Christian

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?

Hobo

Oh, on the way home from Juilliard, we ran into some sort of hobo on the train.

Juilliard again

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! :)

Same outfit

Lena and Alia wore the same outfit to work today, just to get on my blog, I think.

Bleached out socks

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.

Jean jacket

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.

Bea gone :(

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:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/johnathan-wilber/bea-arthur-the-worlds-sma_b_193309.html

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.