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Archive for the ‘all over’ Category


In all over, Wacky Waving Tube Man on February 11, 2018 at 8:15am02


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

A Mary McFadden hand-painted coat, a pair of Tom Ford boots, a Madina Visconti bracelet and nunchaku.





2. What is something a person should never ever possess?

Moronic brain with a learned attitude.


3. What is a quality you love most about a person wearing you?

Humility. The penchant to not abjectly lie to save one’s own ass or get ahead in life at the expense of another is a close second. Never be that person.

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4. If not you then what?

An “Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan” surname.

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

Elaine Welteroth. They broke the mold with her.

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Portrait credit :: Lia Tin

6. Do you have a favorite spoonerism?

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7. What is the person wearing you loving about life at the moment?

Who knows?


8. Moving right along then… Curious is?

A blue zone.

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

Robert Altman’s “Short Cuts“…

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…on Annie Ross throughout.

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In all over, Griffin, Tyler & Claudine on December 31, 2016 at 8:15pm12


1. If given the task of styling yourself, what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A hedgehog  brooch, an Alaia, boiled wool cardigan, a 19th–century cane and the Orthofeet adjustable strap shoe.



2. Who’s the most interesting person you’ve ever been worn by?

 First off, it’s not so much a person as it is persons. With that, the whole thing started with the reclusive heiress, who hadn’t stepped a solitary foot outside of her august, Sutton Place home in over ten years, and her nurse, Pam. Pam looked on as her boss held the phone to her ear, spindly hand lightly shaking, blue veins reminiscent of petrified lightning darting through. The heiress was currently lodged in a nasty conversation with her seventy-one-year-old, cad of a son currently residing gratis in what was once her Gramercy Park pied-à-terre. “What is that noise, Carol?” she asked in a powdery quaver. “I’m eating Pop Rocks! And that’s not the point! What do you care if I’m here?! I’m here! You haven’t left the house in over ten years! You haven’t even seen half of it in over five,” he yelled. “And you have not done an honest day’s work in all your life,” Ethel replied. Although measured and with grace, Ethel immediately regretted the rejoinder. After all, this was her child. Mothers weren’t supposed to speak to their children in such a manner. Had you told her as she was staring lovingly into Carol’s eyes of Guinness–Mitford blue, gently pulling his tiny, malleable arm through the Ayrshire Christening gown that this is what their relationship would devolve into she would have laughed in your face. The brief, elegiac look back was proof that all she did was love him, her prodigal son who could do no wrong; that is until around the age of seventeen when wrong started to follow him everywhere he went. She had no idea who this person was screaming back at her, a virtual stranger, but a part of her still. Is it possible to love a child too much? Where were the boundaries during those formative years, the parameters that guaranteed he would grow into a well-formed member of society? With the sound of weird porn and the son’s girlfriend telling him to tell her to go fuck herself,  Ethel could only end the call, “Carol, I love you dearly but I would prefer it if you were out of my home by the end of the month. If you are not out by then, I will be forced to have you removed.” Ethel placed the phone in the cradle, bringing to a close a barrage of things one should never say to a stranger let alone their mother. Pam looked on, trying to maintain a supportive stance while internally passing judgment on the sorry excuse Carol turned out to be. She asked Ethel, “Are you okay?” Ethel swallowed hard and gave Pam a single nod. And there it was. Pam realized all too well that Ethel had encased herself in the Teflon exterior of a class so moneyed, with ways so staid, so regimented, a history so emotionally rooted that happiness could be found by standing on the shores and gazing out over the exact path their ancestors took when arriving on this land. Pam returned to reading her book, giving Ethel the needed space but periodically glancing up to make sure she was, in fact, okay. Ethel made a sudden move toward a nearby side table and plucked from it a small paper bag. “I almost forgot,” she said as she handed the bag to Pam, “I had these delivered for Sabrina. Growing up, Carol couldn’t get enough.” Pam peeked inside the bag to find three pieces of Bonomo Turkish Taffy. Pam smiled, “She’ll love it. Thank you.” Ethel returned the smile then turned her attention outside to passing foot traffic: A maid walking three fanning-tail Cavaliers. A young mother in a cashmere cape and tortoise shell sunglasses pushing a pram. Three little boys racing down the street as their father trailed behind, holding remnants of school uniforms. Ethel smiled and moved closer to the window, “Pamela, look.” Pam looked out the window, “What am I looking at?” Ethel pointed, “That jumpsuit. I think I want it.” There, gliding down the street was a young, professional woman in me. “You think or you know?” Pam asked. A grey, toothy grin spread across Ethel’s face, deepening the fleshy tributaries on either side of her mouth and beyond. “I know,” Ethel said. “Okay then. I’ll be right back,” Pam replied as she hoisted herself up and out of the Paul Evans lounger. “Thank you,” Ethel said with a smile as Pam stood and exited the room. On her way down the stairs, two, simple words raced through Pam’s head, “Wealthy. People.” Pam would never truly understand the ilk, the ones of this caliber to be more specific. The kind that would rather die than announce even a hint of flash. The kind who produced seventy-one-year-old men with twenty-eight-year-old girlfriends who fed them Pop Rocks as they watched porn and raced side by side on ellipticals inside the finest piece of real estate the isle of Manhattan had to offer without having worked a day in their lives. This all ventured far beyond money, beyond fortunes héréditaires to a place too complicated to put into words. However, Pam stopped short of casting full judgment for she was sure her socioeconomic group had their own healthy share of foibles and quirks. But all of that aside, one thing she did know was that she loved Ethel. In the last few years, Ethel had taken to finishing Pam’s thoughts. This old woman was inside of her head. The truth is, Pam had worked for plenty of people who treated her as if being kind to the help was some sort of cross to bear. She had never felt more other than when in their presence. But none of this happened with Ethel. Ethel was the only person who referred to Pam as “Pamela.” Prior to that, Pam’s mother was the only person who’d ever done such a thing.


3. In the end, did she catch up to the young professional in you?

Of course. Why else am I here telling the tale? Anyway, back in the manse, Pam sat at a Les Lalanne, that had nestled in it a computer so old it possessed the air of a Luddite, and typed as she said aloud, “West…wood.” “There it is,” Ethel rejoiced. “What size are you?” Pam asked. “The smallest one they have. And order one for yourself,” Ethel answered. “I don’t want one,” Pam replied. “That is too, too bad because you’re getting one,” said Ethel. It was in that moment Pam could feel a tiny, imaginary Sabrina take a seat on her shoulder and tiny, imaginary Sabrina was not happy. “Who’s Sabrina?” you ask because I know you were about to. It’s your job. I get it. Anyway, Sabrina was seventeen and the apple of Pam’s eye. Her everything. It was just the two of them. The child came into the world with aplomb and has only amassed more as the years have rolled on. If Pam could put money on it, Sabrina would definitely classify this moment as both patronizing and cliche, “How are we supposed to be taken seriously if we keep playing the role of subordinate? Overjoyed by the scraps we’re given? A jumpsuit? Really?!” And it’s not as if Sabrina, on her way to Yale, wasn’t aware of the fact that it was because of Ethel and her connections that she was able to place high up on the list at said institution that will, God willing and the creek don’t rise, lead to Oxbridge — she’s fine with either just so we’re clear. Sabrina hated that her tie to the very echelon she abhorred so was the reason she received the jumping off point, “Exactly! The thought of it’s nauseating! The thought that I needed that extra push that I actually didn’t need at all to get to where I am! The thought that you alone couldn’t walk into the registrar’s office and say, ‘My very capable child would like to attend this school!’ The fact that no matter how smart I am there’s a portion of this world that’ll always perceive my success the result of a handout! And why?! Why?! The whole thing’s disgusting! And it’s not true but that’s an entirely different conversation!” Imaginary Sabrina made a very strong point and that, in turn, made Pam very sad. Imaginary or not, Sabrina was far too young to know the mechanics of this society. “Emerson was right,” imaginary Sabrina exclaimed as she paced back and forth along Pam’s shoulders. “Wilde was right! ‘Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live; it’s asking others to live as one wishes to live.'” Pam remembered the days of her young life, the days when the world felt surmountable. You didn’t know exactly how it would happen but you knew somehow, some way your voice would be heard. Where did that portion of life disappear to for Sabrina? Why hadn’t she tasted at least a tiny sliver of the levity? Even if in the end it all turned out to be a lie, at least give her the look back so she could at least remember what it felt like to be so optimistically naive. And what a priceless gift it is, for it’s only in those moments greatness is born, the moments when neither side, the one for you nor the one against you, has a voice. Pam had tasted it. As a child of course as most children do. Then again, Pam could be completely wrong about Sabrina’s reaction. After all, she was only tiny and imaginary.


4. This Sabrina sounds like a real pistol. Curious. What did the real Sabrina think of you?

Slow down, you move too fast. I’ll get to that. In any case, Ethel, deep in a daydream, was knocked out of the waking slumber by a gavel-like rap on the door. Christine, the great–great-granddaughter of the family’s original interior designer had arrived in all of her patrician, militant-bob glory. After a brief explanation from Ethel, Christine popped to her feet, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Crane. I’ll make it happen. After all, it was right here in this very home that my great–great grandfather made it happen. After that, my great grandmother made it happen and after that, my grandfather made it happen and after that, my mother. Now, it’s my turn.” “And I was here at every turn save for the first, dear,” Ethel replied rather curtly as she took Christine’s hand. “So very true, Mrs. Crane,” Christine replied with a snort. Pam tried to focus on the conversation but her mind was consumed by the previous evening’s events. She was sitting at the kitchen table, skimming the newspaper when Sabrina came charging through the door and just as it slammed the poor thing seemed to lurch into a fit of tears. Through the sobs, Sabrina was able to relay that she had just gotten into a fight with her best friend, Ceci. On what seemed like just another casual walk home from school, Ceci had given to Sabrina the death knell of their friendship. It had something to do with race, who’s here and who’s there, who wants to work, who doesn’t want to work mixed in with some subconscious thought stuff hard that’s to police because the poor person doesn’t even realize they’re thinking it. The specifics will only be polarizing and so I’ll say this, you, humans, as a race won’t be colonizing anything save for copious amounts of Op-Eds for the foreseeable future. Gutted is the only word to describe the feeling consuming Sabrina in the moment following Ceci’s statement. Sabrina picked her head up from Pam’s shoulder and asked, “What does that even mean? What?!” Pam tried to tell her that Ceci didn’t mean anything by it. Pam, of course, was lying for she knew you say things like that to only mean something by it. It might not at all mean the thing spilling from your mouth but there is a healthy splattering of stinging intent present. It’s a clear punch to the gut, a poke to the eye, a way of telling a person exactly where you think they stand in this game called life without saying the actual words. Pam couldn’t believe such tropes were being dusted off and passive-aggressively suggested once again to an entirely new generation but not just any generation. This was the post-racial generation, Gen-Z to be exact, the saviors next up at bat. Sidenote. Is “Gen-Z” honestly the best you could come up with? No shade but it just feels so… eh. In any case, it was supposed to be the generation that would embody “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” beyond the commercial gimmick of gradated skin tones singing together on a hillside. The fact that the ways of yore hadn’t been laughed out of town by the supposed Benneton ad come to life spoke volumes. Pam instantly felt like an idiot for ever believing these nuggets of ignorance had all but been snuffed out. Painfully young and dimwitted Ceci was here to make sure of that. The question had to be asked and so, yes, as a jumpsuit with nary a cat at this dish, I’ll ask it. Does this utopia you all seem to be working so tirelessly to reach, or achieve, rather, does it exist? Sometimes I think you all need that particular chum in order to feel as if it all has meaning, however, maybe this seemingly attainable thing is nothing more than the stuffed bunny on the race track. Unfortunately, the biggest problem with this particular idea is that you have too many groups and each group is chasing after a different, stuffed bunny. My point? The case can be made that you’ll never hive-mindedly know utopia because utopia is different for everyone. Leading me to make the further case for maybe, just maybe too many utopias equal hell. Eh? Something to ponder, right?


5. Listen– and I’m not knocking this particular situation you’ve found yourself smack in the middle of but my next assignment had better be a choker of some sort. Now, they know how to have a good time. All of ’em. Wanna know the sum total of the issues being bandied about with their crew? They’re leaving Aspen and going directly to whiling the days away on the sun-soaked shores of Saint-Barthélemy, winter breaking it in Tulum, shouting out squads on the Snap, shoving goals and inspirational word salads in your face on the gram, losing their minds over a new lip stain craze, swimming in a vat of active wear as day wear, eating organic, and sure, they might’ve eased up on the documenting of avo-toast consumption but they’re more than making up for it with poured over coffee while taking subdued action shots in front of Levitated Mass, a wall, on the High Line, ol’ Eiffel, a Google sign! What Google sign you ask?! Any Google sign while accenting it all with non-threatening, high-wasted, loose-fitting, strategically ripped denim that dudes do not find sexy nor hot! And how do I know this?! The dudes won’t shut up about it but that doesn’t stop the ladies from wearing them! And again, not that I’m knocking this particular story and all Sabrina’s going through but this is what I get for taking a nice, well-intentioned hiatus! I couldn’t simply return to fun, start-of-winter shenanigans could I? 

