Manhattan Offender

Is my hat made from a dog?

Do you think my hat might be made of dog fur? It's Sean John. AND ... it was made in China. And the label doesn't even say. So, like, fuck, you know?

Leaving for lunch today this was the occupying obsession.  It was a Rhode Island purchase.  And purchased despite the label.  Sean John has haunted my life.  I'd first heard of him from a tranny prostitute bud of mine that mentioned we was down with 'the scene'.  Then a college associate of his was a contestant with me on Millionaire.  Okay, other than that, I supposed 'haunted my life' is a bit much.  Perhaps 'lived at the same time as me' is better.

And then there was the story of the Chinese dogs that were used as raccoon fur last year.  In jackets for Sean John.  And my dislike of rhyme-y names.  But really.  Ew.  Puppies?

Wonder Woman Wednesday: Girl, you better accessorize

Most women know that regardless of the clothes on a woman, any true assessment can be made from the way she accessorizes an outfit.  Could the allure of Wonder Woman be merely the fact that she accessorizes in a unique and utilitarian fashion?

Is it the tiara?  More than a mere sign of her Amazonian royalty, the tiara also serves as a boomerang with razor sharp edges.  Granted, with the edges being so well honed, there is the curiosity as to why it doesn't wreck her hair, but perhaps that is an indication of the her toughness, down to the follicular level.

Or is it the bracelets.  They deflect bullets.  Granted on a normal mortal this would be of little use, but because of her speed she can adequately protect herself with her bangles.

Even the earrings have been used as throwing stars, though rarely.

Clearly getting the maximum usage from every aspect of her wardrobe, she's a wonder of pragmatism.

Fashion. Weak.

Like the weather, fashion week leaves me cold these days.  After years and years of sameness and retro-sameness and futuro-sameness, it seems that designers are either too concerned about pleasing the department store overlords or too enraptured by the idea of getting press via outrage to actually think about fashion. 

A largely accurate piece by Guy Trebay in the Sunday Times Magazine only misses out the great disconnect in class issues.  Successful designers, fashion editors and other industry leaders are at a huge loss as to how the "real" live.  Young designers, who do have a clue, either have to suck in to the ideas of the industry or accept meager living.  The solution, as it is to so many things, is to kill all the baby-boomers, that most mediocre of generations.  As that would be time-consuming, it is ill-advised.

Perhaps the best quote in Trebay's assessment comes at it's end.  What is stunning is its source.  Read it.  Think about it.  Then go past the jump to see who said it.

"If you really want beauty in your life, do something with your ideas, but in a real way.  Don't hide in some luxury fantasy, some idea of fashion.  Live with some sense that there is a larger world around."

Hunts Point is the new Williamsburg

The paying job has me wandering through several choice neighborhoods of late in the search for metal platers and fabricators.  Yesterday's visit was to a neighborhood new to me, Hunts Point in the Bronx.  After a brief meeting, it was back into the car with my friendly driver, Stan.  We discussed the neighborhood and Stan explained to me that the neighborhood had improved much in the last few years.

While Stan spoke, my mind filled with thoughts of gentrification.  Hunts Point, like Williamsburg, is situated along the East River.  Similar to Williamburg's division by the BQE, Hunts Point has the Bruckner Expressway.  Both areas feature large industrial spaces, perfect for artist lofts. 

Looking out the car window it occurred to me that the area must already be gentrified.  The people on the street looked just like the people in Williamsburg.  A mix of ethnicities is common in neighborhood, but what really struck me was the fashionable girls.

Asymmetrical haircuts and shoulder-slung blouses.  Tight mini/micro-skirts with patterned tights.  Minimal makeup with bright red lips.  If anything this neighborhood had per capita more fashion than Williamsburg.  The women here looked to have stepped directly out of the latest issue of W. 

Daydreams of my new uber-glam Hunts Point artist loft with all my new fashionable lady friends were then interrupted by Stan's voice. 

"Yeah, this neighborhood has lots of potential, but it'll never go anywhere until they get rid of all these damned crack whores."

Non devo aspettare per portare un vestito, II

A few birthdays back there was a gathering at Starlight with around forty people, using my aging as an excuse to drink.  A late arrival was my friend Tia, with an oversized box.  The first thought in my head was how to carry this large box around with me the rest of the night.  The second thought was wonderment as to the contents.

