Archive for the ‘Reviews / Recommendations’ Category

CD Review: A gorgeous, beautifully crafted, recording…emotional, yet restrained….from a lifelong Bill Evans fan (update: March 4, 2010)

Wednesday, March 3rd, 2010

Something For You: Elaine Elias plays Bill Evans

I’m such a hardcore Bill Evans place, I convinced myself I shouldn’t leave my New Jersey home simply because my town is next to Bill Evans’s birthplace.

I was charmed when I discovered that Elaine Elias had recorded an album as a homage to Bill Evans. Personally I can’t think of anyone who is in a better position to play Evans than Elias. She has jazz chops, and like Evans, she has classical training and has recorded a classical album (“On the Classical Side”), much like Bill Evans’s “Trio with Symphony” and his J.S. Bach noodling in the “Practice Tapes.” Of course, I also love Brazilian music: Gilberto, Jobim, and de Moraes.

Yes, Elias’s voice leans towards nasal when she sings in English on this album, surprisingly absent in the melancholy “Minha,” for me the gem of the album. Whatever you think of her voice, she more than makes up for it in sincerity. I think the music speaks for itself, and though the words help (Elias writes lyrics to Evans “Here is Something For You”), there is so much honesty in her performance, it’s almost unnecessary.

I think it’s unfair to try to compare Elias’s performance with Evans. She definitely makes the Evans standards hers, not succumbing to mere imitation of his shimmering style. By this I mean a sense of restrained elegance, and a light feminine touch. She still has impressive chops: just listen to My Foolish Heart or Here Comes That Rainy Day. It’s just that it has expertly controlled dynamics where Evans’s sometimes leap out at you. For the longest time, I was fond of saying that listening to early Bill Evans was like walking through a beaded glass curtain. Late Bill Evans was watching drops of water released into the middle of a quiet lake. Elias performance is early Bill Evans seen through the gauze of late Bill Evans.

Marc Johnson (bassist for late Bill Evans) and Joey Barron, both in Elias’s provide ample support with the right touch of sadness so crucial to any story about the heartbreaking life of Bill Evans. The solos are short, enabling a roster of 17 tracks, including a closing one that “morphs” from an original Bill Evans cassette – found by Marc Johnson and played to Elias – to the current recording by Elias. There is also pieces from Evans’s New Conversations (which Evans overdubbed with multiple pianos) that Elias reduced to miniatures for one piano. The motif of a particular riff from Waltz for Debby arises throughout the tracks, pulling it all together.

In the liner notes, there is mention of a bonus track for the Japanese release of this recording, containing RE: PERSON I KNEW, which just made me cry and run to my stuff animals for copious hugs.

The Blasters come to town March 4 / March 6: Be there or be square! (update: March 3, 2010)

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010


One of my favorite still-performing bands is coming to town: The Blasters!!!!!!! I love them! And guess what? Same town as Robert Gordon last month! The center of it all: The Saint at Asbury Park, New Jersey March 6. They are also playing New Haven Connecticut on March 4 at Cafe Nine.

You can click on Phil Alvin’s screeching face above to go to their Myspace page to listen to some of their music.

I apologize for using my blog as a bulletin for upcoming gigs, but being in the business for some ten years, I know how difficult it was when we played shows in New York City. So any additional support I can help get, ESPECIALLY for my beloved Rockabilly, Roots Music, and *cough* Tudorian / Elizabethean music…..the only two genres I afflict my readers with….I’ll do it.

Don’t be a square. Show up!

Jay Leno Returns to the Tonight Show (Update: March 2, 2010)

Tuesday, March 2nd, 2010

Jay Leno returns, Coco the tale of two chimps

Too long for a tweet, too short for an actual entry. Sorry! Will post a real entry later today.

Despite what gossipers are saying about Leno being the meanie, I do wish him well. But if I was someone who got caught in the pageantry leading up to last night’s triumphant return (and I just tuned in to see Coco’s last night several weeks ago, then compared it with Jay’s first night back, I would most likely have said, “This was what the hoopla is all about?”

I like Jay. I think he’s a pro. He can definitely get the standard laughs – one’s you don’t have to work too hard to get. But his routines definitely have a “ghostwriter” feel about them, as if he didn’t really roll up his sleeves the night before to knock them out. So last night’s installment was, well, very predictable, and very safe. And let’s face it, at the end of a long work day, maybe audiences want something predictable before they retire to bed. Maybe naked Max Weinberg in the sex offender’s outcast tents in the backwoods is not an image you want to have before you drift off to sleep, seven hours away from the next work day.

