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Archive for January, 2013|Monthly archive page

Y’S FAUX SHEARLING JACKET

In upper body on January 31, 2013 at 8:15am01

 




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1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

An Aquilano-Rimondi dress, the Pierre Hardy, suede, Cube bootie, Wolford ‘Logic 15’ tights and a Prada, brushed leather clutch.

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2. Who is the most interesting person the woman wearing you has ever dated?

Bane.

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Q WING RING

In finger on January 29, 2013 at 8:15am01

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1. If you could style yourself what items would you choose as the accoutrements?

A James Long, woven dress, the Acne ‘Ace Brown’ bootie, Jeremy Scott sunglasses  and a Maison d’usQ ‘Madame Formidable’ satchel.

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2. You are a self-declared Bible scholar. My question for you is, what is your favorite book?

It would have to be… hmmm… Let me think about this. …book, book, book, favorite book… It would have to be… Kevin. *Off of my squint* Steve? *off of my squint, head tilted back, mouth open* Final answer, Greg.

3. Oh my gosh! You’re a fraud! You’re a bona fide infidel! You don’t know the first thing about the Bible, do you?

I know enough to know that the real meat of this religion lies in why one would not choose to be possessed by the devil and so here’s a “best of” list for ya: horrible penmanship, saying nasty things to people you love, next level back bends, projectile vomiting and finally, lifting nice people, who are just there to help, from the ground, with your mind, and flinging them out of a second story window. Eh?

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Now onto a few reasons why a person would choose to be possessed by the devil: Saying nasty things to people they hate under the stellar umbrella of being possessed by evil, saying “A number one, Animal style, please.” in a low, menacing growl, temporary bilingualism — of course the new language will probably be Latin. The devil’s second language is Latin, right? Either way, you’re bilingual. Now you get to converse with priests and linguists– …next level back bends, not having to go to work or school and finally, staying in bed all day. Am I right? Huh?


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4. I don’t even know what to say. Okay, let’s just get this over with. What is a dream the woman wearing you is currently working on realizing?

She’s here on earth, living the righteous life while waiting for the day Jesus descends from the clouds, a la the Rapture, to let her know she’s the lone human decent enough to return to heaven with him. Upon their ascent, with her arms wrapped tightly around Christ’s neck – in a very non-sexual way of course. Not saying that Jesus isn’t sexy but there’s a time and a place. He’s in business mode and she knows that. Not that Jesus would ever do anything like that while not in business mode. Frankly, I’m not even sure the man has —

5. Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are you aware you’re quite deep into blasphemy territory?!

Um, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a ring. Inanimate? Really, what’s he gonna do to me? Anyway, upon ascent and once high enough so the entire world can see her, my girl salutes everyone and leaves them with, “So long, sinning suckers! Good luck choosing between the devil and a guillotine!” In other news, the Bible — the Rapture to be exact — is some real next level sh–

6. Gah! Come on now! Some of us might still have a toe dipped in the Christian waters, not to mention plans of their own to return to the heavens on the first go round because having their head chopped off in some Helm’s Deep-type setting sounds like the opposite of fun. Do we understand each other?!

My bad. Wait a minute. What’s with the cat-o-nine-tails?

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7. It’s called repentance. Something you clearly know nothing about. I need a minute. Do you mind?

Yeah, sure. Take your time.

15 MINUTES LATER…

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Jesus Christ! What–

8. Where?! Has he returned?! Has he returned for the chosen?! Is he choosing me?!

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No! That was in vain! My bad! I was just commenting on how you destroyed your back! Hey, stop doing that! For the love of God!


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9. Where?! Where?!

No! That was just– Oh, nevermind.

RAG & BONE BASEBALL CAP

In top on January 27, 2013 at 8:15am01

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1. If you could choose your accoutrements what would they be?

An Adolfo ensemble, a Prada loafer, Dannijo ‘Joan’ earrings and a pair of Ann Demeulemeester gloves.

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2. In your opinion, will we one day look back on the MLB doping crackdown as a form of McCarthyism?

What kind of question is that?

3. Well, you’re a  baseball cap and so I figured… You know what? You’re right. I will strike it. K… Struck. If you could return as any person or thing what would it be?

That enfant terrible of the rap game, ASAP Rocky. Because he’s very cool and I’m hoping some of it will rub off on me. I’m not ashamed of that.

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4. Are you Team Leroy or Team Rhoda?

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or

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I’d have to say, Team Leroy. Is brevity the soul of wit? Not to ol’ Leroy it ain’t.

5. You might or might not know this — I’m sure you don’t. You’re a Brit, after all. Anyway, Reince Priebus is the newly re-elected head of the U.S. Republican National Committee, all very uninteresting stuff to the fashion sect and so we won’t spend another moment on that. But we will spend a moment on the most important thing about Mr. Priebus and that is that his name is Reince Priebus. With this in mind, can you give me a fun scenario using Mr. Priebus’ amazing name?

Oh, this is great. Okay, let me set the scene. Young couple. On their honeymoon. She’s rich, driven and horrible while he felt it was time to make an honest woman out of her so he could stop working and live the good life. With that said, you get what you pay for, “I can’t believe I married such an idiot! How could you forget to pack my Reince Priebus?! But yet here we are on our honeymoon and I’m without it! Oh my god, I’m itching just thinking about it. I can’t go outside! I’m gonna have to stay in this horrible room the entire time because the sad excuse for flesh that I just married didn’t have enough bandwidth to check and make sure my Reince Priebuses were packed before we left on our honeymoon to a place thousands of miles from our home in the United States! Mummy was right! I married a lemon! I married a sad and stupid lemon!

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6. Please, please tell me you have another one. Do you have another one?