Welcome back, friend. It’s a pretty bleak scene as of late and so a few tokes or a robust tincture might do you good. In any case, Pam sought solace in the fact that Sabrina’s precipice-life crisis was happening under her watch so she could at least be there to comfort her child in the way only a loving mother could. The thought instantly traveled to what would happen once Sabrina was out there in the world where she would have to be both ward and caretaker. What Ceci said was only the tip of the iceberg; there were plenty more teachable moments out there to be had at Sabrina’s expense. Would the child be grounded before she stepped out of the gate? Would she become so bitter, so resentful before anyone could see all she had to offer? Pam really did like Ceci – however misguided her opinions were – and was disappointed she wouldn’t be seeing her around anymore. She would especially miss the pocket-made-warm orange slice candies Ceci was sure to have on hand anytime she popped round. And Pam knew it wasn’t what Ceci said that was so intensely galling to Sabrina. After all, what did Ceci know really? She was just a child regurgitating something told to her. It was the fact that upon hearing the statement, it hit Sabrina hard that this person she had called a “best friend” didn’t see her, didn’t see all the moving parts she was composed of. Ten years, a bond formed in kindergarten, and Ceci had no idea who Sabrina was — that, or she never too much cared. “An ignorant little, pea brain who walks through life blithely passing on nonsense without digging one inch beneath the surface. A Dunning-Kruger poster child! No hunt for greater subtext! A mere learner by rote! Which happens to be the most dangerous kind in existence. Societies crumble at the very hands of this craggy think tank. She’s a cog in someone else’s wheel! Inept in the purest sense! But why am I surprised? We’re all just made out of meat, right?” Sabrina said. Pam was exhausted and had barely uttered a word. She also had no idea how to respond simply because she had no clue what the meat reference meant. Instead, she sat down next to Sabrina, supplying her with a cushioned lap to crash into. Pam stroked her daughter’s back, a movement that had calmed Sabrina since toddlerhood. Inside of Pam was the requisite pain, despair and anger a parent felt when all they wanted to do was snap a finger and make everything right while realizing they were completely powerless. The least she could do, she felt, was hold back on the classics: “You have to be stronger.” “You can’t let it get to you.” “Life isn’t always going to be easy.” “People are going to disappoint you.” In this moment, the classics felt trite, like things one says only to make themselves feel better while bringing to an end a conversation they have no meaningful nor helpful way out of.


6. And so did Sabrina ever find you?

You’re annoying and yes, she did. It was early in the morning, dawn about, when Sabrina heard the door click closed; without fail, the door knew no other way but to announce a stealth exit or cautious arrival. Sabrina remained in bed for a moment then sat up. She eventually made it out and over to the closet where she began to riffle through. Not finding what she was looking for, she traveled into Pam’s room and opened the closet. As she shifted from Chicos to hand-me-downs, her eye caught a crisp black bag, poorly hidden behind a neatly folded pile of sweaters. She pushed the sweaters aside and pulled the bag down from the shelf. Back in her room, Sabrina, now bedecked in me, stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing herself. Intrigued by the reflection, she traveled into the kitchen, made herself a cup of hot cocoa then settled in at the table to continue a calligraphy assignment. It was only when she sat down at the table did she notice the Bonobos Turkish Taffy with a note: “Have a wonderful day, love.” Sabrina smiled and reached for the hot cocoa. As she brought the mug toward her mouth she knocked over her tablet. As she reached to keep the tablet from crashing to the ground, she knocked over a bottle of ink, sending it spilling into her lap, causing me to release a germane, blood-curdling “AAAAHHHHHHHHHH,” then I fainted. Meanwhile, over in the pied-à-terre of horrors, Carol slipped out of bed, leaving his girlfriend to sleep off whatever they had done to make her pass out mid-morning. Carol, now fully dressed, stood at the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers, looking down at a black bag with “BARNEYS NEW YORK” obstinately written across it. Inside the bag sat a black box held closed by a ribbon letting you know that it too came from Barneys New York and inside the box sat me, but Carol didn’t know that. You see, I was supposed to be UES bound for Ethel Crane however, a little mix-up had me addressed to Ethel’s Gramercy Park residence. Now, Carol could’ve easily made a call to have me retrieved and sent off to his mother but instead he scooped me up, took a shallow breath, releasing a kaleidoscope of butterflies into his belly, and moved to exit. Forty minutes and a cab down to the Lower East Side later, there Carol stood in a cramped candy store, searching for Pop Rocks with me in one hand and clinging to five packs of Bonomo Turkish Taffy with the other. Funnily enough, Ceci stood two bins over, dropping orange slices into a bag. Carol didn’t know the child and so the moment simply fizzled on the spot. Carol, passing Ceci, exited the store and set out down the street. He looked up to see a jagged stratocumulus rolling over the city as if casting judgment on the island. He was torn away from the meditation by a sniffle. He looked over to see a girl sitting on a stoop, wiping her nose with a tissue.”Are you okay?” Carol inquired. She looked at him, then her eyes locked on the bag he was holding — it was the same one she had. There I was. Us two. Pristine and adrift in one bag while soiled and shrouded in uncertainty in the other. Somehow the stranger’s concern caused Sabrina to dissolve into a deluge of explaining just how she had arrived at this place. Moments later, Carol found himself sitting next to the girl, intently listening to every detail she had to offer while periodically glancing at the black bag, “I found it while looking for my shirt and I have no idea how she got it. I mean, I have a slight idea. I’m pretty sure it’s from her boss and if she finds out I ruined it she’s gonna be sad. Not angry, she won’t dare do that but she’ll be sad and that’s worse. You can at least fight anger with a cocktail of defiance and pride. You can only fight sadness with shame and I can’t handle that particular emotion right now.” “Come with me,” Carol said, hoisting himself up from the stoop. Sabrina gave him a glare and leaned back as if attempting to cement herself where she sat, “Clearly, you never got the memo, but men your age should never say that to girls my age.” Carol opened his mouth to defend himself but thought better of it, “Fine. Take a look at the label and–” Sabrina didn’t need to see the label as she blurted, “It’s Vivianne Westwood.” “Great,” Carol replied, “I was going to suggest we check out Barneys uptown. They have to have it.” “And once we arrive how am I affording it?” she asked. “I’ll pay,” was his simple response. “You’re getting nothing in return,” she said. “How am I getting this particular rap I’d like to know? I’m simply trying to be a nice person. There are plenty of people on this island and beyond who know for a fact that I’m incapable. Selfish and entitled I do with my eyes closed but nice? It’s unheard of,” he said. Sabrina sighed and dropped her gaze, “How are any of us getting lumped into any rap? Society. That’s your answer. We’re all in a box. All in a lane. All being judged on things outside of our control. Even you, the seemingly top of the food chain, has a lane.” Carol appeared taken aback by the observation, “You’re right. It’s sad really, but true.” Sabrina nodded, “It is.” The last thing Carol felt like doing was dipping a toe into self-introspection; when it came to people like him, this tended to be no fun at all and so he steered the conversation back toward the solution to Sabrina’s problem, “660 Madison. That’s where the store’s located. I’ll be there waiting to buy the jumpsuit that looks exactly like the one you destroyed. If I don’t see you within the hour then I’ll know the plan’s dead. Deal?” She said nothing and instead narrowed yet another glare in some weird attempt to telepathically decipher his motives. “Deal,” he replied to what he could only assume was a glare of “yes” from her. And with the commencement of his plan, Carol hailed a cab, hopped in and headed uptown. Moments later, Sabrina hailed a cab and off we all went. Along the way, the cabs did this sort of dance up Broadway. Sometimes Sabrina was in the lead, only to have Carol’s cab swoop in and take it. There were moments when we were neck and neck, Carol and Sabrina looking at each other and laughing  — although Sabrina reluctantly and Carol sort of taking his laughter back when noticing the reluctance and the “this guy’s a creep” expression on her face  — at the strange place they had found themselves in.


7. How did the return process go?

Like most, not very thrilling which is why I’ll skip all that. Carol and Sabrina exited Barneys. Her overall demeanor was now flecked with levity, signaling all had been squared away with me at last. Now it was us three: 1. Still hidden in the box. 2. Soiled —Carol felt Sabrina should keep me for posterity’s sake and she agreed. 3. New to the group and without a blemish. Sabrina had just enough babysitting money to treat Carol to tea and pie. As we sat in the diner, all the requisite “thank yous” and “you’re welcomes” out of the way, the heady conversation continued between the two with Sabrina declaring, “It’s not that I don’t see color. Of course I see it. It’s there. How can you not see it? It’s just that I always saw it as the characteristic that should be celebrated while traveling to a person’s core, their soul, ya know?” “Well, you’re a lot better than most,” Carol replied. Sabrina shook her head, “Not anymore I’m not. I’m just like everyone else now. Selfish. My bubble. That’s all that matters. If it doesn’t have to do with me then I don’t care. I’ll fight for a cause just as long as it directly affects my life.” It was Carol’s turn to shake his head, “Don’t do that. You do that and you’re only adding to all that’s wrong with the big picture.” “Easy for you to say,” Sabrina said, prefaced with a snort, “You’re born into a world rooting for you. All this? Yours to lose. And even if you don’t know how to do the thing or you’re absolutely shitty at it, this world’s programmed to think, on sight, you’re the premiere person for the thing.” With lips properly pursed, Carol asked, “You’re a child. How do you already know the game’s rigged?” Sabrina shrugs, surprised by the question “The world all but forces it down our throats. All you have to do is pay attention. And thank you for not giving me the wide-eyed ‘What? That’s actually happening? I had no idea? I’m so sorry!'” Carol smiled, “I try to stay out of gaslighting territory.” Sabrina gave him an appreciative smirk, “My mom doesn’t understand me. It’s not her fault really. We were born in two different galaxies. She wants to know how to help but the truth is she can’t. I’d imagine that’s the hardest thing for a parent to hear. Have you ever seen a tadpole just before it kicks through the sack? It’s the most frustrating thing you’ll ever witness. And that’s exactly how I feel. Just kicking. But then I look at my mom and she’s just so content, so calm, almost elegantly so. But she should be the farthest thing from it.” Staring into a steaming cup of Earl Grey, Carol replied, “My mom doesn’t get me either.” Sabrina looked at him, confounded. As if feeling her questioning eyes on him, he looked to her, “What?” She shrugged, “Sorry, it’s just that you don’t strike me as someone still in the business of having their mother ‘get them.'” He chuckled, “Well then this is gonna blow your mind. You’re forever the child. Doesn’t matter the relationship, good, bad, absentee… You’re forever the child no matter how old you are.” Sabrina could only squint at the statement; it was going to take a while to actually let that one connect up. Carol continued, “Contrary to whatever you’re thinking, I wanted to be my own man. But there was nowhere for me to go. Colonizing Mars I guess was an option. No school in the world I couldn’t attend. They wanted at the family booty and all that came with having people like us on the roster.” Sabrina replied, “That’s a little sad.” Carol responded, “I know but money aside, don’t you see it? We’re the same. The world defined us before we ever had a say. I fell for the okey-doke, walked right into the jackpot but that doesn’t mean you have to. You still have time to put your stamp on the thing whatever it is.” Sabrina shrugged, “I guess I see your point.” Carol said, “A wise man once said when talking about my kind, ‘The first generation makes it. The second generation exploits it. The third generation squanders it away,'” with a nod he went on to confirm, “I can definitely see myself in that third category. Wait a minute. Maybe it’s not my fault after all. Wait a minute! I was simply following script!” Sabrina rolled her eyes, “Nice try.” Carol smiled then held up a finger, “A story.” Sabrina replied, “I’m here for it.” And so Carol started in, “It was a perfect spring day and I didn’t want to go but my mom insisted I make the trek all the way to Cambridge to attend my cousin’s birthday party. What I found out once I arrived and what no one else in the family knew was that my cousin, Sam, in his last year at Harvard, had fallen in with Timothy Leary and his cabal.” Sabrina raised both hands in the air, “Hold up. Don’t tell me you did drugs with Timothy Leary.” “Okay, I won’t,” Carol said then took a sip of tea.” Sabrina leaned in, “You didn’t?!” Carol leaned in, ecstatic she was finally impressed by something he’d done, “Of course I did. You’re hanging out with Timothy Leary and disciples during the early sixties, you’re doing your fair share of whatever they put in front of you.” Sabrina shook her head in disbelief, “You’re one lucky bastard. Do you know this?” “I guess I am,” he proudly responded.” “I hate myself for busting my ass to get into a ‘good’ school,” Sabrina said. Carol’s response was odd at first, “The juice from the stinging nettle’s the very thing that cures the pain and irritation caused by the stinging nettle?” “Meaning?” she asked. “Meaning you go to Yale and fuck how people think you got in. You go on to use that jumping off, use it to beat the very voices who think they’re better than you based on nothing but their own insecure need to feel superior. Do you know the biggest power grab there is in existence?” Sabrina shrugged, “A forceful takeover?” Carol smiled, shook his head, “To pity. You pity a person and they let you? They’re all but putty in your hand and they don’t realize because they’re too busy being grateful.” Sabrina looked on wide-eyed, “I’ve never thought about it like that. Shit.” Carol added, “Maybe an armistice with your mother’s in order. Stop fighting it all. I would’ve killed for someone to have shared that with me when I was your age. You’d be looking at a different man right now.” “Maybe you’re right,” Sabrina said. A lull in the conversation was broken by Carol, “Confession time.” She looked at him, curious. A sheepish smile spread across his face, “This bag? Well, whatever’s in it… It belongs to my mom. It was delivered to the wrong house.” “What are you gonna do with it?” she asked. “Don’t know. I was set to hand deliver it but I don’t know anymore,” he replied. “Are you nervous?” she asked. He nodded, “I just might be.” Sabrina looked on, expression full of pity. He went on, “But how? Seventy–one and I can’t face my own mother.”


