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Archive for the ‘upper body’ Category

TAK.ORI SWEATER

In upper body on November 12, 2013 at 8:15pm11

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1. If able to style yourself, what would you choose as the accoutrements?

A wolf.

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2. What say?

She’s the only accoutrement I know at the moment, so why make something up? And to be clear, I was discarded in the wilderness with bits of fig, prosciutto and Bleu du Bocage smeared all over my sweater. What began with my current proprietor licking the hell out of me has devolved into her simply carrying me around. In her mouth. Thank you.

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3. How does a beautifully crafted specimen such as yourself get left behind in the wilderness?

“I remember the exact moment I knew it had to come to an end. There was a work function, a big to-do and he came and he brought her. Usually, in these situations, I was good at keeping my distance — the obedient ‘side-piece’ as present day vernacular so eloquently puts it. I was caught up in conversation. You know, those discussions with a bunch of people talking shop with everyone talking over each other? Anyway, that’s when I saw her, the wife. She was alone and passing by this line of perfectly barren trees filled with white lights. I remember thinking she looked so beautiful, so strong. This woman who had stayed home to raise his kids and made vows and made his home a happy one. I don’t know why, but I set out after her — forgot to even say goodbye to the people I was talking to. I went to the restroom, assuming that’s where she’d gone. I entered but she wasn’t there. In any case, since I was there, I relieved myself and when I exited the stall there she was, washing her hands. I felt like someone had punched me square in the gut. I just stood there. She looked up and smiled. The eye contact couldn’t have lasted more than a second, but in that second I searched her eyes, and I mean, I searched, trying to get just a hint of if she knew. I got nothing outside of a very kind person offering me a smile, which of course made me feel like complete and utter shit. In that moment, I did the only thing I could do which was return the smile and leave. I didn’t even wash my hands. I went straight to the coat check, picked up my jacket and got the hell out of there. Once home, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for hours, replaying in my head how I had arrived at this point. This man, my mentor, a titan revered by all, everything I looked up to… How did I get here with him? He called the next day but I didn’t answer and I knew I could avoid him at work; he’s a pro in every sense of the word and so there was no way he’d ever remotely acknowledge this side of our relationship at the office. Don’t get me wrong, I was aware everyone knew but as long as they buzzed about it behind our backs I was okay. Crazy, right? Anyway, outside of work I just continued to ignore the calls until they finally stopped. One day, I was having breakfast with my dad and I told him. Up until that point, I had told no one, not even my mom. I guess I told my dad because I knew he wouldn’t judge me. Man, was I in for a surprise. He told me he never thought I was capable of disappointing him. That’s all he said then went back to eating his eggs. I was gutted. I honestly could’ve thrown up right there. He still loved me, that I knew, I was his little girl, but he hasn’t been able to look at me the same way since. So, nine months later the titan had taken up with a new hire and this time he left his wife. After hearing the news, I blew out the deepest breath. In my mind, this really concluded my direct involvement with the most clichéd pastime the world has going: life as the other woman. I was finally ready to move on. That’s around the time I met you at Iván and Taghrid’s. I knew fifteen minutes in that you were quite possibly the most amazing person I had ever met. So amazing that I told myself I’d never deserved the best parts of you. I tried with everything I had to keep you at a distance but eight months into this thing I can’t keep denying that I love you too. And that’s why I haven’t said it back. I gave myself two choices: I could either never say it or I could say it but if I did I’d have to tell you the truth. I think you deserve to know every part of me, even the parts I wish I could hide away forever.” What you just read was my former girl’s painful admission of being the other woman to a man she knew with every fiber she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Tucked away in a corner at Buvette, it was this very admission that started me and my former girl down the road toward eternal separation.

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4. What the hell did your former girl’s guy say?

Quite possibly the best response to such a story, “Life can be very messy if you want it to be.”

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5. That was it?

It. He paid the bill in silence. He didn’t appear angry whatsoever, but my girl wasn’t about to say another word and she had done enough soul-baring to last a lifetime as far as I was concerned. After leaving Buvette, they strolled for a little while, both remaining completely mum. I think the silence became too much to take and so they eventually said their goodbyes. I have no idea where he went, but I know we set out for the Strand. In all her years, this was the only place where once inside she could truly escape. She could crack open a book and let someone else do the thinking. She plucked a few hardbacks from the shelf and we nestled in a corner for pretty much the remainder of the day. The second book chosen, she flipped open to the following passage, “You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” That’s Kafka. Warmth from an existentialist. Who woulda thunk it? We stayed with this passage for a while. The more she read it the freer she began to feel. In a weird way, the words were telling her that her time with the titan was something she possibly needed. She had to travel so low, so far into the depths of every emotion possible in order to emerge with a true understanding of herself. She finally realized the onus to be forever guilty was no longer on her.