You’re in luck! A couple in their 60s. Hailing from Minnesota. Camping in Yellowstone. He’s out taking a morning tinkle when he spots it! Unable to move because he’s currently indisposed, he harshly whispers to the wife who’s inside the tent, removing pink, sponge rollers from her hair with the demeanor of a lady who has just popped a quaalude because she has just popped a quaalude, “Ethel! Get the goddamn camera! It’s a goddamn Rience Priebus! They’re not gonna believe this back home. They are not gonna believe it! Man alive, it’s Reince goddamn Priebus! Eth-el?!” A googly-eyed Ethel pokes her head out of the tent, “Woo-hoo!”
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7. I promise this is the last time I’ll ask. Please?

Okay. But this is it. I’m all out of creative juices. *deep breath* Two scientists. In a lab teeming with Bunsen burners and other lab-type things. They stare wide-eyed, almost frightened, into a small, glass container housing something that looks like a tiny, spinning Milky Way, “My god, what have we done?” “We’ve just created a Reince Priebus.” “They said it couldn’t be done.” “But we did it.” “Do you think in that container there are microscopic dung beetles using the Reince Priebus for navigational purposes? Ya know, since dung beetles here on earth use our Reince Priebus for navigational purposes?” “Focus, man.” “My apologies.” “If we lift this lid, our planet will be nothing more than a memory. The moment oxygen hits it there won’t be enough matter left to know we were ever even here.” “There’s only one thing to do.” “What’s that?” “Sell the Reince Priebus to Google for billions of dollars so we can peace-out of this thankless job and live like real Gs. Like Google Gs.” “That sounds fantastic but what if Google decides to lift the lid?” “You have a point. Shit…”

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8. Do you have any parting words for the woman returning you to the store for the 3rd time because she can’t make up her mind?

I think Mr. Ingram put it pretty eloquently…

9. And if she should want you back?

Yah mo be there, of course.

SCP CASHMERE HERRINGBONE SCARF

In neck on January 25, 2013 at 8:15am01

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1. Like so many, this flu has a Vise-grip on my life at the moment; therefore, I’m able to get out just one question. If you could be worn by anyone, whom would it be?

This man. At this moment.

PROENZA SCHOULER LARGE ‘PS 13’

In stuff on January 24, 2013 at 8:15pm01

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1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A Thakoon Addition, African floral dress, the Thakoon Addition, African floral trousers, a Saint Laurent trench and a pair of Burak Uyan T-bar pumps.

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2. You’re watching the “Thomas Crown Affair.” Do you prefer the casual McQueen or the to-the-nines McQueen?

Since the option of bathing in McQueen was not offered, I’d have to go with the following McQueen…

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3. What song is the woman carrying you getting seductively undressed to?

4. Oof… I did not see that one coming. What exactly is happening here?

Right?! And keep in mind, she and the husband are only 25. Anyway, from what I can glean — and this is all second-hand because I’m tucked in the way back of that godforsaken, monstrosity of a closet where I can’t hear a damn thing — they lost the spark. It’s no one’s fault. It’s everyone’s fault. They’ve simply hit a slump.

5. Why, for the love of god, is she getting seductively undressed to what I’d imagine her side of their therapy session sounds like set to song? I love Barbra, by the way.

Who doesn’t love Barbra? However, if I was in charge of the evening “Pop That” would be on a loop. I dare anyone to not introduce romance back into the bedroom with those melodic sounds flowing through.

6. Charming. Moving along. Who was your favorite person to be carried by?

That awesome and amazing, not to mention, very innovative woman who when walking through a Lilliputian size antique shop filled with tchotchkes of the porcelain, glass and expensive variety, turned to focus on a mother-of-pearl Trojan Horse, which in turn allowed me to knock over absolutely everything on a table positioned right behind her, only to whip around to see the destruction I hath wrought allowing me to knock over absolutely everything on another table that was now positioned right behind her. My god, I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it.

7. If you could be carried by anyone whom would it be?

Easy. Frances Ann.lebowitz-fran-051102

8. I’m sorry but I just don’t get it. What’s the big deal with this woman?

*The PS 13 got physical*

9.Ouch! What’d you do that for?!

It’s simple. I love Fran. We. All. Love. Fran.

TIM RYAN CHEVRON JACKET

In upper body on January 23, 2013 at 8:15pm01


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1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A Marie Merci polo hat, a pair of Max C, original pants, an Alexander Wang bustier and a pair of Casadei pumps.

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2. If you can return as any person or thing what would it be?

The Quiero Club.

3. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?

A travel package for the Maasai people to come to our land and see first hand how we live so they too can return home and talk, and talk, and talk about the trip with an air of touching the void as opposed to just going on vacation, to another place, on this planet. Upon landing, transportation in the form of a mini-Cooper sitting on 17-inch anthracite rims, because the host is twee yet hard like that, will await you curbside. To give a little insight into the host, I should point out that up until around four months ago, she thought kosher and vegan were synonymous.

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From there, you will be whisked off to camp: a spacious, 2-bedroom located on the idyllic, tree-lined Sycamore Avenue, constructed in 1943 and said to be inhabited by Fatty Arbuckle’s ghost who’s been known to fondle the host on occasion while she sleeps. Buckle up!

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You will enjoy local fare at such places as Joan’s on Third, The Kings Road Cafe, Urth Cafe and Le Pain Quotidian, where you will “Don’t look!” look at the “lucky bitch” with the sick, Hermes, Kelly Doll bag, all three Jonas brothers and that guy the host has seen somewhere but can’t quite place but knows she either boned him two years ago, had a chem lab with him at Princeton, or he had a small role on “Breaking Bad,” or he was a bad breakdancer she boned at Princeton.

