Jack Spade

I was wearing my new Jack Spade coat yesterday evening when I was stopped and searched by the police in the Fulton Street station of the 4, 5, and 6 trains. This isn't going where you think it's going - I actually am not sure why the police don't search me more. I feel so clandestine and cloak-and-dagger almost all of the time - surely some of that feeling must be part of my visible "look?" The officer took one look at my coat and then leapt up from his seat in a Long Island sort of way and started pointing his finger at commuters on their way to the turnstile, like "eenie, meanie, miney, mo," and I got "mo," of course. He beckoned me in a pseudo-fatherly way over to a rickety folding table while my face displayed the coil of an almost imperceptible rictus of a smile.

It is one of my worst nightmares that I'll wear some multi-colored, garish coat to work and then get fired, and have to try to hold my head up high, carrying a cardboard box of my belongings outside into the rain whilst dressed like a clown. An alternate version of this fantasy is that I'll be dressed like a clown while getting handcuffed by the police while a crowd of people gathers to watch, or while getting beaten up by some cherry-picking vagrant on the street. I used to dress like a clown all the time, but that was in the aughts, when I thought nothing of wearing avant-garde clothing to the bar, to work, wherever. Once I flew to LA wearing a see-through mesh shirt by Fendi and Alia and I lurked about Hollywood and were cold to passersby. Once I was wearing an enormous coat covered in Burberry plaid and the barkeep at the bar I was leaving said, "Girl, oh my Gawd you are leaving here alone tonight." I could only look at him sadly and think, But I am merely a harmless eccentric… Another time at a party, I coldly accused the writer Bret Easton Ellis of being a misogynist while wearing a beautiful, flowing wig I'd just purchased from Patricia Field. I peacocked long before Neil Strauss made the term fashionable in his douche-bag bible, The Game.

(Okay, I know, I know - Jack Spade is the ultimate douche-bag brand. But, grrrl, it was less than $200 on barneyswarehousesale.com, and I MUST HAVE A NEW COAT AND A NEW SCARF EACH YEAR even when I am not sure where my next rent check is coming from. It is my biggest revenge fantasy that, when I am finally ensconced in some sort of gay rest home, I will be able to dazzle the other old queens with an endless array of beautiful coats and scarves, like Diana Ross - and have the ability to say that I have seen EVERY MADONNA CONCERT [three, albeit, via DVD only :^( ])

The po-po, of course, found nothing in my bag. I am, realistically, far past middle age, and if I were to do drugs today, I would surely just immediately turn to ash like that blonde witch in "American Horror Story: Coven" last season. Sigh. Back in the day, though, I partied like a house afire. I will cling to that Gee and keep going to work and keeping it together and doing the best I can. I will cling to the Gee who, when given a copy of the AA Daily Reflections in rehab, immediately flipped to the last page in February and informed the doctor, "But, there is no entry for February 29th." She turned pale, and I continued: "How will your precious book save you then."

French cuffs

I went downstairs for a cup o' joe with Sophia W., the heiress intern, and I asked her to take a picture of me. I'm wearing a delightfully textured shirt from the Co-op, along with some khaki pants from Theory and New Balance sneakers. I had no idea when I bought the shirt, at the Warehouse Sale, that it had French cuffs. I mock people for wearing shirts with French cuffs, but I didn't mean to buy one, so it can't be my fault! I didn't realize.

Years ago, when I was still working at Sotheby's, my boss Benjamin Doller tried to give me a pair of cufflinks as a gift. When I glanced at them, I saw that they were the kind that you could slip your own tiny picture into, to customize them. There was already a sample picture in it, of a self-satisfied little baby. "Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "I'm not walking around here with a picture of some little white baby on my wrist!" Benjamin seemed amused by my outburst, but I was fired shortly after that. Ah, Sotheby's - where everything is for sale, even your soul.

Because I didn't accept those cufflinks, I now can only wear this shirt with the sleeves rolled up. What do rolled-up sleeves mean to you? To me, they mean "This outfit is not beyond salvaging. There is still hope."

Measuring tape

My crazy friend Babatunde came over last night to measure me for a blouse. (Of course, he measured me for everything, despite my pleas to just measure me for a top, but I think he just wanted to put his hand in my crotch. "Inseam measurement" - ha!) Babatunde told me that my waist was a "couture 36," but I produced several pants that disproved him. I'm a 32 waist, damn it! How could I possibly be a 36 waist? I'm 6 feet tall and weigh 165 pounds! (And I've lost 15 pounds since the New Year). I told him that his tape measure was defective.

Everytime Babatunde comes over, I have to practically call the police to get him to leave. Last night, he:

• indicated that he would be delivering me some "sausage" when he delivers my shirt in a week. I wisely declined;


• tried to haggle me upwards on his shirt-making fee, when I told him going in that my limit was $100. $100 for a blouse seems high enough, Babatunde! He must think my name is Money Mike;


• told me about some book of "tops and bottoms" he'd like to put together - this idea actually interested me, but I am completely ignorant about how to put together a fashion book;


• hugged me four times. :)

I can't wait to see how my first commissioned blouse turns out. And today is the first day of the Barney's Warehouse Sale, too! My fashion luck is changing - I can feel it.