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6. Well, good for her but why does she deserve to be happy? She ruined lives. At least go to the ex-wife and tell her what she had done. I don’t think it’s fair she gets to carry on “feeling bad” from time to time and that’s it? And another thing, her attempts at making that Kafka passage relevant to her situation was a reach at best. She’s selfish. There, I said it. She’s selfish and if she can explain away this major misgiving what good is she to anyone? Honestly, if I were the amazing guy I’d run. He should have no problems finding someone worthy. 

Right, because that’s the only option. Forgiveness is a very hard thing to get behind with your kind, isn’t it? Not caring and only worrying about yourselves are close seconds.

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7. Oh please. Don’t you dare try to lay some guilt trip on me, pal. Let me ask you, how do you feel about your girl and what she did?

Former girl. And I feel that each and every one of you has a different way of getting by in life. While my life can go on for hundreds of years — depending on the care given — in comparison, yours is short and it’s fleeting and from what I can glean you all spend way too much time on someone else’s bullshit. You hold onto way too many things, schadenfreude seems to always be on deck as the sentiment of choice and if the menagerie of comment sections is any indication, I’m almost positive you, as a race, want to be doomed to fail. My former girl’s guy put it perfectly, “Life can be messy if you want it to be.” It’s a choice. My former girl did a bad thing but she paid her penance and now she was ready to put it behind her. It’s not my job to judge. Keep her warm while looking amazing; that was the mandate handed down by the gods — and by the gods I mean Svetlana — therefore, that is what I do. Well, what I did. And not that you seem excited to know, but the guy actually called the next day. They talked, most of it small. As they were getting off the phone, he told her he was heading to the mountains to survey some land he was thinking about purchasing. She asked if she could tag along and he agreed. Yes, there was the slight hesitation in his voice but he did agree. She packed two bags: one with clothes, shoes and toiletries and the other with food — that’s where the fig, prosciutto and Bleu du Bocage came in. And so, he picked her up the next morning and they took to the mountains. The first day consisted of sparse glances, tip-toe conversation and sleeping in separate sleeping bags. The second day, however, consisted of loads of genuine laughter, the admission that he once shoplifted an Outliner pen when he was six and the two of them making sweet, sweet love under the cover of the moon. Of course, I was tossed out into the night once they both decided clothes weren’t helping matters. My point to the story is, the guy, the one person who had the right to decide if my former girl was worthy of his commitment? He could look beyond it. What would your world look like if everyone had the ability to love unconditionally? Don’t save it for mothers, monks and nuns (I’m leaving priests out of it for now) but give it to everyone. What exactly would that look like?

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8. And a Kumbaya my lord to you too. So, what happened? Did they stay together? Break up? What?

HELLO! I’m currently the ward of a fucking wolf! How the hell should I know?!

9. That’s right. I’m sorry. Should I call for help?

Nah. To be honest, she’s starting to grow on me. My existence is a lot more serene out here and plus, I think she’s pregnant. Don’t ask just know that I’ve seen some things and I’m almost positive she’s with pup. Or pups, rather. With that said, I wouldn’t mind sticking around to see the little ones. As crazy as it is to admit, I’m a part of this thing now.

Gray wolf or timber wolf mother and pups.

FAUSTO PUGLISI TARTAN BOMBER JACKET

In Cousin, upper body on November 8, 2013 at 8:15pm11

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1. Listen, my cousin? Well, she had an emergency and couldn’t be here so, you’re stuck with me. Okay, let’s do this. Now, if you could choose your– Whatever, you know how the story ends, right?

I do! I would choose a Topshop tee, a Fausto Puglisi skirt, a pair of Fogal pantyhose and the Lanvin lace-up heel!

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2. What is making you very happy at the moment even though the world thoroughly sucks?

Oookay. Well, autumn is upon us, a time of year that always gives full reign to my pattern — plaid, tartan… Call it what you will. The fact is, I’m here to rule the season, so look out world!

3. What’s your most cherished moment not that anyone really cares because people are selfish creatures who only care about themselves?