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You will then be taken to ancient spots such as the dive bar down the block to stalk the host’s ex while he partakes in dodgeball karaoke, rustic Runyon Canyon to see first-hand women hike in triangle, bikini tops, immediately followed by the host calling them “gross and way too fat to be wearing that!” Immediately followed by seeing a young woman who actually “can” wear the triangle bikini top but still shouldn’t because it has, after all, been deemed gross while one is hiking.

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You will sit in on the host’s therapy session, watching agog as she reclines on the chaise while her therapist, cleverly positioned behind her, rolls his eyes as she once again drones on about how she thought Dustin was going to marry her, how amazing she is, how the world just doesn’t get her and how she’s been wronged by people she thought were friends as her voice steadily rises to octaves only Pomeranians can hear, until it culminates with the therapist passing her a tissue nestled in a ceramic tissue holder he purchased from a reservation gift shop in Minnesota when traveling across the country during his gap year.

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You will be whisked down the city’s bustling, oft traveled, alternate route, known as Crescent Heights Boulevard. The host will point out that the road turns into Laurel Canyon Boulevard when it starts over the hill and into hell.

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You will be taken to West Elm where you will stare — nonplussed, head cocked to the side — at a Nuyorican, Brooklyn-based artist’s mass-produced paintings of memes of Maasai jumping. You will proceed to get lost in the paintings while asking yourself, “So I’m just a meme to these people? I’m a real, living, breathing person with my own individual needs and wants, however, I’m getting the feeling the rest of the world simply longs to connect to only the idea of me? The idea of a Maasai person. An African. If this is the case, what am I really? The Maasai person. The African.” Standing beside you, the grungy guy who impersonates Jesus on Hollywood Boulevard will be having a variation of the same thoughts as he stares at a cubist rendering of Jesus playing cards with Judas, care of an artist out of Portland.

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Next, you will watch as the host gets the hair she washed at home dried at a super bright salon located on the famed Sunset Boulevard! Then, you will watch a flashmob! Go raw! Write a screenplay in a coffee shop! Get sober! Try on shoes at Barney’s! Fall off the wagon! Try not to stare at Lady Gaga as she and her custom-made tornado simulation browse the denim bar at Fred Segal! Get sober again!

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 You will set out east to the amazing yoga studio where Keanu Reeves has been known to partake in a class or two. Once there, you will ingest the host’s 55 sun salutations, lotus pose, feathered peacock and plow, followed by thirty minutes of silent mediation that will get the host back in touch with her authentic self. After class, “Namaste,” you will sojourn to the lobby where, while waiting in line to ask a question about her account, an old man will hit on the host by telling her her cow face pose was off the “Hee (slight pause) zee” as he stares at her breasts. You will watch as the host accepts the compliment with bitchy politeness but the moment the old man walks away she will present a vomitous expression: tongue hanging out, one eye slammed shut while the other rolls back in her head, “Ukkk.”  Next, you will witness the host arrive at the reception desk where the receptionist will have a surprised, giddy reaction to having just witnessed Pauly “The Weeeea-sal” Shore hitting on the host, forcing the host to respond the only way she knows how, “Who’s that?”

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En route back to camp, you will look on as the host stealthily locks the car door and pretends a homeless man isn’t staring directly into the car while his clever sign asks for change. You will then witness the host speed way up on the cramped 101 Freeway when she spots a car in another lane, with blinker on, attempting to move in front of her.

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Saving the best for last, on the final evening, you will get to experience first hand the ancient, Western, female ritual of lying in bed wide awake late night, nervously chewing the bottom lip until, imbued by the ancient spirit of Crazy, the host suddenly thrusts up, throws on her Brown sweatshirt (because one can never tell enough people exactly where they spent 4 years of their life), grabs her car keys and sprints out the door.

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Moments later, you will yawn while looking on from the passenger seat as the host waits for her ex to return home with his supposed, new girlfriend and hear such bombastic chants as, “It’s like midnight and he’s not even home yet! His car’s not even here! You see that red Jetta? That’s his roommate’s. His car’s always either in front of it or behind it. They can’t park on the street ’cause they don’t have permits. Shit! That’s him! Get down!” With eyes peering over the dash, you will watch as the ex exits the car and travels to the passenger side to open the door for the supposed “fucking, dirty, stupid, poor whore.” Then, there it is. A smile through the tears on the host’s face because the only truth that can bring a silver lining to her waking nightmare is, “She’s ugly!”

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This ritual will immediately be followed by a celebratory meal where you will feast on a Double Double Animal Style, luke-warm fries, a root beer and a small vanilla shake. A cultural tid-bit break will come in the form of the host pointing out that on the bottom of each cup is a strange reference, “John 3:16… It’s like God did something then forgot it. Who knows…They’re like some weird Christian cult or something but who gives a shit. The food’s so yummy.”

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Upon airport arrival, the host will curtsy and bow with prayer hands her farewell. A final custom will come in the form of the mini-Cooper almost getting slammed by a shuttle, causing the host to fling her hand out the window and flip off the shuttle driver, simultaneously exclaiming, “I’m fucking driving here, dick cheese!”