And whenever I get puzzled by the massive conservative votes on poll day, I always need to tell myself, “there’s 48 states between here and California.” Edgy humor about Jewish therapists and masturbating bears may not exactly work with someone who lives in Wyoming and had to put down a Grizzly in the backyard earlier that day.

Still, the return was anything but triumphant. Jamie Foxx was over-the-top in his professional fawner for hire, paid to rouse up the audience. Check’s in the mail. Lindsey Vonn demonstrated why athletes never quite made the leap over to the entertainment world: The audience had to chant U-S-A, U-S-A over her travel-worn voice to keep a viewer from falling asleep, country singer Brad Paisley’s neo-C&W act sealed my suspicions.

When we were driving back from North Carolina, we listened to the present roster of C&W music on the radio. (It was either that or church sermons) We just couldn’t believe how many songs repeated the same images Ad nauseam. By the time we reached Virginia, we were pulling our hairs out: OKAY, OKAY, WE GET IT! YOU’RE A MAN! YOU RIDE A STEER, YOU DRIVE A TRUCK! YOU LIKE THE LADIES! YOU DRINK WHISKEY! YOU GIVE A GOOD BLOWJ- wait, back up one right there Hoss.

But if there’s ever a lineup that screamed “targeted demographic,” it had to be Leno’s Tonight Show v.2 They know who their audience is: Red States people. And who’s tonight’s guest? Sarah Palin.

Keeping in mind that Palin’s appearance opposite Shatner during Conan’s watch was generally seen by his fans as one of the highlights of his 7 month residence, when Leno announced Palin as guest will be her first time ever on the Tonight Show, whatever few Coco supporters who were open-minded enough to give Jay a chance, are gone by today.

Happy Birthday my intrepid and adorable Surrealist! (update: feb 22, 2010)

Tuesday, February 23rd, 2010

They are only a handful of famous people whose birthday I want to celebrate. Among them are Glenn Gould, John Coltrane, George Bernard Shaw, John McLaughlin, Bill Evans, Carson McCullers, and of course, my beloved Jorges Luis Borges. But the person who deserves the most celebratory performance has got to be my favorite surrealist: Luis Bunuel.

Strange that I was forcing my friends to see Bunuel clips just this Sunday: A Slice of Bunuel, where friends of the Spanish surrealist filmmaker (of L’Âge d’or, Un Chien Andalou, Belle Du Jour (my all time favorite film), The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoisie, That Obscure Object of Desire) recount crazy stunts pulled by the filmmaker with the help of his partners in crime, Salvador Dali and Andre Breton.

Among the clips is a home movie showing Don Luis mixing some of his frightening strong drinks, one of which was the Bunueloni. Bunuel and his gang were known for dreaming up potent cocktails, which they dared each other to drink. No surprise that gin is a main ingredient, considering that “mother’s ruin” – a name for the hallucinatory nature of the alcohol – may have been responsible for a large part of surrealist imagery.

Luis Bunuel is known for his attention to preparing drinks. He even had one where his name is attached to one. The Bunueloni. Here is an excerpt from his autobiographical book “The Last Sigh.”

To provoke, or sustain, a reverie in a bar, you have to drink English gin, especially in the form of the dry martini. To be frank, given the primordial role played in my life by the dry martini, I think I really ought to give it at least a page. Like all cocktails, the martini, composed essentially of gin and a few drops of Noilly Prat, seems to have been an American invention. Connoisseurs who like their martinis very dry suggest simply allowing a ray of sunlight to shine through a bottle of Noilly Prat before it hits the bottle of gin. At a certain period in America it was said that the making of a dry martini should resemble the Immaculate Conception, for, as Saint Thomas Aquinas once noted the generative power of the Holy Ghost pierced the Virgin’s hymen “like a ray of sunlight through a window—leaving it unbroken.”