8. Actually, I can see that. Parents do have a pretty tight grip no matter how they appear in your life. Interesting story about my mom actually. Care to hear it?

No, and that’s because this is about me and the experiences of those who purchase me. Okay? Okay. And so, Sabrina and Carol had moved on from the diner and found themselves somewhere in Harlem, perched on a stoop. “I like to people-watch in the most anthropological sense,” said Sabrina. “What kind of people?” Carol asked. “All of them. Nice ones, mean ones, pretentious ones, successful ones, lay-lumpy ones, kind ones, grifty ones, ignorant ones, cowardly ones, confused ones, arrested developed ones,” she said, giving Carol a wink. “It’s not so much arrested development as it is what else is there for me to do really? I’ll leave this earth having done absolutely nothing. I will have left my mark by making a dent in Pop Rock consumption and that’s about it. But where is it written that we have to leave behind a mark in the first place? And anyway, I was born at the finish line with trophy in hand and the stadium chanting my name.” “Go on,” Sabrina said, feeling his need to purge. Carol proceeded, “I really loved my father. He was tough but he was a good man, just. He had this funny way of speaking, as if a tiny village lived under his tongue and his tongue did everything it could to not disturb the goings-on.” Sabrina giggled, envisioning the village under the tongue. Carol went on, “Dear mumsy on the other hand… She’s on my back for having never worked a day in my life. I’m five years past the age of retirement. And what about her? A woman who mastered the art of scheduling meaningless events revolving around her tony life and had the nerve to do it with the hubris only a coal miner should have. An entire line of people living off of the good fortune of one man who came up with the right thing at the right time in 1867. That’s it. That’s all we are, up and down the family tree. At least I’m honest about it. I don’t work because I don’t have to because in our sleep money’s spilling over into our lives and I won’t put myself on thirty-seven boards to avoid feeling guilty about it either. My girlfriend? Twenty-eight and probably the only person I’ve ever truly respected in my life.” “Does she happen to be a stripper?” Sabrina asked. Carol looked at her with brow properly knitted, “How’d you know that?” “I’m great at deduction. Always have been. My second guess was gonna be gallerist,” Sabrina said. “Don’t judge her,” Carol said almost pleadingly so. Sabrina looked surprised by the request, “Why would I? It’s a noble profession. No one’s signing up for that life for fun. Well, maybe some are but not a lot. We ladies have to fight every step of the way. And the ones who don’t think they have to are the ones going harder than anyone else in the gender.” “Are you judging me?” he asked. She smiled, “Weirdly, no. You’re painfully honest. That gets nothing but respect too. Always have to tip my hat to the ones not asking you to believe the sham no matter what it is.” Carol smiled, appreciative, then looked away down the street, “This world could be so great. A few tweaks and it could be an amazing ride for all from start to finish.” There Carol and Sabrina sat, eating their taffy, me in all my iterations between them. To some they might’ve simply appeared as two, spoiled brats, too caught up in their own stuff to see the bigger picture but to me? I understood them. “Every one of us is an Amway of characters. Wouldn’t it be great if we changed colors each time we made the switch to another version? At least then all of our cards would be on the table and we’d know what we were dealing with. Okay, she’s coming at me red. I’m about to get a complete and total dick. Or this guy just turned chartreuse. I can relax because he’s as magnanimous as it gets. As it stands now, we’re all in the dark, taking chances on the person standing in front of us, hoping they truly do have our best interests at heart. Even if you know a person you still don’t truly know the color you’re getting and that’s fact,” Sabrina mused. “The problem?” Carol said. “Huh?” Sabrina asked. “I should preface this by telling you that I spent three years at an ashram in Tamul Nadu,” Carol said. “Co-opting an Eastern, spiritual practice to cloak your privilige in? I’m shocked!” Sabrina responded with a smirk. With a grin, Carol could only smirk in return and take it on the chin, “In any case, the problem is absolutely everything we do in this world has attached to it ego. Everything. The only two things that don’t are birth all the time and death most of the time.” “Hmmm,” is all Sabrina could muster. She and Carol looked to each other. “You have pretty eyes,” she said with a pointed tone. He smiled, truly touched, “Thank you.”


9. In the meantime, how were things faring with Pam and Ethel?

Well, Ethel was at the same impasse as Carol therefore instead of calling him to inquire about the misguided me, she opted to simply purchase a new me. Five of us were now caught up in this thing. Like curious chameleons, there Pam and Ethel were, each lost in a book and both wearing me as they sat in the dizzying room with walls drenched in a variation of my print. As promised, Christina had come through in spades and somewhere beyond, all of her elders were very proud. Ethel looked up from her book and watched Pam as she read. Pam had a slight smile on her face which made Ethel smile. “Pamela, I’m very old,” Ethel rasped. Pam put her book down and looked to Ethel, “I know that.” Ethel cleared her throat, “And I won’t be here for much longer.” Pam shook her head and said, “You’ll outlive us all. How many times do I have to tell you that?” “I’m giving the Beekman house to Griffin, Tyler and Claudine,” Ethel said. Pam replied with a smile, “I like that. They deserve it.” Ethel held out an envelope to her, “For you, my kind friend.” “What’s this?” Pam asked. “The deed to the home in Newport. It’s yours now, complete with maintenance and staff salaries paid for the next thirty-five years if you should choose to keep it. You don’t have to. It’s yours after all,” Ethel said. Pam started to feel hot around the temples, unable to conjure up a proper response. Ethel went on, “It is a thank you that will never repay all that you’ve done for me.” Pushing the envelope toward Ethel, Pam said, “I do my job, Ethel. I do only what you pay me to do.” Ethel replied, “But you do it with love. There isn’t much that possesses that additive anymore. It’s a priceless gift. With the legions of people in my life, you’re the only person who cares to actually see me.” Ethel looked out the window, “As I sit here, I really have no idea what the purpose of my life was. It’s a strange place to be actually. This force that pulled you through close to 100 years and you feel it gently starting to let you go. If I could, I’d ask it, ‘Why me? Why, when there were so many others with actual things to do and contribute that you could’ve carried through instead? Lives that you cut short for no reason at all. Lives that you filled with pain and hardship when all they wanted to do was thrive.'” Tears streamed down Pam’s face. There Ethel was, back inside of Pam’s head for the same thoughts had passed through her own mind not so long ago. Like Ethel’s Carol, Sabrina was also a stranger. At a certain point, her little girl who once looked at her as if she were the most important person on earth, had splintered off and became a stranger, ashamed possibly. Pam’s existence was a blight. She wasn’t  one of the greats. She often thought what it would feel like to be them: Michelle Obama or Susan Rice or Oprah or Tony Morrison or Alice Walker or Kara Walker or Mrs. Hamer. No golden ticket for Pam. Instead, she was shouted down by Wonka. Then she thought if not for her how would the greats know just how great they were or how far they had traveled? The greats aren’t great without someone to measure them against. The hardest thing to do in this world, thought Pam, was to hide for necessity’s sake. Pam knew this all too well. And maybe that’s why Pam felt connected to Ethel, connected beyond all of the details that should’ve separated the two. Pam responded, “And I don’t really know why it stuck with me but Sabrina said something a little while back. She was quoting someone who had quoted someone else. The names I can’t remember. Anyway, they said, ‘The greatest luck is–'” Ethel holds up a hand, cutting her off, “‘Is to never have been born.’ It’s Sophocles. My god, the last time I heard that I was just a child, seventeen I think.” The two women stared at each other, both realizing what life becomes after the most significant relationships slip away.


And somewhere in Manhattan on a stoop — having transformed their random run-in into a weekly thing — Carol and Sabrina sat in silence, watching as life passed to and fro until Sabrina interrupted the moment, “Can I keep this up or will I just simply get in line and conform? Like a star burning out, they shine the brightest just before dying. That’s what adults do, right? Tamp it all down and just conform?” “I never really thought about it like that but I guess,” he replied. I was still there between them, still in the box inside the bag, still waiting for Carol to decide if he was going to face his mother. Without turning to Carol, Sabrina asked, “What are we to do?” Ethel looked to Pam and her reply was simple, “Not a clue. No clue at all.”


In all over on September 15, 2014 at 8:15am09


1. What items would you choose to accouter yourself with?

A pair of Barton Perreira Baez sunglasses, the Isabel Marant “Carla” dress, the Givenchy crisscross sandal and a vintage Hermes suitcase.





2. Is there a song that encapsulates your overall mood at the moment?

Sebastien Tellier’s “La Ballade Du Georges”

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

John le Carré in MI6 mode. Wait, le Carré’s a nom de plume. I’m changing my answer. I would be worn by Mr. David John Moore Cornwell in MI6 mode. There.

le carre

4. If you could exist anywhere where would it be?

In a spy novel, of course.  If wearing me, said spy would be seen coming from a mile away but what can I do? It’s the price you pay to be cloaked in luxury. Am I right?


5. Interesting. If you could return as any person or thing what would it be?

It would have to be Madonna. As an aside, Mr. Meisel really knows his way around a camera.


6. I couldn’t agree more. Now, would you mind elaborating on why Madonna? Not that she’s not amazing. I’m simply curious.

Well, in keeping with the clandestine theme, I like how she came onto the scene. Ya know, as a baby placed in a basket and set adrift down the River Nile in an effort to evade Pharaoh who wanted her dead. I just find her whole thing not only interesting but harrowing and mysterious. Also, let us not forget the Commandments and that little thing she did with the Red Sea and by little I mean huge. When people say they miss the eighties I understand why.


7. Hmm… Might you be getting her confused with Moses?

Yikes. You might be right. I’m always getting my M’s mixed up. But in my defense, I’m a coat so… It’s hard keeping track of you all. Who did what and when and– Oh shit.


8. What happened?

I just now remembered I was out with a group of friends last night and I told them how Moses got his start at Danceteria.

Madonna photo, shot by Moshe Brakha in the 80's.
Charleston Heston_Ten Commandments_Moses

9. Wow. Well, would you like to go correct that? We’re pretty much done here.

I probably should. I would hate to be on his bad side considering he has the power to part things and this particular hand-painted trench would like to remain intact. Okay then, wish me luck and thanks for helping me clean up my mess.


In all over, Frida on July 9, 2014 at 8:15pm07


1. Usually when you guys exit that’s the last I hear from you. What brought on the change of heart?

If it’s okay with you, I will remain mum regarding my compatriot’s departure. With that said, we owe it to our girl to let you know how her story ends and so I’m here to continue. But first — because I know how this works — I’ll tell you exactly what I would accouter myself with.

A 19th-century crown, a 1960’s turquoise and diamond suite, a Pauline Trigere gown and the St. Laurent boot.



2. Thank you for that and my sincerest apologies if I’ve offended anything. Okay, so not to dwell on that any longer, the last I heard your girl and Frida had ventured down to a perfect part of town in celebration of introducing her new self to the world. Did I miss anything?

