you can see Minnesota from out your front window, you best U-Haul it on over there and stock up on other people’s old stuff.

These days it seems like only the few, fawned over brands bother with building goods handsome and built to last. But once upon a time that wasn’t the case, and even at not-so-chic Sears you’d find scrumptious sweaters made by Ohio Knitting Mills and wingtips as deadly and dapper as the four in my collection.

The first pair wound up in my possession randomly, as part of a costume for a film, and a size and a half too large for me. But the second set were selected because they were the most striking of all the brown wingtips in my size at a local vintage shop.

The rest were sought out specifically on e-bay, and although the era and interior Sears emblem varies a bit from style to style, each pair is rock-solid outside and pillow soft inside. With vintage wingtips, if the leather is too pebbly or too dull the shoe reads as too dusty, dated and drab – but the Sears shoes are grained and glossed just perfectly so.

And, apropos for a Sears shoe, even a rare vintage one, I’ve never paid more than $19.99 for a pair. If Alden or Trickers wingtips elude you economically, go see the softer side of Sears.

Recent foraging through my favorite thrift store had proved fruitless for months on end, but the curse was finally broken this week with some shiny, fine finds.

Totally “Hot” bling – for my house, not me.

The “family portrait” of all I found including a massive quartz crystal that Speidi would die for.

The fine print on my ‘lil British tin.

I found a place for all my shiny finds in almost no time; although the lamp is resting in a closet, waiting for some shade.

Last weekend for 75 cents I found a plastic bag of these vote-baiting nail file freebies from the late 1980s.

I don’t know how effective they really would’ve been as a campaigning tool, but as retro mementos they are clear winners. The powder of the blue and the brick of the red in these specific shades are a thing of the past.

I’m thinking of going back to where I got the first bag of files, buying about ten more, then sticking them like bouquets in a quartet of metal vases. But I’d need to host a party with some sort of coinciding theme in order to be that dweeby about dumb old nail files – and I can’t think of a logical enough link.

Yet.

Ever since this winter, Monday morning through Friday afternoon I pretty much won’t pop a single thing into my mouth unless the chick from Clueless says it’s okay.

As a result, I’m now a walking punchline – and half of my clothes are now too big for me and my plant-fueled body.

Thankfully, for the past ten years I haven’t been able to throw out any adorable article of clothing too large or too small without first saying to myself, “You know, you’re either gonna be one of those people who get thicker and thicker the older they get, or you’re gonna be one of those people who get skinnier and skinnier the older they get. So, self, you better save that sweater/tuxedo shirt/tattoo-ed pair of 1999 CK jeans, just in case you grow a little bit thicker or a little skinnier anytime between now and the year 2062.”

I now have five ‘n a half coffin-sized bins of my former fashion hits and misses messing up my attic which I rummage through every few months. It’s like my own personal thrift store but with far fewer Hilfiger hoodies.

I might not get to eat anything fried or frosted during the week because of that damned vegan has-been, but I can fit into my favorite jeans from Fall of 2000 again which I never thought would happen.

It’s not quite as delicious as Thai chicken with basil was, or salted caramel milkshakes were, but digging into a heaping mound of well-worn clothing classics you yourself turned vintage is tasty in its own way

After five hours of traveling we capped off our 95 minute sprint through Mt. St. Michel with a cone of crispy Chu-Chis, deep fried twigs of dough that are then doused in a dramatic downpour of sugar. Like a funnel cake, but tough and crunchier.

We were held up by Mean Mickey at the Porte de Vanves flea market. It’s a drastic makeover, but he wears armed & insane surprisingly well.

Flower-buddy spices at the Galleries Lafayette über-market.

I assumed the golden nose on this $1400 McClown lamp was its on switch, but, sadly, the joke was on me.

France is the land of 10,000 carousels. We saw many, rode one, and photographed most of them.

Down in Nice there was a strong Italian influence and so we strolled around the city with gelatto cones twice a day. At our favorite shop, if you ordered two flavors, they didn’t just plop one down on the other, snow-man style, but created radial little blossoms of creamy coolness.

Whenever I’m in a foreign land, I like to hunt down grocery market finds by brands we have back at home of specific products which we do not. I even sacrificed precious room in my suitcase to pack in a big box of Kellogg’s Tresor cereal.

The daffy door leading to the unisex restrooms at Colette.

As you can see, France isn’t all fussy refinement. It can flash a little crass and whole lot of sass.

Sometimes I’ll see an old black & white photograph of soldiers and think about taking it home and tacking it up on my wall. But it seems slightly insensitive, turning their wartime tasks and troubles into trend-ified decor.

Photographs of rugby or rowing jocks seem safer and equally as stylish, but, really have no place padding the walls of anywhere I live – there’s nothing about me that’s ever been slightly sportsman-like.

So it was such a score to come upon this American Legion Chorus image. Former soldiers singing on stage, dressed up to the nines – that sits with me just fine.

I’m really hypnotized by the regal pomp of the image. It has such a magical mood to it that today is all but extinct, I think.

If directors of Jenny Lewis or The National music videos don’t read this and cop the concept themselves, I’m gonna dress one of my gal pals up in a Lady Liberty look and set her on stage with some white-tuxed tenors and baritones and shoot something similar myself.

So inspiring…

I’ve recently purchased a trio of vintage military sweatshirts over the past weeks. I’d been envisioning wearing them in one of two ways:

1. With short shorts and either my new Common Projects sneakers or some sort of boots – as if I’ve been running up and down Mt. Currahee with my band of brothers in Easy Company. Or…

2. Dressed up, over a white oxford, with khakis and black or brown wingtips. The mash-up of the politely preppy with the mucho-macho military delivers the real thrill.

Unfortunately, the two S/M shirts pictured here proved a titch too S and not enough M for me. So I tried to pawn them off on the e-baying public but only the red one proved popular.

(I’ll post an image of the third sweatshirt I pulled the trigger on once it arrives later this week. Hopefully that one’ll fit.)

‘Round where I live, there’s a trio of surplus stores called Ax-Man Surplus that offers bin after bin of obsolete odds ‘n ends. You might not need 250 doll legs, or 75 calculators shaped liked Kentucky, or half a dozen mousepads with Mr T.’s face on them, but it’s life-affirming to know there’s someone out there who will nab up that crap, and gladly.

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure after all, and nestled next to the tacky glow-in-the-dark travel thermoses, there’s also an awesome assortment of cleanly-designed and perfectly-packaged products from years gone by that, with some patience and a finely-tuned eye, transform Ax-Man into a Minnesotan version of the style-savvy Salvor Kiosk.

Last Saturday at Ax-Man, with a stupid grin on my face, I swiped up:

- 2 U.S. military pins = 1.45 
- evaporating dish = 2.50
- 1980s police training shorts = .95 
- metal clasp wristlet = .45
- German golden bullet = 4.95 
- 2 French military arm bands = 1.50 (watch out, Chris Martin)

Never has spending sixteen bucks been such a blast.