Are you okay, dear? I only ask because I’m sensing there might be a problem. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.

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4. I’m fine. A most cherished moment, please?

Right. Well, my pattern has always played a very big part when it comes to back-to-school outfits and so I’d have to say that would be my most cherished moment. Being worn on the first day of school by a person ready to take on the new school year armed with a great attitude, the willingness to learn and the want to be kind to everyone!

4. Ha! Good luck selling that. Anyway… is there a song that best represents you and your kind?

and just because…

5. Are you aware you’re a fraud? Follow me as we travel over to the land of facts: “The Irish never wore tartan or kilts of any colour. The traditional dress of the medieval Irish and Scottish Gaels was a linen shirt dyed yellow with saffron (the ‘leine-croich’). Tartan was a late development in Scotland (it’s not recorded before the 16th century), and the kilt was a later development still. About a hundred years ago Irish patriots were casting about for an Irish ‘national dress,’ and they invented a saffron-coloured kilt for men, and for women they invented the silly little frock-and-shoulder-plaid outfit, embellished with ‘Celtic’ interlace decoration, that Irish dancers wear. But the operative word here is ‘invented.’ These clothes have no genuine, ethnic origin,” signed Yahoo Answers. Basically, your whole thing’s a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. *BURP*

Wow. And we’re quoting Churchill for reasons I’ve no clue, not to mention someone surely knows how to throw a wrench into an otherwise festive mood. Let’s be clear, myself nor House of Pain ever said my pattern was representative of any specific culture or country or time period nor did we set out to embellish the truth. Furthermore, looking at their video in addition to surveying my overall attitude, it’s clear we’re all simply in this to have a good time. Now, are you sure you’re okay, dear?

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7. I’m. Fine. Would you like to share any more worthless facts about you and your otherwise pointless existence?

Look, despite your claims, it’s very clear something is wrong. And while I’m pretty good at empathizing, I draw the line at being irrefutably disrespected.

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8. I’m sorry. You’re right. You are right! I’m a bitch and I should not have taken my frustrations out on you, but it’s not totally my fault. Here’s the deal. I got into a cataclysmic fight with my fiancé last night because he was flirting with this girl who’s this journalist  — whatever, she writes for a fashion website — and she went to Cornell plus she was wearing a plaid jumper and I guess some people would label her pretty and so I might have accidentally dumped my drink on her head which lead to the fight with my boyfriend. I mean fiancé. I’m still getting used to the title. Anyway, it’s not as if I don’t listen when he has something to say. I mean, I know how to listen. I’m not a total animal however I might have points to get across too, ya know?! So there’s a minute chance I might talk over him while he’s attempting to get his points across and my points might be a little long–winded, high-pitched plus meandering and hard to follow and accompanied by a lot of fingers pointed in his face but it’s not as if his friends are so great! They can think I suck all they want! Plus, I would never, ever, never, ever, ever label them the most annoying person on the planet but I digress! Should I have digressed?! Who cares! It doesn’t matter! My point is, I’m a good person! And I mean well and I deserve–

GAH! SHUT! UP! Here are two pieces of advice that I hope you will carry with you for the rest of your days: It is entirely okay for you to  shut the fuck up and no one cares that much! If you ever get the slightest sense that they do?! Stop! That sensation will be based on a total lie people will tell you in hopes of giving their compassion skills a test run! Now, go tell your cousin her vetting process sucks and after that go to your fiancé and tell him to take that ring from your finger, punt it into the abyss and go in search of the man he and everyone in his life know he was raised to be!

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9. WWHAAHHHAAAAAAA?!

Uh oh. I am so sorry. That was way out of line and honestly, not what I’m about. I’m so sorry. I have no excuse. Please stop crying. I feel terrible. I don’t know what came over me. *deep breath* You’re not going to stop crying, are you? Oh, God…

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BURBERRY PRORSUM HEART-PRINT SILK SHIRT

In upper body on September 20, 2013 at 8:15pm09

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1. If you could style yourself, what would be the accouterments?

Well, for sure, without a doubt, for starters it would have to be the–

2. Can I just say I find myself going back to watch the A/W-12 show over and over again? My god,  perfection on every level as far as I’m concerned.

Um… Thank you? It had absolutely nothing to do with me but…

3. Oh! I’m so sorry. Did I offend you? That wasn’t meant to offend. It was meant only as a compliment. Honest engine it was.

Did you see me anywhere on that runway? Huh? Just because we have the same label doesn’t mean we’re of the same ilk.