That about sums it up and so I’ll start from there. Upon arrival at home, my girl found her little sister, Claude, leaning against her front door and very much asleep. Needless to say, she was surprised by the waiting package but more than anything she was happy. She absolutely loved this person. When she turned to tell Frida exactly who Claude was she was surprised to see Frida gone, disappeared. She moved down the hall and peeked around the corner, whispering, “Frida?” “Hey. Who’re you talking to?” Startled, she turned to see Claude sitting up and stretching her arms praise–like above her head. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Ithica cursing the fact that finals exist,” asked my girl as she moved over to her sister. Claude sat up and gripped the Duro Olowu thus her sister’s shoulders, “I am but when you call a person for three straight days and don’t get an answer, you start to deem other things much more important.” Realizing the faux pas of being out of touch to those who love you, “I’m sorry. Truly. It’s just that I’ve been so caught up.” “You’re forgiven. Now, what in the hell are you wearing,” Claude inquired. My girl felt a slight puncture in the amour propre, the shoulders began to ease down, the back started to hunch, both subtle reminders of the person she used to be prior to Frida’s arrival. Luckily, it was just a puncture and could be easily dressed, “Nothing. It’s a skirt that I love.” The moment the words left her mouth, complete with defiant tone, she could feel the grand posture returning. Claude’s brows pinched as she focused on the roses adorning the tight bun atop her sister’s head, “You have flowers in your hair.” My girl smiled and puffed out her chest, “I’m trying something different. What’s so wrong with that?” Funny how confidence has a way of supplying rhetoric to an otherwise actual question. “You have roses in your hair,” Claude repeated. “Deal with it. Now, would you like to come in?” My girl gave her sister a buss on the cheek and stood up to unlock the door. Claude said nothing as she hoisted herself off the floor. Once on her feet, she turned, rubbing her chin. My girl opened the door, inviting her sister in. Upon entering, Claude stopped short, ingesting the surroundings, “This is probably– No… I know this is exactly why I was rubbing my chin. What the hell happened here exactly?” She had grown accustomed to walking into a room of white walls, Noguchi furnishings and slight sculptures that awoke in her a stoicism she never knew existed and couldn’t wait to dump when she left. You have to understand, the wildest this room traveled in both color and design was a Joseph Berlini sculpture. Now said sculpture had vibrant colored carnations protruding from its innards and the Noguchi bench was draped in a beautiful trading blanket. If the former decor lethargically and pretentiously whispered then the latter screamed while freeing the nipple. The place had been transformed to look as much like La Casa Azul as the space would allow. The walls were a menagerie of murals illustrating human struggle. Traversing the floor was like navigating through a tchotchke labyrinth; any turn could send something crashing to the ground, making even the slightest breathe a liability. Claude tucked in and out, glimpsing all that had found its home inside the 2,000–square-foot space. She plucked from a table a Lupita doll and stared into its eyes. She smiled, placed the doll back down and raced out of the room. My girl called out, “Where’re you going?” “To your closet, stupid. Definitely need to see what’s going on in there,” Claude called. Once inside it was just as she had suspected, “…the hell.” Claude began pulling out billowing skirt, after blusón, after kaftan, after cape, after sarape… She pulled out a rebozo, wrapped it around her shoulders and lowered a gaze on my girl who was now standing in the doorway, “When I’m good, I’m very good. But when I’m bad, I’m better.” My girl howled with laughter at the Mea West homage — an homage she could only share with the person standing in front of her. The thought of Frida enjoying this moment was fleeting. That night the sisters fell asleep in dresses and shawls via Chiapas amongst discarded carnations, one pizza box and empty bottles of hard cider. The following morning my girl escorted Claude downstairs to a waiting cab. Before climbing in, Claude turned to her sister, knicking a rose nestled in my girl’s now ailing bun and tucking it behind her own ear, and concluded, “I’ve no clue what this is about but your happiness and utter contentment is undeniable. That makes me very happy.” And with that, Claude went, fumbling a bit as she climbed into the cab. The lump forming in my girl’s throat disintegrated upon hearing, “Too many freaks and not enough circuses in this world.” My girl turned to see Frida leaning against an ivy layered wall, “Do you think rats find refuge in here?” “I don’t know,” my girl answered, taking a moment to really think about the question. “Hmmm…” offered Frida, studying the climbing vine framing her. “So, where’d you disappear to last night? I wanted to introduce you to my sister.” “I thought I would give the two of you some quality time.” My girl smiled, “Thank you.” “Nice child,” Frida added, voice void of sincerity. “She’s amazing, my best friend.” Frida gave the summation one nod, “If you’re lucky and you seem to be, a sibling bond is the best bond there is. Unlike a parent, their total lies about how amazing you are really do feel like truth. Maybe it’s because you view them as your contemporary and not this being whose entire psychic apparatus is lodged in you against your will. But in truth, your failures are theirs. Your successes belong to them as well. A brittle house of cards it is, everyone’s pride and ego dependent on the other. In any case…” There my girl stood, feeling flutter away all the good stuff that had accumulated the previous evening. She watched her sister’s cab round the corner. And yes to exactly what you’re thinking: this thing was starting to take a left.




3. How was your girl beginning to take this change in Frida?

She seemed to push it away, pretend she wasn’t hearing what she was hearing because the overall gifts appeared too great. Also, she was never the person to give Frida Kahlo, the actual woman, much thought. Sure she had been in plenty of dorm rooms and starter apartments where posters of Frida adorned the walls and had seen more than her fair share of editorials paying homage, but the need to probe further never surfaced. This meant no knowledge of letters to an ailing Georgia O’Keeffe or dalliances with Tina Modotti, Trotsky and Noguchi. No reference to the excruciating pain felt before, during and after many spinal surgeries or the horrific miscarriage she suffered in Detroit at the Henry Ford Hospital, the place where her idiom took flight as she convalesced. None the wiser was my girl regarding Frida’s staunch support of Communism. I think this was good actually. With everything that happened, I couldn’t imagine having to also toggle between fact and fiction. Needless to say, on the day of my girl’s first date with Kevin, Frida happened to be suffering from a lower lumbar pain so severe it was hard to breathe — a fact Frida kept to herself I think for fear of appearing vulnerable. Any other day a date with Kevin would’ve been met with disdain and much protest but on this particular evening my girl was all but pushed out the door. Once on the street, she looked up to see Frida staring down out her. My girl held up a hand to wave. Frida did not, instead she placed a hand against her cheek and walked away. Slightly stung but more than anything confused, my girl looked off and set out. “Have you ever been to Jiuzhaigou Valley,” was the first question she was met with just as she and Kevin sat down to dine al fresco at one of Arthur Avenue’s highest rated. She responded, “Nope. I’ve never even heard of it. Why?” “Go,” he replied. “Okay. I will,” the response was ephemeral as she took a piece of bread and dipped it into olive oil. Kevin leaned forward and gripped her hands leaving the bread to soak up way more olive oil than intended. “I mean it. Go,” he demanded. She chuckled, taken aback by the intensity, “Okay. I’ll go.” Kevin leaned back, “And go alone. And don’t tell anyone you’re going. And when you get back don’t do the braggadocious thing of announcing to everyone you went. Save that for– I don’t know… Berlin or some place like that. Anyway, the place will redefine your faith in this planet. For me? It’s the only thing in existence that has any right to have an ego.” I felt a calm come over her. She smiled then with ease looked up. Curious, Kevin followed her gaze, “What’s up there?” Opting not to share with him the fact that she was waiting to be coated in a bucket of pig’s blood, she went with, “Nothing… the stars.”


4. Uh huh… I’m no fool, therefore, I so know where a date like this is headed, however, I’ll do my job and ask the question replete with sincerity: What happened next? (Did you buy that?)

Cute. And yes, you’re pretty much right on in assuming the date ended with my girl and Kevin making love. But you’ll be happy to know he didn’t do the goofy thing of running a pointer across the sprigs on the outer corners of her mouth or a thumb across her unibrow, rather, he didn’t even acknowledge their existence. It was beautiful. And in case you’re wondering, Frida stayed away. Again, I have no idea where she went exactly — or where she ever disappeared to, for that matter — but she stayed away. And if I’m honest, not to mention privy to way more than I wanted to be, that night the connection to Kevin was so my girl had all but forgotten Frida existed. After it was said and done, she dreamed for the first time in a very long time. No dreamlike bells and whistles of the ground swelling into marshmallow as she tried to evade two legs running on two legs, rather she dreamt of reading a book avec freshly waxed lip while curled up in her favorite chair. Her dreams and reality had switched places. The dream ended with her abruptly cracking one eye open while the other remained disabled against the pillow. It was the violent waking where you can never remember what the something was to yank you, but the funky gut feeling lets you know it was indeed something. Across from her, Kevin slept soundly. She smiled, studying his face when someone nearby cleared their throat. Frida had returned was the natural assumption. My girl gingerly turned her head, bracing for what was to come, but instead of coming face to face with the dove herself, she found sitting in the chair next to the bed Diego. His vaunted face illumed every time the red, neon sign flashed from across the street. My girl lifted up to make sure she was indeed seeing what she was seeing. It was him alright. The big, lummox of a human. His protruding belly appeared tight as it extended from his waist. She imagined poking it but didn’t. What did the dove see in this man? Amazing murals or not, standing up to the Rockefeller oligarchy was beside the point. What was the spell she was under? She looked over to see Kevin still fast asleep. Poor boy had no idea what he was missing. My girl turned back to find Diego’s eyes moving about the room, attempting to focus on something swift. She twisted around to get a look. A spotlight danced about, searching for a place to land. She and Diego followed it for a moment — their simultaneous movement reminiscent of curious kittens found in viral videos. Finally, their darting eyes touched down at the foot of the bed to find the spotlight resting on Frida. One of her tiny hands gripped a Fender Stratocaster slung around her shoulder —  she would later reveal Jimi let her borrow it. Diego put his hat on and leaned in as if granting her permission to start. My girl could tell this galled Frida. She wasn’t looking for his sanctions; she didn’t need them, but despite that, she did the polite thing of swallowing the potential ass–handing and started in on the performance of a lifetime.

5. My god… I would’ve paid a small fortune to see that performance. Man… Okay, so how did the night end?

Well, immediately after — I’m talking seconds — Diego left and the man did not appear happy. No words passed between them. It was strange. I was prepared for some mammoth fall out but in the end nothing. Anyway, once he was gone, Frida took one look at Kevin and left too. Since this had started to become a natural occurrence coupled with the fact that she had a man in her bed, my girl nestled into Kevin’s arms and with a deep breath forced herself back to sleep. The following morning, marathon training commitments made sure Kevin was out the door bright and early. Knowing Frida would appear at some point, my girl traveled up to the rooftop to get some sun and ruminate on the perfection that was Kevin and perplexity that was Frida and Diego. Upon eventual arrival, Frida’s greeting was terse as she spread out on the ground. A few hours later “Slaloms in Zermatt,” was the first shard of conversation she offered. “What was that,” my girl asked. “Slaloms in Zermatt. We should go skiing. You’re a girl with some coin in her pocket so why not,” Frida said. “Kevin suggested I go to Jiuzhaigou Valley. I looked it up. It’s located on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau. I’ve never been and the way he was going on about it I feel like I should’ve already.” My girl smiled and looked to Frida. Offering no response, Frida remained with her eyes closed as the sun beamed down. My girl was all too familiar with the silent dismissal and so did nothing to protest. An hour or two passed before Frida emerged with, “I don’t think men want to see the true us. They sell us on thinking they do but in the end… And why would they? It’s a lifetime of the Crusades right in these bodies: You give too much? You’re unattractive and hate yourself for giving too much. You give too little? You’re too attractive and resent yourself for being adorned for giving too little. A day in the life of Sisyphus post-condemnation is what it is. Every single second welcomes a new and futile fight uphill the entire way.” My girl’s frustration had reached an apex and even if she knew she’d regret the attempt she had to at least try to reason, “But have you ever — and Diego could be this person in some way or not at all — but have you ever been in love? Experienced a person who just makes it all right? Even if everything you’re saying is true there’s that person out there that makes you complete and happy regardless of it all.” Frida scrambled to her feet, the fury in her eyes bone chilling, “Stop! Just stop it! Have you ever had someone in your life akin to a useless body part — an appendix or a wisdom tooth — just taking up space and in the end you realize — too late, of course — the only things they were good for were severe amounts of annoyance and pain?! Nothing more! And reprieve came only when you located your wits and ripped them from your life?! Don’t you see?! I’m here to keep you from being an idiot! To stop you from losing yourself in bullshit! Why can’t you see that?!” Naturally, my girl’s eyes were wide and filled with fright. She wanted to cry, the sensation was coming on strong, just waiting for the okay to erupt from her throat but she knew it would only make it worse. And so it was at this point I realized responsibility to set this thing right had landed on me. It was time. I had to sit Frida down.

6. Wait. How did you sit Frida down? No offense but you’re a magnificent cape.

And an unrelenting Frida Kahlo was residing in the annals of my girl’s brain where anything goes and by anything I mean a cape having a come–to–Jesus moment with Frida Kahlo.