Tia knew how to create a scene.  While most presents were opened with little fanfare, she made sure the assembled crowd, even those not in our party were witness to the opening.  A simple purple ribbon over a white box opened to reveal a profuse amount of purple tissue.  Conceding in my mind that this was a gag gift of tissue in a box, I peeled away the layers. 

Inside was a black pinstriped Dolce and Gabbana suit.  A quick inspection revealed that it was "real" and not D&G, not a knockoff.  Now, mind you, Tia was a great friend.  She had been there during my awkward "coming out" phase of my mid-twenties, getting me into every club and bar for free with ample drink tickets.  She had also always been shrewd in giving me a "thumbs-up" or "thumbs-down" regarding any prey that was in my sights. 

The suit, however, was a bit of a high price point even between such good friends.  Granted, Tia made good money.  In fact she made huge amounts of money, in cash.  That money, gained by being one of the most exclusive transsexual prostitutes in Manhattan, was always geared toward medical procedures and not exuberant expenditures.

With this in mind, I had to find out what was up with the suit.  With her French-Canadian accent she filled me in:

"Remember that client 'Cokie Wigster'?  The one that pays $500 per hour while sitting in front of a mirror wearing a wig, jerking off, and doing lines while I brush the wig and tell him how pretty he is?  Well, he added a new "element" to his fantasy the other day.

He reached into his closet and had me put on his suit while I was doing the gig.  At the end of the session, he told me to keep the suit and wear it the next time.  What he didn't know is that I didn't want to go there anymore.  The doorman has been giving me "the look" and you know how much Wigsy freaks me out. 

Now obviously the suit is way to big for me, but you are exactly his size.  Voilá et Bonne Fete!"

One of the most expensive items in my wardrobe.  Fits like perfectly and never required one alteration.  Formerly owned by a guy in his Forties who lives in the Fifties and loves his wigs and cocaine.

It was the best present ever.

Non devo aspettare per portare un vestito

Phone-cam quickie: The shoes of summer

Given the current forecast, will white shoes be wearable at all before Labor Day? 

Pride shopping list

It's not too late to buy your pride essentials.

• The Pride Coloring Book

 

• Pride popper inhaler

 

• Pride Air Freshener

 

 

• And of course your Rainbow Song.

Wishes do come true

No, this isn't about fisting.  (That was last week.)

Recently a friend returned from Brazil with some of the famous "good luck" bracelets.  The bracelets, which read "Lembrança do Senhor do Bonfim da Bahia" (which translates to "Reminder of Our Lord of a Good End of Bahia" whatever that means) are tied around the wrist while one makes three wishes.  Those wishes are to be granted when the bracelet comes off of the wrist as long as that removal is from natural wear and not human intervention.

Seeing as Paul attached the bracelet during my third hour of the Eagle Bear Beer Blast, my wishes were, well, on the crass side.  But to the bracelet's credit, one wish already seems to be set in motion.  At least twice a day, hunky Brazilians come up to me and ask me about the bracelet.

The fists of fashion

Why is it that so many prominent fashion designers are into fisting?

• ITEM:  A recent hookup of Alexander McQueen's was going well "until the designer revealed his thoughts on fisting. The lad got scared, made his excuses and left."  But before he left, McQueen's dog attacked him.  (From  this week's PopBitch (via Towleroad)
• ITEM:  The opening of one of the versions of Sound Factory, maybe ten years ago.  Jean Paul Gaultier is there.  A friend working in the fashion industry sees this as an opportunity and decides to make his move thinking that an exchange of sexual favors for career opportunities exists.  Another friend, a transsexual just moved to New York from Paris, grabs the opportunistic one and warns, "You can go for zhis, and I won't stop you.  But you muzt be pre-pared to be fisted by zhat man az he weell inzist upon zhis."
• ITEM:  Out shopping about seven years ago a tall good-looking man is all eyes for me, sporting a shaved head, stubble and a bit of a militaristic look.  As he makes his purchases and after his driver loads them into the car waiting just outside his piercing gaze permeates me.  He enters the car and his driver goes to the front.  The black tinted rear window comes down and his eyes remain fixed on me.  Intrigued, I begin to walk to the window to be stopped by the shop-boy.  "You know who that is?" he asks.  Rolling his eyes to my answer of no, he grabs me by both elbows, "That is Thierry Mugler and if you get in that car you are going to be taken to his place and fisted and maybe you're into that and maybe you're not but you need to know that."  By this time the car is slowly pulling away and Mugler and I wave our goodbyes to one another.