4. I’m so sorry. Really. It’s just that when I see you I can’t help but see the entire Burberry family. Does that make sense?

Let me guess. Some of your best friends are Burberry.

5. And I don’t know if I like what I think I’m being accused of. I was raised to see every item as an individual piece, thank you very much. Now, considering I’m leading the charge of this interview, I’d like to declare a truce, a misunderstanding, whatever you’d like to call it. Is that okay? Can we start over?

Okay, fine. Where was I? Oh yes. I would accoutre myself with–

6. And the models didn’t wear A/W-12,  A/W-12 wore the models. Am I right?! Wait. I might be wrong. I’m confused. Models wear clothes but clothes wear… No, I think I’m right. The clothes wore the models! But in a good way! The best way!

Hey, lady!  I thought we were here to talk about me!

7. And we are. Definitely, we are. We definitely are. It’s just that the soundtrack was also so amazing. Joan Armatrading, Marina & the Diamonds… I can’t! I’m getting all tingly just thinking about it! Kensington Gardens! The clap of thunder followed by the rain! Before you knew it the opening chords of “To Build a Home” were upon you! The umbrellas! The glitter! Oh my goodness, how can I forget about the glitter?! I’m sorry! It never fails! I always get choked up. Can you excuse me?

(mumbled) This is some bullshit.

8. And did you see Mario at the end?! He knew! The man knew he had just witnessed genius! Brava, Christopher! Brava! Amazing! There I go again! And the tears keep comin’, folks! Ha! Wait! You’re not leaving? Look! No more tears! I’m fine now! Let’s talk about you! I’m feeling the love! Get it?!

Go fu–

9. Okay, alright… We can do without the language.  *door slams* Oh, look at me! I’m a Burberry shirt that slams doors! Who needs ya?! ‘Cause I don’t! (I briefly whistled no particular tune) Well, seeing as though I have some free time on my hands why not dance, right? I can answer that. Right!

BOY BY BAND OF OUTSIDERS CROPPED-SLEEVE SHIRT

In upper body on June 6, 2013 at 8:15pm06

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1-9. Who do you admire most?

Those who weren’t afraid to speak up and out.

 

PRABAL GURUNG BROCADE JACKET

In upper body on June 4, 2013 at 8:15pm06

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1. Can you give me 4 items that go along with your overall motif?

The Prabal Gurung, floral print trousers, the Casadei for Prabal Gurung wedge, a pair of Linda Farrow x Prabal Gurung shades and a Prabal Gurung clutch for Target. As you can see, I’m addicted to family. Can’t make a move without them.

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

Rick Ross and Drake in a contemporary retelling of “Good Night, Nurse.”

What was…

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Will become…

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Basically, this…

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Uh huh…

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

Is your society racing headlong down a road to a place where awards outnumber the acts deserving of them? I mean, not for nothin’, but you guys really like presenting each other with gold-plated stuff. Really, what’s driving this desire, this need? And are you slowly creeping into Pavlov’s dog territory?

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4. Meaning?

Meaning? Hmmm… Meaning, meaning, meaning… Is it less about the actual good deed done and more about the accolades you know you’re sure to receive?

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5. Why are clothing and accessories always so serious when it comes to this question?

I cannot speak for anything else, only for myself, the Prabal Gurung, brocade jacket. Thank you.

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6. If you were to pen an autobiography what would be the title?

“The Paradoxum of a Philistine.” It has the ability to moonlight as the next album title for Yeezy as well.

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7. Pardon the redundancy but, meaning?

No clue but it really does give off the stench of importance and pretension, am I right? It will be discovered as a short story in The Paris Review or  Shenandoah by a 60-year-old, lummox of a literary agent about to call it a day on his fledging business — he’s the only employee and that’s still too much overhead. It will be decades since he managed to get published something worth exulting over thus making this business an albatross on his back. That is until he sees my words gleaming from the page. He will be the one to suggest the venture from the original title, “Ugghh,” to the current. “It’s more pretentious,” the lummox will say. “And that’s just what the publishers want these days! I guess that’s what they’ve always wanted. It’s just taken me this long to figure it out. I didn’t ask for much. Just to publish pieces of work I thought to be special but the forces saw to it I never–” At this point, I will politely cut him off for this will be my moment. I’m arrogant and self-centered and not afraid to admit it.

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8. What is one word all those appearing on the “Kiss Cam” at various sporting events should strictly adhere to?