7. Point taken. Proceed?

Thank you. My girl was about to lose the best thing that had ever happened to her and for what? To live out the things this particular Frida couldn’t? So, I sat Frida down and I told her she was going to have to let up,”She finally found love. Many have searched but only a select few have found the true stuff. And isn’t that why you appeared in the first place? To help our girl find happiness through finding herself? Think about it. And at what point do you go from being her biggest supporter to part of the can–toi chorus clad in yellow coats, the evil beings that compelled you to come save her in the first place? The line is fine, almost undetectable so ask yourself when do you go from being friend to worst enemy. She didn’t see the switch. Hell, you probably didn’t see it simply because your intentions began as pure. Neither of you can see that you no longer have her best interests at heart and simply want her to feel as low as you do. She’s not like you. You’ve got one thousand bulls fighting for you inside there. She’s got you. That’s it. You’re dictating her very existence and you know she’ll listen to anything you say. Just give the word and Kevin’s gone. Even if she’s well aware that it would be the biggest mistake of her life, she’ll set the cycle on ‘Frida knows best’ and it’ll emerge as truth. And why? Because she respects you and she’s in awe of you and she looks up to you, but most of all… she loves you.” And with that, Frida thought. She thought and thought and thought…

frida 4DownloadedFilefrida thinkingfrida ponderfrida thinking 5

images-1DownloadedFile-1imagesimages-7frida 678Frida-Kahlo

8. Heavy to say the least. What was her response to that?

No idea. I felt it best to leave her and so that’s just what I did. That night, gliding over the city to a song somewhat apt, the wind whipping beneath me, spreading me out as far as I could go, I wondered how many lonely, confused hearts were down below in desperate need of hope based in fact.

9. And so what happened next?

We didn’t see it coming but like so many days prior, Frida was on a mission to take us somewhere, show us something poignant, relevant, neuron aborting. There we were racing down the street, myself and Frida’s cape whipping in the wind. I, of course, was in the zone, doing what I was created to do when my girl asked, “Seriously, where are we going?”And just like that, we stopped. Frida stared at my girl, her face with the faint brush of a smile. My girl chuckled, “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?” Frida said nothing as her eyes remained locked. My girl’s eyes traveled up to find they were standing in front of Lydia’s salon. The moment she saw the sign she instantly understood. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the closing bell for this priceless journey. Who was going to be there to validate all that was swirling around in her head? Who would be there to consult my girl when no other words would suffice? “The only thing to do when you can no longer be a positive part of a person’s life is to leave,” said Frida. “But I don’t want you to. I need you to stay. I do. I need you to stay.” “You’re not me,” Frida replied, “Your life is your own to live on your own terms and no one else’s. Especially not mine. I should’ve never suggested such a thing.” Frida took a deep breath, shoring up the courage to let go, “Now, get inside there and have the land above your lip cleared.” Tears streamed down my girl’s face as she slumped forward, doing all she could to remain upright. She couldn’t even manage the anemic smile to sell the lie that she would be okay. Instead, she sobbed. Frida grabbed her by the forearms, pulled her in close and whispered in her ear, “De ilusión también se vive.” She placed a firm kiss on my girl’s forehead, then swiftly turned and walked away. My girl stood on the corner, paralyzed as she watched Frida Kahlo get swept up into the swarm of foot traffic. Frida turned round, looked to her, smiled and raised a hand in the air. My girl raised a hand in the air and waved goodbye. Slowly the grand posture began its return.


In all over, Frida, Kendrick Lamar on December 2, 2013 at 8:15pm12

DURO Olowu

1. If you could style yourself what accoutrements do you see fitting into your overall motif?

A Euginia Kim headband, A Stella Jean full-skirt dress, a pair of Libertine trousers and the Philip Lim boot.




2. Who has inspired you most during your short existence?

The woman who awoke thinking that day was going to be like all the rest: get out of bed, shower, açaí bowl & coffee, thirty minutes on the train, walk the three blocks to put in a full day, dinner with a friend at Brasserie, take a picture of the perfectly crafted meal and send it out into the world, stalk an ex on Facebook, curse herself for stalking a man on Facebook, peruse Match, 7 minutes of digitus manus pleasure and off to bed. This particular morning she noticed the mustache was needing its monthly tending which meant she would be stopping in to see Lydia on the trek home. Sitting in the waiting room of the cramped salon, my girl listened as the austere esthetician went to town on what sounded like a bush with a lot of fight left, every rip igniting a tiny “eep!” As if feeling the pain, my girl shifted in her seat and clutched her thighs together, a move that let her vagina know, “I hereby decree that ye shall be spared today.” The decree melded smoothly into wonder, the wonder of what she was doing exactly, “All this pain and for what? So some guy doesn’t have to acknowledge the fact that my body has the ability to grow hair? Some man who’s just gonna love me then leave me?” Okay, so her thought process might’ve been a bit too militant and pessimistic considering we were only dealing with a hairy, upper lip but that aside, she got up and she walked out, igniting the door chime. “Hahlo,” Lydia called as she walked out into the waiting area, holding a wax-laden application stick in one hand and a waxing strip of Cousin It proportions in the other. She glanced outside and upon noticing my girl crossing the street, she shrugged, “Bitch,” and returned to the waxing room, “Now, turn over.” “Do I have–” “OVER! “k.” Walking down the street, my girl lamented over what it means to walk out on Lydia . In the spirit of staying apace within the bourgeois world she gyred throughout, getting into the good graces of a great waxer was no small feat. Why, entire brunch conversations had been set aside for this very discussion. Brunches where it was mandatory to silence your phone and place it in a bowl in the middle of the table. You know the brunches where talk of how insanely accurate that movie nailed West Side life amongst all the West Side, Los Angelino expats at the table now living in the eastern part of the country? Brunches where you looked around and noticed the entire place was filled with variations of your table having  a variation of your exact same conversation. Those 5-top conversations that could travel in the blink of an eye from talk of actual genocide to the new, gluten-free soap shop one happened upon in Marfa to “Oh shit! I think I’m day-drunk!” And so if my girl should declare this particular rage against the conventional machine a big mistake it might not be so easy getting back into the fold of getting the outer region of her lady fold expertly cleared off. Maybe she should go back. Yes, she’d return and apologize, “Lydia, my apologies. I don’t know what came over me. Now, if you would be so kind as to rip the hairs from my upper lip.” And Lydia wasn’t so bad. Why, it was her quoting of Busta Rhymes that won my girl over when she first contemplated getting a Brazilian, a.k.a. the complete deforestation, “Too much hair on your chocha? Shave it off.” And so, in an effort to return to Lydia and her attempt at getting crunk, she turned back round, but instead of coming face to face with a clear path to traverse, she came face to face with Frida Kahlo.


3. Um… What?

Yep. So, upon coming face to face with the dove herself, my girl naturally jumped, yelped and peed herself a little. And then she concluded she was in the process of losing her mind. To put an end to the fact that she might be rapidly losing the plot, she ventured left to step around Frida. But Frida also stepped to the left. My girl shook off the fact she was being cordoned off by a swift on her feet Frida Kahlo and moved to the right. Not a big surprise when Frida smirked and swiftly moved to the right. My girl stopped and stared at Frida with wide eyes while wondering if Bellevue took walk-ins. Then out of Frida’s mouth came three fateful words. Three words that would flip the script in its entirety, “Let it grow.” It was a sign my girl couldn’t deny. “Let it grow and take back your life in the process,” Frida said. And that’s all my girl needed to hear. She decided then and there she would let it grow. She would turn on her heels, set out in the opposite direction of Lydia’s salon and she would let it grow! I was getting dizzy at this point but this isn’t about me. Now, don’t ask me how because I lost the time, but we found ourselves in a drugstore, plucking a can of Jerome Russell spray-on-hair from the shelf. Arriving back at the apartment, we all traveled straight to the bedroom. I was taken off and tossed on the bed — don’t want to get any Jerome on me, thanks! — while my girl grabbed an old button down from the closet, put it on and she along with Frida ventured into the bathroom. Moments later, my girl, with Frida positioned proudly behind her, stood, studying in the mirror a spray-on unibrow and faux sprigs of hair peppering the corners of her mouth. Frida smiled as she moved in close so their cheeks were touching and whispered, “You are a triumph indeed.” The next day my girl called in sick, allowing herself plenty of time to cull consignment shops and thrift stores in search of every billowing skirt she could find. Frida was with her the entire time, yaying or naying sartorial choices whilst providing opinions on overall life, “Daniel Kahneman put it perfectly, ‘The confidence people have in their beliefs is not a measure of the quality of evidence but of the coherence of the story that the mind has managed to construct.‘ This whole notion of the grass being greener simply gives credence to the fact that absolutely none of us, no matter what side we’re on, knows how to live a good life. And before anyone dare stand in opposition to my statement, if we did know how to live a good life would this world be the most we’d want for ourselves? Ask the question. Or don’t.” “Were you happy with the side you were on,” my girl inquired, holding an embossed, paisley number up to her waist and checking the reflection, her opinion shifting with every cock of her head. “Frankly, if I’m really being honest, yes. As tiresome and painful — both physically and mentally — as it appeared to outside eyes, yes,” said Frida. Frida’s focus shifted down to the paisley number. She cupped her chin and shook her head, “I don’t think paisley’s your pattern.” The paisley number was placed back on the rack and off we went.


4. And at no point did anyone think your girl was experiencing a psychotic break?

Are you kidding?! She was being set free! Why can’t you see that? This path she had been on all this time and for what?  It wasn’t to her benefit that was for damn sure. But if not for her then who? One day, while sunning ourselves on the rooftop of my girl’s building, Frida said something that really got me thinking, “Sometimes it appears a person’s memories are made out of necessity.” She went even further to ask if the advent of the camera heightened in the human race the need to make memories, “Think about it. If capturing a moment on film didn’t exist how different would the world look? Would the want to be around each other be less superficial, a little more pure, very much in the moment? Would our innate narcissism play less of a part in our daily lives? How can we preach living in the moment while a mechanism that enforces the complete opposite is such a constant part of our lives? We look forward to looking back. It’s that simple. And if one should live off the grid, just a little left of center from the rest, then who will be there to take the pictures with? To share the memories? Hell, to make the memories with. Sometimes you have no other choice but to surrender to what the hive mind is doing. You must assimilate so you can leave behind the footprints of having been there.” The next day Frida arrived with arms full of photographs and proceeded to dump them on the bed, “I look at them and all I see is this big menagerie of pain and love, hate, some anger… In half of these, I don’t know who that person was. And I’m talking about myself, not him. I can’t tell if I’m happy or if I’m sad. Yes, I’m smiling in some but was I happy? I appear to be contemplative in a few but was I contemplating something? Every emotion eventually folded in on each other forming one big– What would I even call it? A question. Yes, I’d call it a question. I think. Well, you be the judge.” My girl stared down at the bed filled with variations of the same two faces and as Frida looked on, she took her time trying to make sense of each and every one.

frida 6fridafrida 1frida 7frida and diegofrida diego 
diegofrida and diego 3Diego Rivera with Wife Frida Kahlodiego frida 5frida diego 4frida kahlofrida diego 9diego fridafrida kahlofrida diego 19frida diego 514frida diego4

5. So, are you saying Frida blamed Diego for… for everything, I guess?

I’ll let her tell you by way of a conversation with my girl, “But I can’t blame him. I won’t. I played an equal part. I stayed.” “Did you love him? Diego,” my girl asked. “Of course, but more than that, I think it was about needing something constant in my life. Even if it was bad, at least it was there. Does that make sense?” My girl nodded and said, “I read a study that said lonely people have a shorter lifespan.” “Then I was on to something. My own little scientific study I was,” Frida said with a chuckle. She went on to ask, “But in all seriousness, does that scare you?” My girl gave herself a moment to think about the question then answered,”Yeah. I guess I don’t want to admit it but it does. No one wants to be alone. But then, then you consider the alternatives: miserable or simply going through the motions, trying to make the lemons appear as if they are in fact lemonade, or a lifetime of suppressing yourself for someone else, fear instead of confidence at the wheel, driving you to latch on to the first thing that crosses the path. I take any one of those scenarios and then I look at my life — ya know, like really give it a hard stare — and maybe it’s not so bad. But is that all just bullshit us singletons feed ourselves? And how do you know if you’re faking it our not? Sometimes I really do wish there was some deity, a god, just something that actually knew the rules.” “Like the Wizard of Oz?” My girl’s eyes lit up, happy for help with the epiphany and replied, “Just like the Wizard of Oz! Because there are rules that would make this thing easy. I just know it. Unfortunately, we live in a society reminiscent of a PTA meeting gone wild — way too many people with something to prove, talking at once.” Frida dropped her head, a knowing smile occupied her face, “Like the elephant and the dove.” “Who?” “Like me and Diego. We’re the alternative to consider that would make a solitary life indeed a good life,” Frida answered. “No,” my girl exulted, “That’s not at all what I meant. And I’m the last person with any right to judge another person’s relationship. And we’re all different. All of us are wired to need different things.” Frida shook her head, not really disagreeing with the statement, more moving on from it, “But is love even love? That’s the question. Or is it this false concept attached to a word to make a person think they’re making a glorious and magical decision? What if all this time we’ve gotten it wrong? Some people needing the love, the commitment. Some people simply needing the warm body there, no connection, no passion just the body to let them know they won’t have to go it alone. Some people simply needing the accoutrements, all of the spinning plates the unions supply, ‘There’s this to do! There’s that do! Oh, but then there’s this to do after that gets done!’ And I’m in no way saying these things aren’t real. I believe them to be tried and true tasks but to what end do you continue to shut out your voice?” “Hmm,” is about all my girl could muster. These so-called “truths” were hard ones to hear let alone swallow. The moment moved on as they both marinated in what had just been said. Frida started to giggle. My girl looked at her, curious smile, “What?” “I once had a friend tell me I was settling for that man. Settling? All I could do was shake my head in disbelief. My choosing to be with that particular specimen was nothing short of being jettisoned. We’re gullible. Is that true? Could be. I was the most gullible of them all. But was I? In any case, I think all relationships — platonic, romantic alike — are all variants of Kepler and Galileo. Each of us handing over our encoded selves, the anagrams of our souls, leaving the other with no other choice but to attempt to unravel who we really are. A few accomplish the seemingly impossible but only a few. “


6. Man… I’ll be honest. When I set eyes on you I thought we were going to Carnival to get our feijoada consumption on but it’s clear we’re not. Right?



