After my embarrassing performance with Tyson at last year's BEA, I was hesitant to face him again on Friday, but I feel I carried it off with surprisingly few missteps. He has another child now, and a bigger beer belly than I remembered, and his tattoos were not on display - so I was able to play it cool. I chatted him and his colleague up about the taxidermy book in particular - and he even promised to pitch an article about it to the L.A. Weekly, which would be awesome. I was wearing a Michael by Michael Kors blue pinstripe suit, but he managed to outdress even me with this shiny number, probably obtained from some Los Angeles hipster boutique or the other. He said he would send me a Book Soup t-shirt, and I suggested that the INKLINGS author design a t-shirt for him. He tried to guess what size t-shirt I wore, and, even though it was clear that if he'd said "large" or "xl," he would have crushed me and won our subtle but emphatic verbal battle, he hesitated and then accurately guessed: "medium?" He's a bigger man than I. Muuuuuch bigger.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
I ran into Brooks, wearing an all-brown ensemble, and I accused him of try to dress "like Mr. Hanky." To Brooks' great credit, he indicated that, when he wears all brown, what he's trying to imply to the observer is that "that's what you're getting from me today: shit." I immediately felt a kinship to Brooks, but I predict that my attempts to befriend him, cheerily rebuffed thus far, will end in resentment and tragedy. Brooks is so cool that I bet he mistakes my tomfoolery for uncoolness. I reality I'm the coolest cat in town. I'm so cool that I don't care how uncool I appear. At the end of this night, Brooks jumped onto his racing bike and sped off into the night, becoming a brown smudge of movement, and I walked home to plot my outfit for the next day, which will surely turn out to be another mistake in a series of mistakes, honed and perfected to a brown smudge of movement - yesterday, today, and the next.
Miss P., his two sisters and I went to the opening night at the American Ballet Theater. I went partly because it was rumored that Michelle Obama was going to be there. As I entered the theater, I did not see MO, but I walked right past a thinner-than-I-expected Claire Danes, and the enchanting and always-horrid Renee Zellwegger, resplendent here in some passable finery. Michelle Obama did come out to say a few words during a break in the dancing, as did Caroline Kennedy. But our seats were too far away for me to feel a connection to the material, and I left at intermission. I'm going again this Friday, to sit in the third row, anonymous - as is my wont -and my cross to bear. I'll probably be wearing khaki.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My friend Miss P. has a serious problem. Can you tell what it is by looking at this picture? Yes, that's it! He enjoys exposing his ass. There, I said it. Miss P. (whose real name is Paolo) doesn't care how uncomfortable it makes people, or how gross it is. So I took this picture and am writing this post as sort of an intervention of sorts for Miss P. So Paolo, I hope you get the message! And if you don't, next time I'll use your full name, so that whenever you apply for a job in the future, your prospective employers will google your name and find a picture of your tired ass hanging out. :P
In all my fascination with peoples' outfits over the years, nothing could have prepared me for the sheer astonishment I felt upon running into my proudly alcoholic friend Christian yesterday. Christian had just checked himself out of his umpteenth detox facility, and, as you can see in this picture, he is still wearing the "scrubs" they give the patients in those facilities. I was immediately jealous of his outfit, but, knowing me, I would probably buy a set of psych ward scrubs and then be too ashamed to wear them. (Like most of the clothes my sister has ever bought me, and most of my more haute couture rash purchases, which hang in my closet, unworn). I do have a deeply developed sense of fashion shame, born from an Episcopalian upbringing and my mother's endless admonishments about my effeminacy.
I am currently reading Margaret Drabble's forthcoming memoir THE PATTERN IN THE CARPET, which is why I think I have used the words "admonishments" and "umpteenth" in this post.
My friend Christian keeps hinting that his sexuality might be a bit fluid, which titillates me ... even if ever so slightly. Looking at this picture, don't you agree that a downward spiral has never looked yummier?
Stuck in our Juilliard rut, me and Miss P. went to Juilliard dance again on Friday night. Kristin and Anne came, too. During the best performance, two of the dancers had on jumpsuits, and I was of course reminded of my own brief jumpsuit experiment, with the cream-colored Marc by Marc Jacobs jumpsuit that I ordered from Gilt Groupe and wore at work. People burst into laughter at my jumpsuit! I returned it, literally, the same day I got it. I noticed that this week, Gilt Groupe put the same jumpsuit on sale again ...
But the dancers' jumpsuits looked good on them. This is a bad picture of the dancers - they look far away - but can you tell which dancer's outfit I particularly liked? Look closely! :)
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Last week, I took this picture of my dad while he was sleeping. I wanted to just take a picture of his bleached-out socks, which I put on him to help keep the bandage on his heel in place. He has some kind of wound on his heel again, and his wounds take forever to heal. I wonder why? I suspect he has an undiagnosed diabetic condition. I want to remember to buy him some new socks for his birthday this year, although his policy is never to use anything I've bought him - not even the motorized scooter that Maxine and I bought him (for eight hundred whole dollars) last Christmas. That's why it's good to get him cheaper stuff, like socks.
In the picture, he looks lovably cadaverous, like he usually does while sleeping.
The new gay in the office gave me this jean jacket, and I was so touched! No one gives me clothes, although my personality seems to scream out for people to give me clothes - or mirrors. I have a lot of ambivalence towards clothing made of denim. Once, Peppar was describing to me and Mary the clothes she was taking on vacation. She mentioned a jean skirt, and I asked, "Where are you going - the 80s?" But this jean jacket seems so modern, somehow. I think it's made by Club Monaco or someplace similar.
I found an image of Bea Arthur's head on l'internet, and made it into a t-shirt. This picture of me wearing it was taken by the new gay in the office. The new gay apparently blogs for Huffington Post, and he wrote a post about Bea Arthur's death that I found shocking. You may read it here:
I want everyone to know that the new gay has a printout of a picture of David Foster Wallace hanging up in his cubicle - Wallace is the writer who died of suicide recently. Tomorrow, I am going to replace that printout with a picture of starving babies. :)
I used to think that in life, I was "Dorothy" from the Golden Girls. Now I think I'm an amalgam of Dorothy, Sophia (who had had a stroke, and couldn't control what she said), and Blanche (the slut). I wonder when I'll turn into Rose? Probably when Alzheimer's sets in.
I see Alzheimer's approaching me, always getting closer, like an annoying pedestrian. On mornings like this, I sort of think that when it finally overtakes me, it will be a relatively smooth transition.