Peck.

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9. Is there anything you find vexing at the moment?

Why isn’t Parker Posey owning the moving picture industry? Who dropped the ball? I want names!

ALEXANDER MCQUEEN EXPLODING RUFFLE SLEEVE BLOUSE

In upper body on May 18, 2013 at 8:15am05

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

A pair of Acne ‘Best Jockey’ leather trousers, the Margiela mule, a Jennifer Meyer ring and a copy of “NW” by Zadie Smith.

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2. What is the best way to describe today’s society?

According to my sociology major it would be, “Me, me, me and more me!”

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3. Interesting. Where are you happiest?

On my sociology major, obviously. She’s a real pistol, this one. Taking society to task and, I have to say, it’s rubbed off on me in spades.

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4. How did you end up on a sociology major?

I was a gift from her great-grandmother, a reclusive billionairess who’s currently going ten years strong without stepping one foot outside of her Sutton Place home. A year ago the sociology major promised to never accept a dime from anyone in her blue-blood clan but when she opened up the box, pulled back the excelsior and saw me sitting there, she couldn’t resist. I would be the last item of luxury she’d ever accept.

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5. What kind of things have rubbed off on you?

Well, she’s currently working on a paper that gets to the bottom of the real reason women are against plastic surgery undergone by other women. She argues that once you decide to wear clothes you’ve given yourself over to society’s conformities and have no right to weigh in on any other synthetic additions to another’s body or face. I’d be loathed to disagree. Live and let live as far as I’m concerned.

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6. However, it’s about growing old gracefully. I want women to not feel like they have to conform to this so-called “type” in order to feel beautiful. Is that so wrong?

Ha! It’s cute that you believe that I believe that you believe that. Yet women over a certain age can’t wear skirts above their knee? Can’t wear low-cut tops? Why? Older knees are ugly? Older cleavage is disgusting? So, let’s say they are. When women try to help matters by going under the knife and trick society into thinking the knees and breasts are the right age thus appropriate to be seen in public they get chastised for it. You guys won’t let each other win. Don’t get mad at me or my girl. Ask yourselves why you’re so quick to jump on the bandwagon. Why do you care that much about what another person decides to do to their bodies? Are they hurting anyone? Are these rules to preserve a woman’s grace and self-worth or are they an extension of the inherent competitiveness you all have coursing through your veins? What is “growing old gracefully” anyway? When did this specific trajectory take effect? Was it a man who started it? Open a magazine; every other page is another rule or guideline shrouded in hot pink and seductive pouts masquerading under the guise of being helpful and solidaristic. Honestly, I don’t know how women do it. The whole thing’s exhausting.

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7. Okay fine. So what does your sociology major think is really going on?

I just said it! Competitiveness. It galls a person to know someone might have a leg up. Period. That’s where it all lies at its core. Is the lobster theory true? Don’t ask me, I’m just an exquisite, ruffle explosion crafted in the mind of Mrs. Burton. Talk amongst yourselves. Or don’t. It’s your life. Your tits. Your problem.

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8. “Tits”? Really?

Yeah. What?

9.*sigh* So, what caused your sociology major to get wrapped up in this theory?

Her own mother altered her face to the point of Jocelyn Wildenstein. Watching the progression was difficult at first but after about the 22nd alteration, she began to actually see her mom as some swollen, alien hero. They never talked about the work but walking down the street and taking in all the reactions to mom turned on its ear this whole notion of “staying young,” “looking better.” She thought back to all the girls in high school who underwent nose jobs — mostly due to deviated septa but we all knew that was one big steaming pile of lies — and at the time how much respect she lost for them. However, from where she stood now (looking fantastic in me, I  might add), why? Why did it upset her so? She didn’t want a nose job. She didn’t want any kind of job. Was it the fact that these girls, post operation, returned happier than ever with a new lease on life? Two hours, two painfully pact nostrils and a healthy squalling of “Mommy, it hurts so much!” later, they were granted the chance to start over again, on their own terms. The self-love was finally felt. Go ahead and call it fabricated self-confidence, it was self-confidence still and at the time that was the thorn in my girl’s side. She realized this now. Seeing another woman happy, content, progressing didn’t sit well with her if she wasn’t existing in the same state. She had to get there first; then and only then was it okay for another to arrive. If my girl could, she would contact the former classmates through Facebook — they were members. There’s no way they couldn’t be — and apologize, but my girl loathes the entire social network construct in its entirety and so that was never gonna happen. Instead, she would send doses of good vibes and apologies out into the ether and hope they would land in a significant way on the intended. The end.