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While traveling up the escalator, taking in the various people staring at you as if you’ve dropped down from the cosmos, you will realize that unless you actually spend significant time here — time beyond the 10 days the package allowed — this place will soon find room in your brain on a very base level. The memory of it won’t be so different from how you had imagined it to be in the pictures. And as much as you experienced the city and all of its trappings — the host, the mini-Cooper, Dustin, Joan’s on Third, the Double Double, Pauly Shore, fake Jesus, what you think was Fatty Arbuckle’s knee — the memories will be fleeting, eventually settling into your head as just a thought, a simple memory that you’ll come across when life allows you the time. Upon returning home, you will gather your friends and family around and talk, and talk, and talk about the trip with an air of touching the void simply because you kind of did. You did in the same way we all do when traveling to a foreign place. Days will pass and when you’re finally finished showing every solitary person every, single picture, your little sister will take the memory card from your camera to school, upload the photos onto a computer and sift through, eventually stopping on a picture of the host — hair whipping in the wind, aviator sunglasses, duck lips, holding up a peace sign with the Hollywood sign in the background. Your sister will come up with a clever quip for the photo then send it out into the world via the information superhighway. And for all those who will never in their lifetime travel to this land, the photo and caption will represent the full essence of this place. The idea of it. The meme.

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4. Okay. A few things. First, I need that baby in my life. Second, Mr. Shore didn’t deserve that. And third, the host sounds absolutely awful. With that said, I hope our Maasai guest enjoys his or her visit in spite of it all. Now, what is your favorite malapropism?

Silly me. I was under the impression this was a safe zone for garments to air anything and everything but I guess I was wrong. With that said, I do have a favorite malaporpism but I don’t too much feel like sharing it with you at the moment.

5. To quote Jane Craig, “Sir, you can do whatever you want. It’s your choice.” Now, what is the scariest advice an elder has ever given you?

The Lacroix fringed jacket once told me to always, always date, marry, one-night-it, whatever, someone who loves you more than you love them.

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6. That is very scary and sad and depressing. What do you say to all those leering at their mates right now, trying to figure out who has the upper hand in this thing called a committed relationship?

I wouldn’t wanna be you. But that aside, I did think the advice odd due to the fact that fringed jackets are asexual.

7. Wait a minute.  So, if I was to show you a picture of, let’s say, a Dion Lee Thermal linear spiral skirt?

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Absolutely zero needs in the carnal department.

8. The Lonely, high-waist brief?

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Nuffin’.

9. Man, this is harder than I thought. Okay, I dare you to not get just the slightest tingle for the rare, Halston, Pollack-inspired extravaganza?

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Wee-ooo-wee-ooo-weeeeeooooooo… Dry as a bone, my friend.

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CESAR ARELLANES HAREM PANTS

In lower body on January 20, 2013 at 8:15am01

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1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A Rick Owens sweater, a pair of Giuseppe Zanotti, gilded leaves sandals, a Sunghee Bang cable knit beanie and a Meredith Wendell clutch.

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2. If you could be worn by any person whom would it be?

Since I like doing charity work every now and again, the obnoxious dinner party guest who toggles, uninvited, between various conversations armed with the response, “Ha! Tell us how you really feel!”

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3. Who is the last person anyone should want to be around for as long as they live?

The person incapable of doling out a compliment without throwing themselves into the mix.

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4. If you could appear in any music video what would it be?

And this is mainly because the acclimation process, I feel, would be a very simple one. Now, when you watch the video keep an eye out for the subtle, pop culture references in the beginning. Remember, they’re super subtle so do pay close attention.

5. Does Juicy still got ’em crazy?

Silly question. And the answer is yes.

6. What do you think you’ll feel if you’re ever marked down?

Hm… Wow… That’s an interesting question, a little bleak, but interesting still. I don’t know. I guess I’d look back and wonder where it all went wrong and what could I have done to change the outcome. *shivers*

7. If you could return as any person or thing what would you choose?

A camel toe and a moose knuckle.

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8. Ha! This should be fun. And why, Cesar Arellanes harem pants, why would you like to return as both a camel toe and a moose knuckle?