7. Damn. Hmmm… Okay. Did your girl quit her job? Become a recluse?

Quite the contrary. After a few days of conditioning she was ready to enter back into the real world or as Frida put it, “the world carved out for you before you ever had a say.” And just so we’re clear, she went to work dressed in one of her new ensembles. And just so we’re even clearer, this was a very bold move, for her place of business was Deloitte & Touche. Yeah. The business planning juggernaut of the world. And my girl was no slouch either. Three years into the job she had already traveled the world doing whatever Deloitte & Touchians traveled the world doing while making some serious coin. The arrival at work wasn’t without a ton of faces that expressed something to the effect of, “What in thee hell?” Upon spotting my girl, women who were convinced they were throwing caution to the wind by wearing chandelier earrings to the office had to pick their jaws up from the floor. After a department meeting, my girl was approached by Kevin while standing at the water cooler — one of the few office relics technology cannot advance. Actually, it probably can. Like say, there’s some tiny plate implanted in your brain and any time you’re thirsty the plate punts a signal out into the ether and before you know it a little drone (that you’ll name “Bobby” because it’s so cute and grows cuter due in part to a section of his– I mean its churning motor offering the illusion of periodic blinks) is hovering in front of you with a cup of water. Personally, if I were human, I’d opt to walk the few feet to retrieve my own water rather than undergo brain surgery, but that’s just me. Sorry, Bobby. Okay, enough about adorable drones and let’s get back to Kevin… Oh, Kevin, Kevin, Kevin… A man who would be considered the ultimate get by pretty much anyone. There was no need to delve into his personality or his accomplishments in order to mold him into “soulmate” material for he was the guy anyone would choose laying down roots with on sight; no words need travel from his perfect lips. I could feel my girl tense up, prepared for ol’ Kev to join in the chorus of asking what happened to her. But there was no need for the tension because Kevin would go on to compliment the wreath adorning her head, “The colors really suit you,” and follow it up with an invitation to dinner, “I’d really love to take you to dinner.” Getting down to it really is the most amazing thing in existence. Unfortunately, my girl would go on to accept the compliment with a cautious smile and take a rain check on the meal. While I was nothing but convinced of his pure intentions, she needed a little more convincing. This I blamed on the many viewings of “Carrie” strewn about her adolescence. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. With that tale, Mr. King did nothing for the aesthetically perfect male simply wanting to love.



8. Ain’t that the truth. Was Frida waiting for her when she arrived at home?

Indeed. And, in celebration of my girl introducing her authentic self to the world, Frida led her down to the perfect part of town where they scored peyote — this batch fresh from the state of Tamaulipas — and the two copped a squat on a golden, crunchy patch of grass and chewed their troubles away. It was a part of town where sounds of the old and new met in the middle: mariachi let you know Mary’s quince was still very much underway, NWA let you know the old “new” guard hadn’t disappeared just yet, Mumford & Sons let you know gentrification was upon you, Steve Perry’s “Foolish Heart” let you know gentrification was determined to see this thing through to the end and finally Bey joined the chorus, throwing you for a complete loop for she could’ve been coming from any household. The two women proceeded to ease back, close their eyes and listen to the battling sounds. “The perfect time in a neighborhood’s existence is right here, right now. Opposing factions living next door to each other laughing, thrashing, crying, back to laughing. Honestly, I feel sorry for those forced to grow up surrounded by people who look just like them, share the same cultural rituals. I guess it’s okay if your plan is to remain in this particular world forever, but if not? If your plan is to venture out into the rest? You must try with all that you have to do away with every preconceived notion you’ve ever had about someone different from your kind. You don’t have to be a Grand Wizard to be ignorant and have from your mouth spill total stupidity. Become informed. Disarm your sense of superiority for it’s the premiere stamp of the weak,” Frida declared. Suddenly, she and my girl sat up to find a child — he couldn’t have been more than ten — standing in front of them. My girl furrowed her brow but before she could ask what the child was doing there, he began, “Beware of low men, the can-toi in yellow coats Mr. King warned us about. You’ll know exactly who they are. They’re surreptitious, clandestine, seemingly non-threatening, forever playing the innocent. They’ve mastered the art of creating phantom reasons to love you, to hate you. These people you’ll learn nothing from, save for the art of hiding away your true self. These creatures will be the end of you. ‘Alms for the poor,’ they will cry. Wounded birds struggling through life, waiting for someone to pick them up and put them in the box lined with cotton balls. They will take every crumb of manna you hand feed them, every sip of water by way of the bottle cap you place at their beak. With wide eyes and cupped hands, they’ll do this. And they won’t stop until they’re on top and you’re five rungs below applauding.” Frida leaped to her feet, “Bravissimo, friend! Bravissimo!” And just like that, adorned by the glow of orange street lamps, the little boy tore off, little feet beating against the pavement, before disappearing into the night. My girl looked on wide-eyed, “What the hell just happened?” “Truth! Truth,” Frida cried out with laughter. “But how can he have so much fury inside of him? He’s just a boy,” my girl asked. Frida smiled, “People like to think children incapable of having thoughts draped in eloquence and depth.” My girl looked off in the direction of the little boy, “You really think so?” “I really know so.” Their attention turned to a garage door slowly creaking open. From it spilled Kendrick. Kendrick who drowned out everyone and everything to let you know there was an entirely new conversation on approach. A smile spread across Frida’s face. With eyes at half-mast, she laced her fingers behind her head and for a second time eased back onto the crunchy patch of grass for an unadulterated listen.


9. Good. God. I really thought this was going to be a lot more fun. I mean, I expect this from someone donning Rick Owens, Yohji, Junya even… But you? You’re so alive with color and patterns. Am I wrong?

I’ve heard about you. I won’t name names but a certain Burberry item warned me before I even agreed to this sit-down. At times I thought I was actually getting through but clearly, I was wrong. I know your type. You sit back and listen to us pour out our deepest secrets all the while you have some snide comment waiting on deck. Why? Because you’re afraid to dip a toe in. You’re afraid of life and so it’s easier to make the joke, to declare things “stupid” or “silly.” Unfortunately, the joke will be on you. In the end, it will be on you indeed. And with that, I think we’re done here.

*This particular Duro Olowu cape left, never to be heard from again.


In all over, Howard Schatz on November 7, 2013 at 8:15pm11


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

A Missoni coat, a Shaun Lean tusk bangle, the Miu Miu ankle boot and a bag of groceries. Girl’s gotta literally eat.



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

Becoming the main attraction of an unboxing.

3. Do you have a favorite malapropism?

“Keep your eye on the tiger.” Christopher Moltisanti

Christopher Moltisanti 00

4. If you could be re-imagined by any artist who would it be?

Zaha Hadid.

5. What is something not advisable to do in you and your chosen cohorts that you would love for someone to do in you and your chosen cohorts?



6. In a hypothetical world where dreams actually came true and you could parkour around town, what band would take up the lion’s share of the soundtrack?

Obviously the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

7. Is it safe to thank the gods for the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club?

 I think it is.

 8. If given the chance to choose another person to ask the questions who would it be?

For the win, I’m going with Mr. Howard Schatz. That’s not Howard down there by the way. It’s Sir Ian McShane. Wait. Has he been knighted? Anybody?


9. Alrighty. Reaction time. Can you please show me how you would respond to the following?

a. You have somehow ended up in the hands of a quilting bee on a mad hunt for “hip” patterns.

b. The horrible date of the woman currently wearing you licks his lips and oscillates his gaze between her breasts while telling her the eyes are the window to the soul.

c. The woman currently wearing you has just been told by her trusted psychic that you were Nero’s toga virilis in a past life.



In all over on October 15, 2013 at 8:15pm10


1. If granted the chance to choose your accoutrements, what would they be?

A Haider Ackerman coat, a Jil Sander clutch, an Ayaka Nishi ring and a pair of Nicholas Kirkwood booties.


nicholas kirkwood

2. Are there any words we should live by?

Many in fact. “Watch your thoughts; they become your words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habits. Watch your habits; they become your character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.”

3. Woops. Welp, I pretty much screwed the pooch on that entire quote. My apologies, Lao Tzu. I can tell a lot of thought went in. Ah well… Let’s hope I come back as a Brussels so next time all I’ll have to watch is how adorable I am. Good plan?


Not at all.

4. What is something you’re working on realizing?

A spiritual practice from a G’s perspective. Por ejemplo, the next time someone tells you you’re giving someone else too much power tell them to move away from you and go ask said person why they made a play for your power to begin with. Sometimes it pays to find your balls and not leave everything to chance, letting go or wishing reeeeeeeally hard.

5. Happiness is?

Mary. U2. “One.”

6. Pure talent is?

Kahlil Joseph.

7. What is something you oft think about?

How many people have made like Christ the Redeemer in front of Christ the Redeemer? The old chap’s deco, ya know? Just like me.

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8. If a person could invite another person into their life if only for one moment, who should it be?

Slavoj Žižek.

9. Why him?

 He speaks the truth. He knows this society before this society knows itself. However, the man should be consumed the way one would consume wasabi: just a wee bit, so to bring flavor to an otherwise trite reality; more, and you might find yourself pushing life away altogether.



In all over, Iván & Taghrid on October 14, 2013 at 8:15pm10


1. If you had the power, what accoutrements would you choose?

A pair of Stella McCartney SM 2005 glasses, a Stella McCartney “Camille Cooling” bra, a pair of Stella McCartney “Camille Cooling” briefs and the Stella McCartney “Corinne” loafer.



2. What is the most interesting thing about the woman wearing you?

She’s dead.

3. What?!

She’s been murdered. I still have no idea who did it or why and it’s looking like I never will.