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CHANEL 10P CLASSIC WHITE TWEED JACKET

In Fran Lebowitz, upper body on February 7, 2013 at 8:15pm02

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

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2. Very funny. And why aren’t I surprised?

Because I’m predictable. However, predictability, in my case, works. I’m ripped off, cloned, copied to the point of homage. You are looking at a standard-bearer so coveted it would be a crime to not give the people what they want, what they need.

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3. What is something we don’t know about you that would surprise us?

If I could, I’d be worn by James Hetfield busting through my seams, while he and the rest of the boys perform “No Leaf Clover.” Or on Fran, of course, but I mean, we all wanna be on Fran so that’s no big shock.

4. What is it with garments and Fran freakin’ Lebowitz?! Can something please explain this to me?!

Take it easy. For starters, she wears the hell out of a cowboy boot, k? Although, I prefer her in a nice loafer. She’s vengeful which is always fun. And lastly, she’ll never be caught dead in me which taps into my masochistic side like gangbusters.

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5. What is an interesting observation you’ve made as of late?

The world in which you exist truly is that of a man’s.

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6. Huh. I’d have to wholly disagree, but at the same time, I’m intrigued. What makes you say this?

There are extremely unattractive gentlemen roaming the planet who openly admit to being, in general, horrible mates which leads me to believe these men got a chance to test out the theory more than once. Ladies, ladies, ladies, ladies, ladies… I’m sure Scott Speedman knows his way around a joke or two, at the very least the man knows how to laugh at them. Not only that, but my money’s on a few C-grade (god willing) impressions.  Anywho, he’s tall and greets you with this face in the morning…

UA Battery Park StadiumMmmm… See what I mean? All pills — terrible impressions, can’t build merde, if the car breaks down the only option’s to call Triple-A — every single one of those pills will go down a lot easier this way if they do, in fact, go down to begin with. In the meantime, Jon don’t need to do a damn thing…

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Marone a mi… Moving right along, Dae might actually be overkill at this point but, that aside, can we please take a moment and send thanks to the gods? That face is criminal.

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And while Dae’s doin’ what he do, Idris can be mute and communicate through blinks for all anyone cares. Wait. One sec. I’m imagining Idris communicating through blinks. That is some precious stuff. Okay.

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And if ABC World News knows how the game’s played then why, pray tell, don’t you? “Oh, but my guy’s so funny.” Who cares! “But my guy’s so smart and successful.” Shut! Up! Muir’s got those huntin’ eyes, by the way. You better watch your back, anchors. My boy’s a comer.

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My point is, if you’re going to be treated like donkey balls, well then, you best make it count. I can help you but you have got to start helping yourselves. And here’s the good part. If, and that’s only if the Scotts, Jons, Idrises and Davids of the world should do you dirty in a brutal way, at least you can look back and say, “You know what? I done good. Sure, my hearts broken into a million, little pieces and I don’t want to leave my bed for the next seven years, however, someone extremely good-looking brought me here and that makes me feel–” She won’t be able to finish the sentence because she’ll burst into tears but she will feel happy. HAPPY!

7. Wow. And here I thought Chanel tweed wasn’t- What’s the word? Is it shallow?

Mon dieu, woman. It’s not shallow if it’s common sense. And like I said, this advice lives only in the confines of being treated horribly by unattractive dudes, shrouded in cockiness who have the nerve to serially, yes, that’s serially, treat the perfect vessels that you are horribly. These heartless creatures and the slabs of Silly Putty they’re trying to pass off as physiques are looking natural order in the face and laughing. It’s time to take back your womanhood thus your lives! We deserve hotness in every sense of the word! I implore all who are currently harboring pudgy, self-centered mates to turn to them and tell them to run as fast as they can to a gym! Preferably the one Tom Brady’s working out at, offer Tom more money than what the Patriots and all other endorsements can so he can return to you, pretending to be your boyfriend. Believe me when I say it will take you about five seconds to buy the lie as you say, “You don’t look anything like Noah.” Then Tom will say, “I’m Noah.” Then you’ll say, “K!” Betty, Emmeline, Audra, Naomi, Maxine, Bey, Gloria, Margaret, Eleanor, Flo, Alanis, Rigoberta, Adele, Sarojini…

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…every single one would back me on this and that’s because they’re the baddest in the game! Plus, isn’t that the entire foundation for the feminist movement, exactly what the suffragettes tirelessly marched for with those poster boards obscuring their outfits?! I never really understood the point to that, but I digress.

