balding angrily

This weekend was all about embracing my inner teenage girl. From Friday night to now, I’ve been plugged into Ultra HD Full Frontal Fashion: New York Fashion Week. It’s nothing but runway shows, one after another. I’ve been trying to pin down “the look” - what will be hip in fall, but it looks like all the designers are all over the map. There’s a distinct 70s, hippy bent to a lot of designers’ lines, but right now I’m looking at a very sleek, timeless line.

I should say that I believe that there are people in the fashion world who truly do have a deep, heartfelt, profound attachment to fashion. I also believe it’s a field that deserves serious study, and that there are people out there who know a great deal about it. However, these people don’t do themselves any favors when they respond to the question, “Tell us about this season. What is the look?” They say, “Oh, this season it’s all about beauty. A woman wants to look beautiful, and this season the designers are giving them that.”

Wow. Thanks. All along I was thinking that designers wanted women to look ugly.

As I type this Donna Karan is showing her line. I fucking love runway. There are times when I really want to be a woman. Trust me; there is no way in God’s green earth that I’ll snip-snip my privates. I love my penis way too much. I really have no desire to do drag. I know I’d make a very ugly woman, and it’s just too much trouble.

However, if I had been born a woman, I would be a clothes horse.

Today I finished ttyl by Lauren Myracle. It’s a throwaway story of three fifteen year-olds, told all in ims. I finished it in four hours. I put down Moby Dick again.

Yesterday I watched Casablanca for the first time, and tonight I plan on looking through the annual Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair.

When Jerry gets home, I think we’ll have a facial party and paint our toenails.