It’s a very touching story actually. When the woman wearing me was a little girl she dreamed of one day leaving her home in the big city for the life of a bucolic, put to work on the open fields of an animal sanctuary, tending to those unable to tend to themselves. Her parents, always eager to feed their child’s dreams and curiosities, were the first in line for tickets upon hearing news of the circus coming to town. Well, a town an hour outside of the city at least. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, the day had finally arrived for my girl to go to the circus. There she eagerly stood, under the big top, waiting for the show to begin. However, once the spectacle got underway something very surprising happened. Her feelings of elation suddenly melted into pangs of sadness and anger. How could they treat such beautiful creatures like this? The circus had suddenly transformed into her foe. My girl sat patiently, putting on enthusiastic expressions for the sake of her fathers, who were both so happy to share in this moment with their little one. The performance ended. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The oppressively stale air, the wretched sounds, all of it working in conjunction to create a queasy, throb in the pit of her stomach. Outside of the big top, my girl anxiously clung to both fathers’ legs as they talked to the patriarch of the trapeze family. She wanted to go. She needed to go. Simply standing there, consumed by this sense of foreboding was a waking nightmare. Not being able to help in some way was too much to bear. What had all of the circus attending veterans at school been going on about? According to them, little kids were supposed to love the circus, not have violent aversions to it. My novice was starting to spin. If she was going to break away from the pack with her violent aversion to blatant injustice shouldn’t that lead to some act of valor? But what could she do? She was just a little girl. A “bows in the hair on special occasions,” a “crush on Gregor Johnson,” “there might be a ghost hiding in the closet” little girl. She watched with big eyes, heart feeling as if it might pound right through her chest, as a stout man with a tight, protruding belly and cheeks like ripe tomatoes, yanked on the reigns of a camel and moose as he lead them into the back of a massive, semi-truck trailer. The pride alive in the once majestic animals had been stripped away. She cringed with every wrench the truck driver used to secure the reigns to hooks hanging overhead. Happy with his work, the portly man jumped down from the trailer, pushing the ramp back inside. Off he went without noticing that he didn’t provide enough slack for the camel and moose to reach the portable trough positioned in front of them. There they stood, thirsty, resigned, staring down at the fresh, cool water just inches away as it taunted and teased them. My girl looked up at her parents, appearing so distant now, to see they were fully engaged in a conversation that now involved the matriarch of the trapeze family. She broke off from her fathers’ legs, going unnoticed, and headed for the semi. Using all of her might and stretching her limbs farther than she had ever thought possible, she made it inside the trailer. She moved straight to the trough and, again enlisting all of her strength, pushed it toward the animals so they could drink. She oscillated bright, curious eyes between the two magnificent creatures, gently caressing the tufts of hair in the center of their heads. She had never been this close and honestly believed it would be years before she was. The magical moment dissolved with the roar of the door being pulled down. She whipped around to see the last inches of light swallowed up. She raced the seemingly interminable distance to the door, screaming for someone to let her out “No! I’m still in her! Somebody! Help me!” Her commotion became futile when she heard Skynard’s “Sweet Home Alabama” start up, soon followed by the thunderous engine coming to life. The semi jutted out of the dusty parking lot, sending my girl to the ground, the impact knocking the tears right out of her. She crawled to a seat against a bale of hay and cried for what felt like hours. How would anyone find her? How long before her parents knew she was even missing? Where were they going? Good intentions had been drowned in horror. The driver’s playlist provided a far away soundtrack for the nightmare. By way of Cash, Springsteen’s “Highway Patrol Man,” faintly coming through, was the first song to actually pacify her. Something about the story of Sergeant Joe and Franky, albeit a sad tale, strangely made her feel as if everything would be okay. She looked to the moose and camel; both sets of eyes were locked on her. She cracked a smile, crawled over to a bale of hay and grabbed a handful. The animals feasted, each dip into her hand bringing the three closer together. This precious moment was also short-lived when the driver swerved sharply, attempting to evade a tortoise sitting in the middle of the road. The effects weren’t immediate but seconds later, inaudible to the driver, the little girl heard a simple, “thwank.” Suddenly, the front of the cab slammed to the  ground, the impact breaking the reigns free from the hooks above. My girl and the animals tried with everything they had to steady themselves but it was no use. A full hour passed before the driver would realize the trailer had broken free from the semi. The trailer flew off the road and into the forest, clipping branches, forcing critters to run for cover. “Would they ever stop?” was the only thought circulating. A Norway Spruce would eventually bring this part of the journey to an abrupt end. There she lay unconscious on the hard, forest floor. It wasn’t until she felt something slimy and wet, a sea slug writhing up and down against her cheek, that she cracked her eyes open. There they were, the moose and camel bloody, battered, taking turns licking her face in hopes of summoning her back to consciousness. She stayed with them long enough to reach out and touch their snouts, “Thank you,” before she was out once again. Together, the animals worked to hoist her over the moose’s back and they set out. Throughout the arduous, two-day long journey, my girl would briefly make her way back, the fleeting moments offering just enough time for her eyes to acclimate and see the bloody knuckle of the moose and broken toe of the camel lumbering against excruciating pain and an unapologetic ground. Weeks later, she would not recall the many respites taken to help her drink or the nest formed once the nighttime chill met the air. She would not recall the moment the moose and camel decided to set out on the desolate highway, her limp body now draped across the camel’s back. She would not recall the moment they came to the road block and the expressions on the faces of the hundred or so volunteers as they, one by one, noticed the tired, hungry, battered miracle moving toward them. She would never see the color drain from her parents’ faces as they realized that what they were seeing on that road was the moose and camel returning to them the only thing in this world that mattered. She would never recall her parents racing to her, crying, joyous, still not fully believing and even worse, not knowing if she was alive. However, she would recall waking up in the hospital and seeing her parents’ smiling faces, one father’s warm hand against her cheek, the other’s gentle kiss on her forehead. But most importantly, she would recall the first, raspy words from her mouth, “Where’s Moose and Camel?” It was in that moment her parents looked to each other. Clarity. There was only one thing to do. They would sell the Beekman Place townhouse, handed down to one of the fathers by his grandmother, and purchase 800, pristine acres in Montana. This would be enough room to start their own sanctuary. The first to arrive would be a moose and a camel.

9. My god… So, you were actually referring to an actual moose’s knuckle and an actual camel’s toe?

Uh, yeah. What did you think I was talking about?

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ALEXANDER WANG ‘ALLA’ LIZARD PRINT BLACK & WHITE WEDGE

In feet on January 19, 2013 at 8:15am01

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1. If you could style yourself what items would you choose as the accoutrements?

A Yestadt Millinery, twin peaks hat, an Alexander Wang pullover, a vintage, Oscar De la Renta, embroidered, silk skirt and a Solange Azagury-Partridge ‘Hot Lips’ ring.

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2. If you could ask me one question, what would it be?

Whom would you rather be, a token black person on an all white show or a token white person on an all black show?

3. Let’s try this one more time. Okay. If you could ask me one question, what would it be?

Is the relationship between the rest of the world and certain parts of Africa a perfect, societal example of Munchausen syndrome by proxy spanning hundreds upon hundreds of years?

4. You’re officially horrible at this. What’s your favorite malapropism?

Lord have Murphy.

5. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?

I’m trying to convince any storefront designer worth their weight in gold to re-create Herbie Hancock’s “Rock-it” in a storefront window. Yes, I’m talking to you Barneys and or Opening Ceremony ; the only bastions left with any balls to make storefronts both inspire and scare the life out us these days.

6. In your opinion, who in history, past or present, is woefully misunderstood?

The Donner Party. And is it just me or does Mrs. Donner bear a striking resemblance to a lethargic Rob Schneider?