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And before you cut in with more asinine question about favorite songs, and malapropisms or what I’d like to return as, please explain to me what made you long for Derrick who kicked you on the playground? Or Peter who revealed to you that you had a mustache during debate? Or Emmett who treated you like you didn’t exist throughout intramurals? You chose them because they were hot. That’s it. Hot. End of story.

8. How in the hell do you know about any of them?

Have we met? I’m omnipresent. Anyway, the fact remains that you ladies have moved far, far away from your primeval behaviors. Eve would be very ashamed and that’s because Adam was gorgeous. Oh yeah… She wouldn’t have gone near him otherwise, immaculate conception would’ve moved way up in the program, Cain would’ve been the son of God, yadda, yadda, yadda… The whole thing would’ve been a real mess.

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9. Aaah! This is quite possibly the craziest sit-down I’ve ever had! You’re so wrong! We choose based on what we feel in our hearts, down deep in our souls! Looks and height and all the other superficial crap you’re tossing out are just that, crap! I’m sorry! Love and attraction are things impossible to put a face on, even if the other should treat you badly! It all exists on levels no one can ever figure out no matter how hard they try! And furthermore, who’s to say you can’t–

Don’t hurt yourself, Bradshaw. Now, if you heed the advice I’m giving — gratis, by the way — then you’ll go places. Don’t and, well, you have my prayers. I’m Chanel tweed, after all. I’ve been round long enough to have seen some things. I’d also like to say in closing, my hope is for every woman and man to find love on both a mature and respectful level. I’m not a total monster.

BALMAIN LASER CUT VELVET BLAZER

In upper body on February 5, 2013 at 8:15am02

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

Obviously, my consort, the Be & D sneaker, a Giuseppe Zanotti necklace and a Loewe coin purse.

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

A TED talk.

3. If needed, how would CNN get its ratings way up?

They have Dana Bash, on Capital Hill, and Anderson Cooper, in studio, break into “Suddenly Seymour” in the middle of a breaking news report. Once consumed by her solo, I would implore Dana to take her hands and simultaneously shove the faces of the two Senators who arrive on time, for the scheduled interview. They will be in her shot and that can’t happen. All the while, the love for both musicals and political punditry will collide worldwide and ratings will soar.

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4. Well, that’s one way to do it. Who knew —

Then, I’d have Wolf, Soledad and Erin work the peplum and bring it on home with “Little Shop of Horrors.”



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Why so smug, Erin? You know you’re into this.

5. Are you done?

Never, but I get the feeling you want to move on to the next question.

6.  And here I thought I was going to stump you. Who knew a blazer by way of the 8th arrondissement was so versed in U.S. cable news?

I’m dynamic. Ou dynamique, pour les francophones.

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7. If you could be anywhere where would you be?

Right where I am for the nonce because I’m loyal and I stick by those who wear the living hell out of me. With that said, I’m currently sitting in a tasteful duffel, in a Chuckawalla Valley State Prison locker, awaiting my girl’s release so we can be reunited.

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8. I thought the connection was a little muffled. Why, pray tell, are you in a tasteful duffel in Chuckawalla Valley?

It all started in the Ford Field announcer booth. My girl’s headphones were firmly cupping her ears and that’s because she and her comrade-in-arms were the first female sportscasters to preside over the Super Bowl. Oh, how proud I was to be there and so fierce I was looking. Are we still using that term? Fierce?

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9. I’m not sure. If you want, I can make a call?