4. O-kay. Man, okay… Well, this is a first. Wow… okay. What happened?

I’ll take you back to that day. The sun has been up and settled for three hours. She cracks her eyes open. The night before was a grueling one. In the library ’til she was told it was time to leave. One drink with Taghrid to celebrate what they think could be a monumental discovery in the world of the large-scale motions of Earth’s lithosphere; in other words, plate tectonics. Her work. The one, true passion. The study of a landscape by catastrophe. A metaphor for every life. “What you leave behind informs the future,” she’d always say. This was her brief, self-inflicted pep talk when all she wanted to do was close her eyes and shut down any further thought for the day. The sun has been up and settled for three hours. She looks to the ground to see her underwear coiled in her jeans. Loafers barely a foot apart. She must’ve simply walked out of them. Blouse dangling from the dresser. It must’ve been tossed over her shoulder. She turns her attention to her body. She’s naked. She finds this strange. A lot of mental and physical preparation usually goes into her sleeping in the buff. It starts with a weird acknowledgment that it will be happening no less than two hours (sometimes she’d prepare days in advance) beforehand, and the knowledge that she will be in bed at a reasonable hour. The bed will be made. A bath will be taken in which she will start to wind down. She will slather herself in all the requisite creams, lotions. The hair will be washed, conditioned, combed through. Meticulous care will be given before peeling back the covers and crawling into bed. The commencing position will be on her stomach. Legs straight. One arm petrified against her side, the other resting at an angle above her head. Who knows what mangled position she will wake in, but while she’s in control, the position will be of her precise choreography. She will not be tired when her head makes contact with the pillow. She will be fully awake, yet relaxed. Hyper-alert, but content. Aware of the slight tension in her lower back brought on by the height of the pillow. The feeling of eyes on her. Not in a sexually voyeuristic way, more as if she’s become the subject of a study. She must be perfect for them. Their research and the knowledge they walk away with depends on her performance. In reality, not one person is watching but it feels as if they might be. She knows this is the most beautiful she will ever feel. She has shared this thought with no one. That is probably why so much preparation goes in. Feeling beautiful on your own, without anyone else there to reiterate the notion, the want to never be tethered to someone else in this moment, it’s a powerful feeling. Independent. Solitary. It wouldn’t matter how much another person there next to her would love and adore her, they would never be able to elicit the love and appreciation she bestows upon herself during these periodic, nighttime hours. Before long she will be asleep. Unfortunately, none of this took place last night. She doesn’t remember getting into bed, let alone getting into bed naked. She props up onto her elbows, producing a tinge of pull between her shoulder blades – the feeling like a precursor to pain, but not important enough to truly acknowledge its presence. She yawns. As her ears swallow up the inhalation, she sets her eyes on the beige wall in front of her. It’s in need of paint in certain spots. The thought is soon followed by the realization that you can never service just spots. The truth is the entire wall must be painted. That, or you let the spots remain and craft some sense of antique character around them in order to be okay with their being there. Some homage to Havana perhaps? Peeling. Patinated. “If the fissures of your world, Havana, shall be cemented in time, so shall mine.” The yawn is almost at an end, at a point where it produces a smooth tickle, gentle needle pricks throughout the body. It is here she decides once the yawn is complete she will get out of bed and start the day. She makes a mental note to sleep naked over the weekend, this time giving the act the respect and time it so deserves. But she will never get the chance. She will die tonight.


5. What happened exactly?

I’m getting there. Don’t really want to, but I’m getting there. The day was spent running errands. It’s what most people dedicate Saturdays to I learned. She popped in at the dry cleaners to retrieve me. Walking across the parking lot, she stopped, looked to the sky – the type of sky where Leviathan clouds sailed across – and proceeded to think back to the night before in the library. Taghrid had gone to the restroom leaving my girl alone. The memory of a man sitting at a table caddy-corner to her own and the haunting song coming from his laptop swirled around in my her head. A song she knew but for some reason could not place. Could it have possibly been in a film she saw when she was younger? Besides where she heard it, the words are what stuck to her; in fact, they gnawed for most of the day, traveling into her mind right in the middle of a thought, lingering then whipping off – like a hummingbird to a feeder – taking with it the previous thought. Some thoughts she was able to retrieve while others were lost forever.

6. It’s almost as if the song portended what was to come. Did you get that feeling?

No. Honestly, I didn’t think anything of it. My girl was, for lack of a better phrase, a raw nerve, always acutely aware of the world around her and so for her to suddenly stop and think back to a song she heard the night before was nothing too out of the ordinary. Her brain never stopped. This was something I had grown used to.

7. I’m assuming after the errands, she ate, went home and started to prepare for the party that evening?

You are correct. Before walking out of the house the study of me and my cohorts was long and lingering in a full-length mirror. She never too much cared how she looked but again this wasn’t just any night out. The portent, as you put it, perhaps. Who knows? It’s so strange to look back to the moments leading up to the loss of a life and suddenly see the precursory signs – something they said, something they did. In any case, we arrived at the party. She was beautiful. The first person to spot her was Iván, Taghrid’s husband. As  Iván congratulated her on the monumental discovery the night before in the library, my girl took intermittent glances at the fête. There they were. All three, each in a separate conversation with someone. Of course, they would be separate from one another. Three blind mice. Oliver. Henry. Richard. Each man in love with her. Each one’s love so strong they were aware of the other and still didn’t care. They loved her. Possibly more when faced with competition.



My girl stood next to Richard on the balcony. Richard. A mercurial fellow, so unpredictable in his emotions he wasn’t aware of what was to come until it was upon him. They surveyed the party happening on the inside, playing a game of interpreting the conversation of a salt-n-pepper couple. Strange was the couple’s hair, the same thick ratio of black and white. So coarse it seemed if you ran a hand through either coiffure your fingers might emerge littered in tiny, droplets of blood. Richard said something I can’t recall. All I know is my girl wrenched back in a fit of laughter. It was fake. I could tell right away she was putting the whole thing on. Richard was not funny. Very competent he was, learned everything by rote making him extremely efficient in the way he ran his life, but, as mentioned, no sense of humor or depth to speak of. His knowledge existed in researching things to within an inch of their lives. He lacked true, life experience. His expertise on every matter lived in what a mentor had relayed to him. He grew up sheltered, segregated from the rest of the world, surrounded by people just like him in a jejune town trying with all of its might to be Waspy enclave. Richard was the type who believed by traveling the world and touching different cultures ever so briefly from atop his tuffet he somehow became Robbie Turner. His entire existence gave credence to Oscar Wilde’s very words, “Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” The man (Richard and not Oscar) loved himself and was proud of himself and possessed an arrogance only a very loving mother could help craft. My girl could never love a man like this and I would’ve lost all respect if she had. Sycophantic, he was. Obediently deferential to those in a higher position, deserving or not of the deference. But this is how one must get by in the world. You lick the boots of those you must and disregard those who can do nothing for you. It’s simple math really. One thing my girl knew, she could never be with one forced to play the game in order to find a seat at the table. She had to be with the one who scattered the pieces across the board and watched as everyone else scrambled to the start. Richard looked to her, instantly elevated by the fact his clever quip had the power to make her so happy. Little did he know her joy was a fabricated product of utter pity. Or did he know?


My girl danced comically a bad meringue with Henry, laughing all the way through. This laughter was genuine. She wanted to have feelings beyond the platonic for Henry, so much so, that at times she found herself staring at him, studying ever faction of his face while clinching her teeth, wanting to happen upon something in him that would turn the page to a romantic love. But nothing. Not one drop. Henry was her friend but how easy it would be to one day wake up and find herself in love with him. He was interesting, fun, pudgy which she didn’t mind, one-inch shorter, but that could be overlooked. Was there a pun there? No matter. The bottom line was she felt not one of the things Henry lay awake every night hoping she would feel. He knew this. On every level, he knew this. He knew that if he had to move forward doing the things people of his ilk did, he would have to forget about my girl and lay down roots with a person it made sense to lay down roots with. The one whom after a year of dating would start to tap her foot as she waited for this thing to go to the next level. Screw if this was the right decision. What was of utmost importance was the fact that she and Henry made sense together. Plus, she had a perfect wedding that had been sitting patiently inside her brain for ten long, grueling years, just waiting for that someone like Henry to come along and tap the keg. So what if she had to guide his hand to the keg, this union was going to happen dammit! Peonies would be cultivated and named “Hortence Armistead” especially, for the occasion. And let us not forget how shitty Gretchen was going to feel when Savannah won the coveted maid of honor prize – something Henry’s phantom bride-to-be had queued up ever since Gretchen slept with her Lampoon-cum-Krocodiloes crush one drunken night. Of course, she would tell Gretchen it didn’t bother her one bit, “Oh my god! Are you kidding me?! Please! I mean, he doesn’t even know I like him. And anyway, you looked so great last night in your new romper!” On the day of his nuptials, Henry would walk dazed throughout the entire event. Cheers and huzzahs all around.  Even if his expression would present to onlookers a man happy, in the moment,  walking down the aisle toward his beloved, he would look to everyone, trying to make eye contact with someone capable of seeing the smoke signal he was sending up, “Help. Me. I’m not strong enough to not conform.” For a second he thinks his cousin Alan sees the glint of dread and will come racing to his rescue – the Benjamin to his Elaine. But no. Alan’s spot-on assessment is put into a choke hold and dragged away forever by Henry’s bright eyes and toothy grin. Hell, Henry will even raise a hand in the air solidifying, “I did this! And it’s the happiest day of my life!” Alan’s gut was no match for a fucking hand in the air and because of that fact, not a day will go by that Henry will not curse the gesticulation. Back at the party Henry and my girl danced the bad meringue. He watched her, knowing he was going to lay down roots with this unknown, this other person and not my girl. He knew my girl would not be invited to the wedding. Exes were never invited. This was the kosher thing to do. Instead, my girl would hear about it from another person she would run into on campus. He knew upon hearing the news she would be genuinely happy for him, happy to be done with him and his unrelenting adoration. Dancing with her, Henry knew all of this. My girl intermittently looked down, so to keep an eye on their feet, making sure not to step on toes. And there it was, Henry smiling back at her while all he longed to do was fade away.


My girl sat next to Oliver at the piano. She swayed as he played, “Nature Boy” for the crowd. He looked to her and sang,”There was a boy… a very strange enchanted boy… they say he wandered very far, very far over land and sea… a little shy and sad of eyes but very wise was he…” Oliver was a slight man with a nose that looked like the USS Enterprise draped in flesh. His ropy appearance kept a visit to the emergency room on deck as a possibility. He was also without question the most passive person my girl had come across in her short life. A man who wore his victimhood proudly. Always quick to finger everyone else around him as the abuser, he sucked all the plight out of the room, leaving nothing for the rest. Spending a lifetime with Oliver was the bleakest of outcomes. He meant well, that was true, but that was about as far as he traveled. To locate his power he would need assistance, training wheels for the rest of his life. My girl glanced down to Oliver’s fingers gliding across the keys. She returned her gaze to his face, smiled confidently, prepared to take on worship so heavy she could actually feel the weight of it. She refused to make a fool of him in front of everyone and so she moved in close. Moments before her lips touched his cheek she tucked into his shoulder and rested her head. I could feel his anger mounting, insecurity rising. The love was still very present but definitely mixed in was anger, fury even. Anger born from such rejection had a trajectory similar to the Pandemonium Shadow Show appearing in Green Town. One moment things are seemingly good. The next, very bad.

8. Did she ever tell Oliver, Henry or Richard how she truly felt?

Oh god, no. No. And why would she? They’d land on their feet. That’s what men do. Not that women don’t. They do indeed. We’ll simply say they land in different ways. In any case, after the party, my girl simply said her goodbyes and left. As she crossed the parking garage to her car she smiled, recounting all the fun she had and how much she genuinely enjoyed her time with the three, blind mice. Despite their foibles, as long as she kept her dealings with them superficial she could enjoy their company. She arrived at her car, pulled out her keys, moved to open the door but stopped. She stared straight ahead. Something was wrong. She slowly turned, coming face to face with a masked and gloved person standing there, holding a gun pointed at her chest. Her demeanor was void of any and all discernible emotion. “Obviously, you know me. But do I know you,” she asked. The person behind the mask remained silent. The gun began to slightly shake. “If you’re going to kill me you can at least show me your face. You owe me that much.”

 Earlier, at the party…

On the balcony, my girl and Richard stared at each other. They looked to be on the cusp of something more. Possibly a kiss. She smiled, almost apologetic, then turned away and looked to the night sky.

In the parking garage…

“Maybe I love you too. Maybe I’ve been too nervous to say anything. It’s possible I talked myself into believing what was happening between us existed only in my head. Could it be that those three words said aloud by the person behind the mask would have made me the happiest I’ve ever been and ever will be?”

Earlier, at the party…

Alone in the kitchen, there to retrieve what was left of the sangria everyone had been going on about, Henry grabbed my girl by the hand and spun her around. Halfway around, she fumbled to the ground. Henry swept down to her. It took a few seconds to realize that she was okay and the only battle scar would be a bruise on her bum a few days from now. The assessment did nothing to stop Henry from wrapping his arms around her. The gesture was too much considering, but they both knew, without saying a word, he would steal any and all chances to get close. He squeezed tighter, lifting a hand to cup the crown of her head. She did nothing to pull away, rather, she squeezed tighter as well. It was the least she could do.

In the parking garage…

Her heart was beating faster than she ever thought possible, although conversely, she was awash with composure, “If you do this it will follow you for the rest of your life. Even if it becomes a secret you’re able to hold onto, it will haunt you forever.”

Earlier, at the party…

The woman and Oliver were alone at the piano. The crowd had dispersed into other sections of the room.  She looked to him once again. He focused on her lips. She smiled and turned to face the keys, tapped three times as he looked on. The first three notes of “Chopsticks.” She looked at him and smiled again. One kiss. That’s all he wanted. She knew this. She turned back to the piano and tapped three times. He relented, smiled and joined her in what most twosomes sat down at the piano to play.

