Definitely The Greatest Video In History

The Electric Ennui Of The Chanel Set

The Quotidian Posings Of One Solange Knowles, Capetown, South Africa 2012

Well THAT Certainly Hit The Spot!

Oh, Yoko . . .

Who The Hell Let That Guy In Here?

Said by a much more salt-of-the-earth fellow than myself as I passed by him on my way in to the Kamas Rodeo.

One of us was wearing skinny jeans and a sportcoat and flip flops and aviator glasses. The other of us was him.

Made me feel like a hundred damned dollars, frankly.

All Hail The Summerdress!

Part The First.

Part The Second.

Gnothi Seauton

The jewel case said Bryan Ferry, but the CD inside was Neil Young.

Librarian: "But you wanted the Bryan Ferry or the Neil Young?"

Me: "I'm wearing a sportcoat; which do you think?"

Toward Napoleon by Jacket

A man can need something like a military jacket.

He can need the epaulettes and the pockets and the heavy metal buttons that clankle when he walks. He can even need the space between the buttons, because he can need to pose like Napoleon in photos, and to do that he’ll need somewhere to put his hand.

He can need all of these things and the crisp crinkle of canvas when he moves suddenly in the sun; but he can’t have always have them when he needs them.

I’m not a man like that, apparently.

When I need a thing like a military jacket, I search for one at the mall and find one in size small - because I like the fit better that way. Then I pay for it. Then I have them put it in a bag. Then I take it home and wash it in hot water. Then I dry it in the dryer.

Then I wear it around the house, picking up objects to see which will fit in the pockets and which will not:

Anthology of California Poets: Check.
Small terra cotta jaguar: No.
Art Deco inspired desk clock: Check.
Esquire magazine: Only if rolled.

When you see me and my military jacket, say hello. You’ll know me by my savoir vivre.
If that doesn’t do the trick, try being needed by me like a military jacket. I’m excellent at finding what I need and putting my hand in it like Napoleon.

Believe me.

To Suffer Just a Little

At a shoe boutique yesterday, the following exchange:

Chiara (holding a pair of red, strappy heels out at me): Aren’t they faahbulous?

Me: Yeah, they’re cool.

Chiara: They better be, they cost enough.

Me: Too bad you don’t have a birthday coming up with which to scare me into buying them for you.

Chiara: Shuddup.

Me: What?

Chiara, with a gleam: Should I try them on?

Me: Are you thinking about buying them?

Chiara: Ab-so-lute-ally NOT.

Me: Then why would you want to try them on? You know you like them and you know you aren’t going to buy them. What’s the point?

Chiara (sighing): Just to suffer a little?

And she wistfully put them back on the shelf.

I found it a telling thing to say. I don’t enjoy to put myself through the turmoil of being near to something I desire, but can’t have. This is why I never enjoyed strip clubs as much as I wanted to enjoy them; window-shopping annoys me.

That said; I have the enduring and silly problem of being sexually attracted to mannequins in storefronts.

Chiara regards this as evidence of my immaturity. I am assured by others that this is normal for a man of my height and weight.

Pygmalion, so why not me?

It could, of course, also be residual sexualization from the 1987 film Mannequin starring Kim Catrall, which I distinctly remember as being the first time I felt sexually attracted to a woman. You can imagine what this did for the otherwise tepid Big Trouble in Little China.

This is probably a whole other blog, isn’t it?

Vancouver: Tim Has Some Sort of Seizure

While standing outside a restaurant waiting for a cab, I admired Tim’s Pea Coat.

“I’m intensely jealous of your Pea Coat,” I said.

Tim glanced down at himself, then at me and my single-breasted overcoat. “I’m jealous of your coat,” he said.

“No, damnit, you’re not,” I replied. “I gotta get me a Pea Coat like that.”

Tim shrugged. I shrugged. I pulled the corner of my mouth up and shoved my hands in the pockets of my non-Pea-Coat coat.

Tim looked over at me. “I don’t know about Scott Bakula,” he said. “He just doesn’t seem like a starship captain to me.”

I picked up my eyes from where they had fallen out of my head and used them to stare at Tim incredulously.

“I mean,” he continued, “That Captain Janeway was too real for me, like a real naval captain or something. But Scott Bakula is too, I dunno, Scott Bakula for that show.”

“You’re not seriously discussing this with me,” said I.

“I am. I mean, look, as a time traveling do-gooder he was fine, even great, but as the first captain of an interstellar spaceship?”

“Dear God.” I said and picked up my eyeballs again.

Tim was feeding on my dismay like those Harry Potter bad guys with the robes and the flying, and I considered mentioning that to him, but that would have only kicked him into overdrive. Instead I put my hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

“It’s a helluva coat, though. A helluva coat.”