No matter. And so, My girl was in the zone, making those listening terrestrially or by satellite feel as if they were right there in the stadium, on the field even, “Beautiful night here in Detroit on this Super Bowl Sunday. Has this been a battle or what, Glads?” Glads, or Gladys, rather, was the partner in crime, the friend she met in college and bonded with over the same dream: to one day be exactly where they were, in the booth guiding an auditory-only audience through a Super Bowl — the white sticks for the truckers, commuters, security guards, people working in various toll booths… The ladies would bust their asses to make the listeners feel as if Ford Field and all of its trappings were at their proverbial doorstep because to these two announcers, it wasn’t just a job, it was a necessity. Like butter, Gladys responded, “The game has certainly lived up to the hype in Michigan today, folks. Now let’s take it down to the field.” The Kansas City Chiefs’ huddled tightly together, taking orders from the quarterback, “Now, we’re in this to win this, boys! ‘Win’ on three. One, two…” The players bellowed back, “Win!” Their leader continued his quixotic rant, “Remember, lotta tempo, lotta tempo… Mix that cadence, alright?! We gotta use that cadence versus that blitz! Deuce right, nineteen slant on one!” One, en masse clap and the team immediately scrambled out of the huddle. Meanwhile, back in the booth, I was continuing to look absolutely amazing, while simultaneously giving off a “work and play” vibe, when suddenly, my girl leaped to her feet and started to wring her hands, rapt focus trained on the field below. It was right here that I noticed Gladys staring at her with pity. I had no idea what the troubled look was for, but the reason would soon prove to be not good at all. The focus on Gladys was interrupted by my girl, “And we’re off! Matt Durman in the gun… Kevin Cross right next to him… And… Everybody out! Durman pumps to… Huntley down the sideline! Huntley laterals to Burns!” Everyone jumped to their feet as if sucking on the fumes of my girl’s elation —  save for Gladys, still with the concerned gaze locked on her friend. “But why,” I wondered. My girl continued on, every part of her was caught up in this game, “Burns laterals it back to Huntley! Oh god! Can they catch him?! Oh god! Are you kidding me?! Oh god! Huntley! Oh god! Touchdown! Kansas City! Unbelievable! Touchdown! Heavens to Murgatroyd!” Gasping for breath, she muffled her microphone and motioned for Gladys to chime in “Come on. Earn your keep, lady.” Gladys would go on to earn her keep but the enthusiasm stopped at her voice for the face told a different tale entirely, “Eigh-ty-se-ven yards! Eleven seconds left! Right place, right time! Calvin Huntley touched down and Matt Durman helped him do it, folks! The game is over and the Chiefs, for the eighth year in a row, walk away, by the skin of their teeth, with the Vince Lombardi trophy!” The booth celebrated. My girl ripped the cans from her head and tossed  them onto the console. Excited and winded, she looked to Gladys confused, “What happened to you? You’re slippin’. Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to trade you in.” Suddenly, her focused shifted to six FBI agents busting through the doors! I should note, only four agents were assigned; the other two just wanted to attend the big game. In any case, they bee-lined for my girl, the lead agent uttering the words a garment such as myself did not need to hear, “Jemma Hopper, you’re under arrest for racketeering and promoting gambling in the second degree.”If my color had the ability to drain it would’ve. Naturally, the color did drain from my girl. She knew to look to one person and one person only. Gladys’ head was already shamefully bowed. It was awful. A years-long friendship disintegrated. Dust. The moment the agent slapped on the cuffs, my girl’s eyes welled with tears. She had only one simple question for her friend, “How could you, Glads?” Don’t get me wrong, she knew had broken the law, however, to have a confidant, someone she had trusted with everything, betray her on such a grand level? It was incomprehensible. Gladys had a simple rejoinder for the simple question, “They had me by the balls, Jem.” So, that’s it. That is why I am now sitting in a tasteful duffel, real gimcrack-like, waiting for my girl to serve out her 9 years and retrieve me. I’m also hoping she’ll impress the hell out of the parole board in 3 years so we can blow out of this joint early. And while I’m hoping upon hopes that she gets paroled, I’d be lying if I said I was opposed to her bustin’ out with a few of the ladies from cellblock 8 who’re planning an escape. The only problem with that scenario is the chances of her making a pit stop to pick my ass up are slim to none and this particular Balmain don’t wanna be thrown into the grabby bag for COs to sift through, if you know what I mean. On second thought, I’ll just pin my hopes on a stellar appearance in front of the board. *whispers* Gotta run! Someone’s coming!

Y’S FAUX SHEARLING JACKET

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

 




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

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

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

Bane.

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Read the rest of this entry »

TIM RYAN CHEVRON JACKET

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


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

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

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

The Quiero Club.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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4. Okay. First, Mr. Shore didn’t deserve that. And second, the host sounds absolutely awful. With that said, I hope our Maasai guest enjoyed her visit in spite of it all. Now, what is your favorite malapropism?

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

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

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

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

I wouldn’t wanna be you. But that aside, I did think the advice odd due to the fact that fringed jackets have no sex drive.

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

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Absolutely zero needs in the carnal department.

8. The Lonely, high-waist brief?

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Nuffin’.

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

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

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