2005-04-08

I am good with fashion. It sometimes seems to me like I�m bragging but really, it�s something that I can do, and do well. (Both the bragging AND the fashion)

Abercrombie carpenter denim, Adidas skate shoes, Paul Frank Industries t-shirt and an Upper Playground hoody? Perfect to get that morning latt�. Levi�s 501�s, Kenneth Cole reaction sneakers, Gap Body t-shirt and a Banana Republic tek sweater? Great for taking the ferry to Tiberon and have lunch with sister. Ancient Gap khakis, Puma California, Gap novelty t-shirt from 2000, and a North Face windbreaker? Let�s help that friend move. Diesel Jeans, Nordstrom brand dress shoes, Clairborne striped shirt? All right, it�s time for Date Rape.

But tonight, well, tonight I surpassed even my wildest imaginings.

It was--like all true strokes of genius--accidental. My moment of indecision between who I wanted to be and who I was dressed as (totally separate from who I am) led me to take a risk, a risk that paid off with so much cha ching that, well, frankly, it was embarrassing. I should dress other people for a living. Hell, the government should elect me as the Homeland Fashion Czar, where I can form Senate Judiciary Committees? and exclude Todd Oldham while Isaac Mizrahi and I laugh about his jumping the Target Shark way too soon . And then go about our Federally Mandated mission to depose the Eurotrash. No more will the world look to Europe for trends. Our current cultural wasteland will fade under the new Americana, or even create the new Americansish, where art and fashion make the glories of capitalism minimalist and edgy. And profitable.

After tonight�s coup, I have no idea where to go. I seem to have reached some sort of peak. Will I have to now show up at functions in black tie? A silly argument but really. I have nowhere to go now fashion-wise. I also am feeling a little bit, not annoyed, more disappointed, that I wasted such a perfect pairing of pants, shirt, shoes, and jacket(s) on just an evening with friends. It should have been held back, the super outfit to save the city. Or convince Tina Fey that I was, in fact, the man of her dreams and could she please get Amy Poehler on the line for a three way? The clothes that would snatch me from the streets of San Francisco and into the �Seen around� section of GQ.

And now it is gone.

Perhaps I�ll rip some seams out of a few slacks and sprinkle them around for my dead homies. Or perhaps I�ll change out of my Gap Body lounge pants, coordinated Triple 5 Soul t-shirt, fling away my powerbook and faux fur throw, slam on that perfectly balanced look of slim fitted jeans, Kenneth Cole boots with the slight heel and square toe, Palestine 48 t-shirt, grey RL zip up hoody and black velvet blazer to roam the streets of SF until I get hit by a Taxi Cab It�s something that you�d want the paramedics and the ER staff to see you in. The doctors and nurses would stop, if only for a second, pondering their drab scrubs before whisking me away into surgery as my life bleats weakly away on their monitors. Then they would cut away the couture to make way for the paddles, which is exactly how it should be. Such perfection is never long for this world.

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