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7. If the Manti Te’o scandal teaches society anything what should it be?

To call me when a real scandal comes to town. A stellar, college football player might have created a girlfriend. Hmm… Yep, just as I suspected, you’ve reached a new level of boring. And if I can be abstract for a moment, isn’t everyone, even those currently in relationships with actual, tangible matter creating a person out of thin air? A person you will only get to know to the extent of how you’d like them to fit into your life and not one inch further? If you think anything deeper’s afoot (get it? I’m a shoe.) then you’re sadly mistaken. The point is, we never truly know each other and we never will. We don’t even know ourselves, for God’s sake. And on a tangential note, somehow we all fell in love with Ruby Sparks but Lennay Kekau — Is that how you say her name? Kekau? Forget it. Poor Lennay gets her name dragged through the mud?! We love Ruby but we shun Lennay?! Is that what’s happening here? Now, I’m not calling racism but considering I’m a biracial shoe I might be calling racism. And I should hope, hope that somewhere in that funky, string theory realm, unto which they exist, Lennay, Ruby and all imaginary mates alike are taking to the streets and standing up for who they are. Which is ultimately nothing because they don’t exist but I digress– Wait. Why am I digressing? Where was I?

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8. Shot out of a cannon apparently. You’re aware that “Ruby Sparks” was just a–  You know what? Doesn’t matter and clearly we need to move onto topics with a little more brevity. So, Alexander Wang “Alla” wedge, is there a fun, light film you would love to appear in?

In “10,” on Jenny when she tells George the best thing to do whilst listening to Ravel’s “Bolero.”

9. If you could be worn by anyone whom would it be?

The Russian exchange student who, as a way to break the ice, invites her new dorm mates — Morgan c/o Shaker Heights and Gully c/o Anaheim — out for drinks on her to celebrate the impending summer session and new friendships. Two hours into getting after it, the Russian exchange student excuses herself to go to the restroom. In front of her, a slow-moving, middle-aged suit clogs up the narrow space, forcing her to trail behind. Up ahead, two frat boys exit the restroom jovially fist bumping. As they wedge past, she could swear she hears one faintly say, “Nah, dude. It’s Rohypnol.” The Russian exchange student stops and looks back to watch the boys return to the bar. She shifts focus to see the suit enter the men’s restroom. Decision making time. She opts to set out for bladder relief. She passes the obvious choice of ladies’ and enters the men’s. Once inside, she finds the suit relieving himself  into a urinal. The exchange student quietly bends over, checking underneath the stalls. It’s just the two of them. She moves over to suit and with a simple “Privyet” she gives him no time to acknowledge the greeting before she reaches out, snaps his neck, drags him into a stall, closes the door, removes a thick envelope from his inner, jacket pocket, secures the envelope in the polka-dot strap of her Victoria’s Secret PINK bra, checks under the door to make sure no one’s out there, exits the stall, checks to make sure she still looks cute – she does – and exits. Upon reuniting with the dorm mates, she thanks Morgan for watching her purse, whips out her phone and demands they take two group photos: 1. simple smiles 2. face contortions. Pictures taken and safely uploaded to Instagram, “Me with my new friends,” the exchange student turns back to the bar and orders three fresh shots. She glances over to see the frat boys she passed on the way to the restroom leering at her. She smiles big, turns to the bartender and requests 2 more shots. All 5 amber shots arrive. She motions for the boys to join. They were coming anyway; the invitation simply deleted a few pesky steps from their master plan. The exchange student hands Morgan her phone, “Morgan, take a picture of us, please?!” Morgan happily obliges. The exchange student moves in between the frat boys and puts her arms around their wastes. Picture taken and uploaded to Instagram, “DURAKY,” the exchange student distributes the shots amongst her dorm mates and the boys and all proceed to knock ’em back. The frat boys immediately offer to buy the girls another round, a much more significant round. And it might’ve happened if not for the exchange student spotting a smooth out when she notices Gully’s eyes doing something akin to the eyes of a busted ventriloquist dummy. She puts an arm around her drunkity dorm mate and declines the offer with a sadsy face and a “We should get her home.” And with that, the girls are off. Upon making it outside, Gully moans the bar exodus, battle cry, “I’m gonna puke.” The exchange student whips into action and swoops Gully’s long, chestnut tendrils up into a make-shift ponytail, which enables her to distribute everything inside of her onto the sidewalk without getting any of it in her hair. Yes, morning pedestrians, it’s the Gullys of the world working your AM gag reflex while on your way to work. With Gully showing no signs of stopping, the exchange student excuses herself, handing Morgan the reigns of holding the thick mane. En route to a more private spot, the exchange student crosses paths with the frat boys as they make an unwieldy exit from the bar. They don’t notice her for they’re fully focused on trying to stay upright. With eyes trained on the wobbly pledge brothers, the exchange student secures a quiet spot, brings out her phone and begins to dial. Suddenly, one after the other, the frat boys topple to the ground, out cold. A bouncer moves swiftly to them and bends down to check pulses. He looks to the drunk, loitering crowd and declares, “They’ve been roofied!” Loiterers lethargically jump, bump into each other, stare dumfounded and or cackle into action. The exchange student offers only a sly smile. Her expression suddenly shifts to serious as she turns around to focus on the person who has just answered her call and says, “It is finished.”

