clean retina

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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