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Archive for August, 2011|Monthly archive page


In neck on August 18, 2011 at 8:15pm08

1. If given the task of styling yourself, what would be the accoutrements?

A Phillip Lim vest, a pair of Allsaints cropped leather trousers, Super ‘Ciccio’ glasses and the Christian Louboutin pump.


2. Do you have a favorite trope?

Yes and it feels very apt considering the times in which we are living. It is one of the antanaclasis variety, made famous by Mr. Benjamin Franklin, “We must hang together, or assuredly we will all hang separately.”

3. If you could appear in any film what would it be?

“Rosemary’s Baby” around the neck of Minnie Castevet, a.k.a. the enviable Ruth Gordon.

4.  What is the perfect way for one to spend an afternoon?

 Lying in the park, listening to “Ride of the Valkyries” while simultaneously watching a Monarch butterfly, destination unknown, amid flight, fighting to evade elements that include a 9-year-old hellbent on catching it, thrusting gales care of an elderly couple racing to a matinée on their Hoverounds, a Great Dane hellbent on catching it, a misdirected shuttlecock from a heated game of badminton, punches thrown by a woman who has just been told by her husband that he has impregnated her sister, fiery wafts from a barbecue grill, timed sprinklers, a man deathly allergic to bees who has encountered a bee, puddle sludge catapulted into the air by a leaping 4-year-old unaware, at this stage in life anyway, that Typhoid is an actual thing, a remote-controlled helicopter controlled by a middle-aged man who just had to get out of the house before his wife drove him to drink, a T’ai chi session, first-timer foreplay that entails two teenagers rolling down a hillside, boot camp suckers dropping like flies as they try to shakily maintain a side plank, a wedding party’s action shot, the maid of honor face planting on the way down from the wedding party’s action shot, the bride’s gesticulation fueled meltdown over the fact that her wedding has been ruined, E.M.T.’s holding a gurney, racing to the aid of the sobbing maid who is now bleeding profusely and missing both maxillary central incisors, the bride continuing to meltdown, until suddenly there it is! The Monarch’s one and, possibly, only chance out of this hell. The Monarch hovers, watching as the groom looks to his blithering, spoiled, squalling future, and then, with vigor his only friend, the groom scoops up the delirious maid of honor sans front teeth, declares his love for her all along, kisses her — wrong move! — turns and races out of the park. The Monarch turns with them and drafts close behind, successfully taking advantage of the wind created by the groom’s accelerated speed. Along the way it passes two fellow Monarchs cruising in a paceline, “Fare thee well, my friends.”  The Monarch’s struggle so epic, it deserves its own leitmotif.


5.  If you could be reimagined by another artist who would it be?

Roz Chast. And I would ask that she make me appear irritable.

6. Is there a pose an autobiographical fashion blogger should never leave home without?

Tucking the hair behind the ear while wistfully staring down at something on the sidewalk. But what is it they see? Could it be the God particle?! Maybe a finable surprise the neighbor’s Yorkie left behind. We don’t know! We will never know! Oh, the mystere!


7. If you could be worn by anyone, who would it be?

The wife of the American ambassador to Portugal while she waits on a cobblestone pathway overlooking the Tagus for her Belgian painter-cum-lover on the day she is to leave with him and start a new life in his hometown of Bruges. Upon departure, she will leave a note, opting to save the ambassador the humiliation of seeing his face when she delivers the news. The note will be written on her personal stationary, complete with a single spray of Quelques Fleurs for old time’s sake. Within one year the scent will be gone but don’t tell the ambassador’s olfactory system as he will from time to time sniff the letter, smelling the scent for years to come. After all, it was the scent he gave to her on their second date. The same date that she watched from her third-floor dorm as he performed for her “Wanna be Startin’ Somethin'” with his fellow Whiffenpoofs. “Mama se mama sa muh-muh coo sa” would never be the same. She cracks a smile, “That was a wonderful night.” She looks up from her look back to see the painter walking toward her, a solitary pink rose clenched between his teeth. Forty more paces and she must choose between a life unknown and her reality for the past thirty years. It will be so easy to change her mind, “Gunther, I’ve made a grave mistake. I cannot leave him.” Thirty more paces, “I’m ready, Gunther.  I love you.” Twenty more paces, “Gun (clears throat)  …ther — (nervous chuckle)  I was never one for that nickname. Anyway, I need more time. I was too rash, too hasty. He’ll be gutted if I leave this way.” Time is up. He is here, the painter, Gunther, standing in front of her, rose still firmly between his teeth. He smiles, holds out his hand.

8.  So, who does she end up with?

That’s not the point.

9.  What’s the point?

The point is, in all likelihood, no matter who she ends up with she won’t truly be happy. The point is, women need a combination of both painter and ambassador. Too much of one — or too little depending on how you look at it — is not enough. Everyone would like to say that the perfect man does not exist; half painter, half ambassador may as well be a cocktail of unicorns and rainbows but I find that to be a bunk theory. If you have the power to incubate them and raise them then you have the power to turn them into amazing adults who treat their partners well. It’s been done many times in fact. I’ve seen it. So, for all the ladies right now — and you know who you are —  marveling at their little bundles who have mastered the crab crawl months before the crab crawl should’ve been mastered? Stop with the overbearing coddling and the “no woman will ever treat you as well as mumsy” subliminal messaging and just make sure he doesn’t grow up to be a selfish, self-aggrandizing prick because not long ago, the very gentleman who screwed (or is currently screwing) you over mastered a crab crawl or two of his own.