LANVIN POM POM BALLET SLIPPER (POUR BÉBÉ)

In feet on January 13, 2013 at 8:15pm01

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1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A sleepy hat because afternoon rays are not a game. Definitely something OshKosh B’gosh because I like saying OshKosh B’gosh. A pair of Oh Baby London, Fair Isle, drop crotch trousers. For sure a burp cloth to drape over the shoulder of whomever is holding said bébé because I do not, I repeat DO NOT want to get any on me. A diaper because again… And finally, lactating breasts or a Mr. Milker, whichever’s on hand. Homegirl’s gotta eat (a lot, as it turns out) and earth-shattering, hunger cries is not a good look in me. *Interviewer (that’s me) sniffles* Um… Are you okay?

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2. I’m so sorry. It’s just that you reminded me of the fact that my own mother refused to breast feed me. She said my brother, he’s older, kept snapping her nipple and so once I rolled out she didn’t even make the attempt; just figured I’d be a snapper too. Don’t you see? I wasn’t even given a chance. My god, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like Mama Rose. Do you think that’s my problem in life? Do you think I’m still hunting around, searching for that errant nipple to suckle from? Figuratively speaking of course. Or should the search be literal? Yeah, maybe that’s it! I do reside in Los Angeles after all! I’m sure someone’s created adult, breast-feeding therapy in this bozo town, right?!

I don’t… So… Well… Okay, here’s the thing. I’m just a baby shoe and so this might be a tad outside my wheelhouse. But something germane to what you mentioned that could possibly help and that is Patty Lupone was, by far, my favorite Mama Rose.

3. Right you are. Aaaand I’m back. Ha! I don’t know what came over me there. (Pssst! This is me putting on a brave face while continuing to die on the inside). Okay, if you could be worn by anyone whom would it be?

Since I sometimes enjoy hanging out on little tykes who prefer to oft go rogue and or rage against the machine, the wee one who wants no parts of the car seat her novice father’s trying to wedge her into and so she lets her feelings be known by debuting a brilliantly choreographed back arch, rapid kicks and screams so severe they travel from blood curdling to silent and back again. Unbeknownst to her, sitting at a table a few feet away, with rapt focus trained on the meltdown, is none other than thee Twyla Tharp dining alfresco! Oh, once again that Twyla’s up against a nasty deadline and thought the fresh air would aid in bringing inspiration to the surface. Boy did she get more than she bargained for. She begins to excitedly mimic the little one’s moves. Until she sees it! Bebe Miller sitting at a neighboring cafe also dining alfresco, also up against a waning deadline, also witnessing the same meltdown and also mimicking the same moves! A moment passes before Bebe spots Twyla. Bebe stops mid back arch. Straightens up. Both woman narrow glares. It’s on, as they used to say long ago. Suddenly, the lionesses of dance stand and rush the novice father. Upon reaching him, they simultaneously beg for just a few minutes with the child. The father oscillates “The hell?” looks between the squalling choreographers, each one drowning out what are, to me at least, some pretty convincing arguments. Then, with the sweat beads perched atop his forehead starting a “Chariots of Fire” race down his face and his blood pressure steadily increasing, the father takes a swift and firm pom-pom Lanvin to the nuts. He lurches over, sucks back the searing pain with an “EFFFF…” while internally telling himself, “F-bombs are not suitable for kids. F-bombs are not suitable for kids.” We’ll discuss his continued usage of “F-bomb” and why he started in the first place later. Eesh… Now back to drama! With the searing pain to his scrotum showing no signs of stopping, the response to Twyla and Bebe jettisons right out of him, “LADIES! DO YOU EFFING MIND?!” And just like that, with the weight of the world back on their shoulders, Twyla and Bebe are gone. Gone back to their studios to put together a mix of ballet, modern jazz, virtuosic movements, social consciousness, flexed feet, blah, blah, blah… You get it. And with them, there goes my chance to shine on the child while she shines for them. I hate the father. My conservator is too young to know what dreams were shattered that day. But I know. I will always know.


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4. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?

A class-action brought on by all children against those parents compelled to post videos of their kids in hopes of getting 1 million+ hits, endorsement deals and a chance to sit across from a nonplussed Ann Curry at an ungodly hour and say something akin to, “Ann, I tell ya, we just woke up one morning to the tune of her playing Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ But the crazy part is how all of this has led to her currently doing a page one re-write on a very, hush-hush, contemporary retelling of ‘King Leopold’s Ghost’ set in Tampa. And all this while still in utero. Here! Put your hand right there and you can feel her typing away. She usually gets inspired after I eat pickles and ice cream. Feel that?! That was a ‘g.’ No, wait. Now she’s backspacing right over it.”

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5. Where can we find you most days?

The Barnes ‘N Noble children’s section. It’s a pretty bourgeois scene but the kids seem to like it and the nannies get to take a respite while internally rolling their eyes and asking themselves, “When the hell did I turn into a See ‘n Say?” as a faction of moms test out their beginner Spanish skills on them, while another faction of moms undress Dan Zane with one eye while the other eye gets some much needed zzzzzzzs, while another faction, thee MOST sleep-deprived of the lot, wishes it was Yo Gaba Gaba up there romping around instead of ol’ Dan. All the while, my keeper’s dreaming of bustin’ out and heading over to the Nokia Theater to take in the fresh beats of the aptly named Fresh Beats Band.
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6. What is your idea of a waking nightmare?

Being handed down. Period. The mere thought gives me chills. My shelf life isn’t long, that we know. Kids grow. Fine. I have to get in and make a statement before I’m outgrown and or Christine comes over with little Starwarz in tow, sniffing around for free loot which will be moi. I’m not to be handed down, see. And if this world was a fair one, which it is not, I’d be encased and placed in a grand foyer for all to see and celebrate and not the subject of, “Oh my god, Beth. Thank you-uh so much. Warz is gonna get so much wear and tear outta thez. I mean, how cuh-ute are thez?! Not as cute as the 1st generation, limited edition, baby Jordans but still so, insanely cuh-ute!” Christine breaks into tears. “Oh my god, Christine! What’s wrong?!” “Ah thenk Dylan’s cheating on–” Anyway, it gets real uninteresting from there. The point is, my friend, that’s a conversation I wants no parts of.