In the parking garage…

Was it Richard? She couldn’t tell. Oliver? Henry, perhaps? It was hard to say. They all have brown eyes; something she never noticed until that moment. “But I’m looking into your eyes and I can see very clearly that you will not take the chance,” she told him. Seconds were passing but her thoughts felt days long. Did she want to die? Was she feeling content with passing on? Had she done all there was to do in this life? Who would remember her and why? Did any of us really do anything of importance? It all felt so arbitrary in this moment. This planet doesn’t need you nor your accomplishments. My girl’s work, thus far, had dealt in the tangible, the finite part of life. The earth shifts but over there was unknown. No matter how many saw the white light and returned to tell the tale, we’d never truly know. Would she be a different person? The antithesis of who she was here? Uninhibited? Unapologetic? Would she even exist? It’s amazing how many thoughts pass through when you realize this just might be it. She remembered having these exact thoughts when her father passed away. Wondered if he thought these very things in the final moments. Wondered if he knew everyone he touched would never be truly happy again. Wondered if he knew every amazing moment after his passing would be cloaked in sadness because he wouldn’t be there to take part. She thought back to all those who told her that if given the choice they would want to leave here in a way similar to her father. Every part of her wanted to offer the rejoinder, “But that aside, would you want to live here in the aftermath like me?” Her mind skipped again because that’s what the mind does in moments such as these. It skips to different places, specific moments. Places you think insignificant at the time somehow find a way into your mind. This particular place she landed on was a reminder that she would never know how “The Dean’s December” ends. To be honest, she barely knew how it began: Corde doesn’t speak the language of Bucharest, therefore, he can’t communicate with his dying mother-in-law. That’s it. That’s all she knew of Bellow’s tale. “I’m not gone yet,” she thought. This jolt of hope surged through. “There’s still time for this thing to turn around! A chance to finish ‘The Dean’s December,’ ‘2666,’ ‘Molly Ivins,’ et al! A chance to sit in Vroman’s and consume ‘The Goldfinch’ while tucked away in a corner upstairs! A chance to see if the government will get back to work! A chance to put my full support behind Hilary this time around! A chance to stroll Saint-Germain during the wee hours again! A chance to taste the goodness of Pies-n-Thighs! A chance to meet him, whoever he is! There’s still time,” she told herself and I hoped with everything I had that she was right. She remembered her aunt, the baby of nine children, not wanting to go. She had a disease that allotted her the time– six months to be exact– to think over her life. One day she sat in the room with her aunt and looked on as she waved the chaplain away without so much as a glance. The chaplain whose job it was to make the rounds in this section of the hospital. My girl remembered her aunt turning to her and ordering her to tell the well-meaning man to leave, “I don’t need to hear anything he has to say.” My girl relayed this to the chaplain, polite about it of course. She wasn’t there in her aunt’s final moments but she was told that she stared up at the ceiling and talked to God, “It was as if he was carrying her away. She seemed to be so ready. So peaceful.” It’s funny the things the living say to make it all go down a lot easier. The day her aunt turned away the chaplain, was this her way of telling God, “I want to talk to you. This here is as serious as life gets. Don’t send me some yokel go-between to do your bidding. I want you.” Then my girl’s mind turned away from memories of her aunt and switched to songs, all the songs she was never able to listen to after the loss of her father. She went on to surmise it would be years before the mere mention of Anita Baker’s name wouldn’t create a lump in her throat. She thought about what her brother’s songs might be. Her mother’s songs, that long list traversing forty-seven years, making up the soundtrack of their perfect union. Seeing how happy her parents made each other made her sometimes wish to end up with a person sure to throw a wrench into the relationship. Someone who would make her hold back a piece of herself forever because loving someone for that long without ever letting each other down is just a cruel joke when one is suddenly ripped away. Not one signal to let you know the horror to come. Not one split second to prepare. My girl’s mind skipped once more to how she would be remembered. One person can be hated, loved, tolerated snowflakes, chameleons transforming, molding themselves into form for whoever they choose to be around. And will you ever truly know your status at any time? Her brother who works at one of those literary magazines in the big city, will he write a piece of non-fiction about the loss of his sister in such a brutal manner? Will he go on to receive awards, accolades for chronicling the story, letters from strangers expressing sympathy, “It must have been so hard to write this piece. I too lost my sister under tragic circumstances. I’m sure it took a lot of courage to put pen to paper.” Will that be my girl’s legacy? A mere marker on her brother’s road to a PEN/Faulkner? Twenty years from now, lost somewhere in a one-upmanship in the comments section, “Good for you schlockybeaver1994 but I’ve been a fan ever since his piece on the death of his sister twenty years ago.”

Pen Faulkner Awards@penf_db

9. I don’t know what to say. Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never met?

I think it is. And now, onto how this ends.

Earlier, at the party…

My girl, Oliver, Richard and Henry stood amongst other partygoers. Everyone looked to the sky. White fireworks sprinkled down and then emitted one, delayed CRACK.

In the parking garage…

There she was, my girl, splayed on the ground. Lifeless eyes stared up. One, tiny, bullet hole through her chest. Blood soaked through me and began to traverse the ground. What was once simply navy and white, was quickly overtaken by a foreign color. It was thick, unrelenting. Surrendering to it was the only choice. The person who killed her stared down. The eyes seemed to plead her back to life. A stream of smoke lazily meandered from the mouth of the gun. Realizing what had been done, the person behind the mask flung the gun to the ground and raced off, leaving her there alone. Hauntingly apropos, a static-laden Paul Buchanan could be faintly heard coming from an empty guard booth. A life from start to finish is nothing more than a landscape by catastrophe.


In all over on September 3, 2013 at 8:15pm09

christopher kane

1. If given the chance to choose your accoutrements, what items would you gravitate toward?

A Yohji hat, Gabriela Artigas, hexagon, tusk earrings, a pair of Illesteva “Leonard” sunglasses and the Golden Goose “Crosby” boot.


2. Are you team Jennifer & Casper or team Jennifer Casper?




Listen to me carefully. Not a day goes by that I do not place my support behind a girl who’s not afraid to tell the world, “Hey, world?! This is my boo!” However, that doesn’t change the fact that the parents of the girl currently wearing me have finally broken free from the glutinous grip of foreclosure hell and are 97% sure they’re going to lay down roots in Jersey. With that said, I’m going with Ms. Casper. Plus, look at that smile.


3. It is a pretty wonderful smile. Those intoxicating baby-blues… I get the feeling she’s the type, after putting in a hard day at the office, selling homes to any takers, she’s the type to come home and bake your favorite cookies — snickerdoodles. The school bus drops you off and you’ll race inside the house and scoop up a pile of cookies fresh out of the oven. Ms. Casper will also have waiting a big kiss to plant on your forehead which you’ll happily receive. The scent of freesia wafts from Ms. Casper as she moves off to pour you up a tall glass of ice-cold milk. She will then follow you into the bonus room where she’ll already have “Arthur” queued up and ready to go. Arthur and the gang, minus that rascal D.W., will impart a few important life nuggets about sharing or not laughing at people the world has deemed weird. By the time the show ends, mom will– I mean, Ms. Casper will pull the Enchilada Surprise from the oven and deliver a healthy serving to you who will be happily reclined in a bean bag. As she walks away, you’ll glance back at her and think, “Man, am I lucky. This woman was born to procreate, nurture and raise. Thank you, God, for pairing us up when you combed through all the souls during predestination.” Don’t you agree?

A, I’m inanimate, therefore, we haven’t created deities out of thin air yet and b, I take it someone had a less than stellar childhood.

4. No need to get nasty. Moving right along… Who is someone we should all emulate every single day?

Quite possibly the easiest question ever. Mr. Sempo Sugihara, a god amongst men.



 5. Instead, who is the emulation du jour at this present time?

Miley Cyrus, this generation’s answer to Billie Jean.

6. Because of the hair?

That and the overall raging against Astroturf machines. Take as a, for instance, the exchange between my girl and her mother:

“Where do you think you’re going dressed like that, young lady?”

“To the mall.”

“You are not going to the mall but you are going up to your room because you’re grounded!”

“For what?!”

“For dressing like that and thinking you were actually stepping a foot outside of this house.

My girl will stick her tongue out and to the side.

“Don’t you stick your tongue out at me!”

“It’s not at you! It’s to the side! There’s a difference!”

“I’ll show you ‘to the side!'”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means just wait ’til your father gets home.”

“No, it doesn’t!”

“Go to your room!”

“You can’t do this! It’s not fair!”

“Oh, but I can, I will and I am! This is my house! To your room!”

As the mother moves to walk away, she’s stopped by a loud thump, followed by another loud thump. She whips around to see the horrible. Preceded by a glass shattering squeal:

“What’re you doing?!”

“I’m twerking! For justice along with every young person’s right to be who they wanna be! We can’t stooooop and we won’t stooooooop…”

“Get your dirty feet off that wall, young lady!”

The mother races over to the window and whips the curtains closed. Because no matter the shenanigans going on inside, neighbors must always think you are the perfect family. It’s also at this time my militant twerker’s little sister walks up, chewing on a Slim Jim. Upon witnessing the spectacle, she smirks.

“You’re such a douche. Your daughter’s a douche, ma.”

“Hey! Watch that language in this house! Go to your room!”

“Why?! She’s the idiot with her feet on the wall and her ass in the air!”

“To your room now!”

“I hate this house!”

“I hate this house too! Just wait until your father gets home! Both of you!”

All the while, my militant twerker continues the Cyrus 2.0 battle cry, “Can’t you see it’s we who own the night! Can’t you see it’s we who ’bout that life…

Utterly defeated, the mother takes a hard seat on the piano bench. Watching as one daughter goes nuts on a wall for reasons she has no idea and hearing the other stomp upstairs and slam the door, she mumbles to herself, “God help me… Why I ever thought any of this was a good idea is beyond me.”

7. So, you’re telling me that’s the summation of Miley Cyrus’ effect on the youth of today?

Don’t tell all the kids dressing like a loose Blossom, but yeah, pretty much. Delayed trips to Forever 21. That’s it. Listen, in their defense, every generation needs a contemporary who has managed to make a career out of being angsty while giving off the stench of feeling wronged and misunderstood. The chosen one, this contemporary, in turn — while totally free to express themselves because they’re making a career out it — will cause other kids to become angsty while giving off the stench of feeling wronged and misunderstood. Unfortunately, the other kids don’t have careers and still live under the watchful eye of old people (quick to forget their own past) who provide them with food and shelter while refusing to take any guff. Case in point, the mother, this woman who has miraculously forgotten about that hot, summer day many moons ago when, whilst atop her best friend’s brother’s shoulders, her bra ended up at the feet of Eddie Van Halen and her hands ended up gripping the bottom of her OP t-shirt in an effort to expose pertness in all of its 18-year-old glory to Edward, David, Alexander and Michael. This woman who strategically killed the memories of all the things she did that would make the whole of her daughter’s adolescence seem like a day at California Adventure. Ah well… Anyway, it’s a vicious cycle that people of a certain age try to forget but deep down know all too well for they too were young once. They just happened to wake up one day and find the trials of adolescence firmly behind them and the angst congealed into Weltschmerz.

8. Good-ness. You’re so… well, bright and cheery and torso-baring. How can you be such a downer?

Not a downer, my dear, just a realist with an old soul. And let’s not discount my camouflage print. There’s militancy amongst the whimsy.

9. Do you have any final words to calm all the mothers who think their daughters are on the road to becoming the muy mal version of Vivian?


Yes. Take a breath. To hold the reins too tight is a big mistake. Big. Huge. Instead, take comfort in the fact that you now know what twerking is, which is basically the death knell for any youth-based fad. Rest assured this particular booty-pop is all but out the door and in the end your daughter will end up donning the conservative blazer just like you did. Just like Vivian did.



In all over on June 9, 2013 at 8:15am06


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

Norma Kamali glasses, an Urban Outfitters, septum ring, Forever 21 ankle socks and a pair of Chloé loafers


609189602. Are you more Whit or more Woody?

Stillman01_body  or  DownloadedFile-1

Whit, without a doubt.  His cadence gets me. Not, not that Woody’s doesn’t. Who am I kidding? It doesn’t. Whit gets me.

 3. Got it. If you could return as any person or thing, what would it be?

The Grasshopper. I mean…

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

Having Dr. Sylvester James Gates be the first to ride the Grasshopper into the cosmos.

5. Overrated is?

The Volstead Act.


6. Are you not aware the Volstead Act was repealed by the 21st Amendment?

Bleh, bleh, bleh, bleh… I’m French. It’s my job to keep up with your wacky laws?

7. But you’re the one who brought it up. Wait. I’m confused. Aren’t you the one who brought it up?

*sigh* What?

8. The Volstead Act. Here, let me just refer to my notes… There! Yes, right here. See that? You said it was overrated.  I just tossed out a general question and that was your answer. Remember?

Mon dieu… It’s a wonder you’re still single.

9. Do you really mean that?!

*sigh* God, help me.