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7. Baby slippers smoke?

They do when they’re stressed, okay?! That last question has me keyed up. Just give me a minute.

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8. What is something you’re happy you weren’t around to see?

Barney. Oof… What the hell was that about? *blows out a stream of smoke; coughs* I really need to quit.

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9. When you find yourself alone at the end of the day, is there a song you like to unwind to?

You’re kidding, right? And because I like you, I’ll bust out a few signature moves. And just to be clear, booty-pops are my métier. Yes, a baby, ballet slipper avec tulle accents can make a booty pop. Hit it.

JEREMY SCOTT x ADIDAS TIE-DYE COAT

In upper body on January 9, 2013 at 8:15am01

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1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?

Gareth Pugh silk chiffon trousers, the Alexander McQueen stud shoe, an Erdem scarf worn as a turban, and a pair of Erickson Beamon earrings.

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2. Ellen Greene’s wardrobe in “Pump up the Volume” or “Little Shop of Horrors”?

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3. What is a word that you would like to soon see retire?

Unless it’s the head of special ops explaining to his superiors exactly what happened during the attack or a 3-year-old telling you precisely what happened when she fall down, the word “boom!” To put it simply, those using it to give a statement added emphasis? Please stop! Boom! Wait. Could it be that I now see the appeal? Oh god! What’s happening to me?! Wait. No, it’s still terrible.

4. Overrated is?

A significant other’s opinion on what not to wear. Here’s what you do ladies and gents, become really, really creative (limber up!) and extremely adept at having sex then abruptly stop having sex then ask if they give a shit about what you’re wearing. That should work.

5. What’s the easiest way for one to become an internet billionaire?

Create something that taps into a person’s inner most “The horrors of high school are fun!” and you can pretty much back up the Brink’s truck. Kenny Powers knows.

6. Who’s the most creative person you’ve ever been worn by?

The go-go dancer, whom after marrying the chronic halitotic, 75-year-old hedge funder  realized that she had access to more money than she knew what to do with and so in true newly riche fashion, she hired Joe Cocker to serenade the closet every night before turning in.

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7. I imagine this turned out to be a real coup! I mean, Joe Cocker serenading you?! Am I right?!

Honestly, the whole thing lost its luster on or around the fourth night. And if you really wanna know the truth, I think she was just trying to find any excuse to not have to turn in. Let’s just say, the 1-percenters are a kinky lot that only get kinkier and more limber — which is mind-boggling — with age. Do the math. And while we’re at it, let’s not forget poor Joe. Homey’s still trying to figure out how he ended up there.

8. If you were to start a band what would you name it?

It’s a toss up between Morning After Pill, Plan B and Emergency Contraception.

9. If you could be worn by anyone whom would it be?

The twenty-something eavesdropper sitting in a cafe, behind her, a two-against-one conversation had by a triad of thirteen-year-old girls. The kind of girls who just can’t, refuse to pass by a mirror or window without checking to make sure their half-bun ponytails, mascara drenched eyes lashes, crotch-wedged jean shorts, and Aeropostal hoodies remain on point. One of the girls — the seemingly weakest of the crew — is going on about how the hottest guy in school likes her as the other two stare smirking daggers. The tone of the conversation gives the eavesdropper the feeling that this is gonna end like a mui mal “hunting knife to the back, hide the body in an obvious spot in the woods, leave behind  a shit-ton of fingerprints and one pink hair extension, when questioned have the tone of someone being asked if they’re going to the Sadie Hawkins dance, appear more annoyed rather than ‘killing people is bad’ in mugshots”, Investigation Discovery segment. It takes everything inside of the eavesdropper to keep from turning around and telling the weak, odd man out, “Run, girl!” Suddenly the eavesdropper’s macabre thoughts are interrupted by three middle-aged, church-going birds at another table trying to come up with a super, Christ-friendly version of “Let’s Hear It for the Boys” for the summer jubilee. It’s a must the queen bee of this crew stand to sing aloud her suggestions, drowning out all other opinions (like always) with choreography to boot. Funnily enough, the tone of the conversation gives the eavesdropper the feeling that this too will end like a mui mal, “pink kettle bell to the head, overly sad and shocked when the detective informs them of the best friend’s slaying, all the while blood soaked clothes dance around on rinse in the washing machine, the night of the candlelight vigil the detective shows up to arrest their Chico wearing asses, mugshots aloof rather than remorseful, thank goodness the Lord forgives straight up homicide, we’re now head of cellblock 15’s bible study thus reinstating our place in heaven!” Investigation Discovery segment. Just as the eavesdropper’s about to imagine turning around to tell this queen bee to “Run, girl! Or mam or– Whatever, they’re gonna kill your insufferable, Cutlass Supreme driving ass with a kettle bell,” the queen bee’s husband steps into the thought bubble, holding the hand  of his young booze-hound mistress, places a hand on the eavesdropper’s shoulder and says, “Why mess with fate and a primo insurance policy?” The eavesdropper pops out of the daydream, brow properly pinched. And there she is, wedged between the past, “Was I that horrible?” and the future, “Will I be that horrible? And if so, when will I become born again? I’d for sure suggest the Christ-freindly version of ‘Swimming Pools (Drank)’ for the summer jubilee and show this repressed crew how it’s done, son. Is ‘born again’ capitalized? I should Google that. I will Google that. I’m also calling an indefinite moratorium on Investigation Discovery.”