Another crucial recommendation is that the ice be so cold and hard that it won’t melt, since nothing’s worse than a watery martini. For those who are still with me, let me give you my personal recipe, the fruit of long experimentation and guaranteed to produce perfect results. The day before your guests arrive; put all the ingredients—glasses, gm, and shaker in the refrigerator. Use a thermometer to make sure the ice is about twenty degrees below zero (centigrade). Don’t take anything out until your friends arrive; then pour a few drops of Noilly Prat and half a demitasse spoon of Angostura bitters over the ice. Shake it then pour it out, keeping only the ice, which retains a faint taste of both. Then pour straight gin over the ice, shake it again, and serve.

(During the 1940s, the director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York taught me a curious variation. Instead of Angostura, he used a dash of Pernod. Frankly, it seemed heretical to me, but apparently it was only a fad.)

After the dry martini comes one of my own modest inventions, the Bunueloni, best drunk before dinner. It’s really a takeoff on the famous Negroni, but instead of mixing Campari, gin, and sweet Cinzano, I substitute Carpano for the Campari. Here again, the gin in sufficient quantity to ensure its dominance over the other two ingredients has excellent effects on the imagination. I’ve no idea how or why, I only know that it works.

—Luis Bunuel, My last Sigh (1982)

Recipe for the Bunueloni
(as demonstrated in a home movie by the director himself, bartending poolside)

3 parts (3 oz) gin
2 parts (2 oz) carpano (Antica or Punt e Mes) Red Vermouth
1 part (1 oz) (Cinzano Rosso) sweet vermouth

You could halved the recipe, but to really honor the surrealist tradition, you need to tie one on (the gin especially….look at my underlined italics) to touch the stars. I have a personal recommendation to make. If you want a fragrant gin, use regular Bombay. (Sapphire is too strong, and it kills the complex array of botanicals, spices and fruits). If you can’t afford Bombay, definitey go with Gordon’s.

Movie Review: Jennifer’s Body (update: Feb 22, 2010)

Monday, February 22nd, 2010


For all the guys (and girls) that have ever declared they were buying a copy of playboy or penthouse to read the editorials, there is now, “Jennifer’s Body.” Let’s be honest, to watch this movie and criticize its plot development or cinematography is like kicking and screaming about a Kryzstof Kieslowski trilogy for lacking in Transporter-style car chases. You’re not being honest with yourself.

If you have seen this movie, rented it, or bought it, you’re only here for one and only one thing: Jennifer’s Body. For guys, it’s obvious. For girls, it’s to check out the competition and how hard we now have to work to live up to the current gold standard. (Megan Fox is presently voted the World’s Sexiest Woman, unless you live in Kenya or Java)

Fox delivers, definitely demonstrating that she deserves the throne more than her predecessor Angelina Jolie. Although….Amanda Seyfried (of “Dear John”) puts in a hysterical display attempting to look like an unattractive geek (she is not). Johnny Simmons fills in the duties of the trendy, omniscient Seth Rogan Syndrome, providing hope to all lifelong single nerds that they can, indeed, land a hottie like Seyfried (they won’t). Amy Sedaris, IMHO, steals the show as Seyfried’s mom. Sedaris, as the notorious Jerry, of Comedy Central’s biggest outcast, Jerry Blank of Strangers with Candy, here becomes the concerned parent. It makes sense, because Sedaris, like Seyfried, barely succeeds in hiding their good looks.

The acting is horrible, the goth is of the Hot Topic variety, the soundtrack music covers is laughable, and the fear factor is about as suspenseful as the next Macy’s sale (every 23 hours). On the aforementioned departments, the movie gets a 1. But as I have said before: NONE of us are here for anything other than to ogle and gauge Fox’s hottie index and Jennifer’s Body: how we covet, lust after, or have to live up to or be compared with the most prized geometry of present day. Here, Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried scores a 5.

How we rate each film is based on what we are looking for. So the median here would be a 3.


Parthenia and the Rose Consort of Viols is performing this Tuesday Feb 23, 2010

Sunday, February 21st, 2010


My favorite New York City band Parthenia is performing at their residential space Corpus Christi Church this Tuesday night at 8 pm.

You can go to their website and find out more about the show. It will be at the Corpus Christi Church at 529 West 121st Street near Broadway. (by Columbia University)

All seats $25, open seating; student tickets $10 at the door

To Order Tickets

* by phone 212-358-5942
* on line at GEMSNY.ORG


Funny Games: A Ralph Lauren Catalog Gone Awfully Wrong (update: February 4 ,2010)

Thursday, February 4th, 2010

When I heard there was going to be an U.S. remake of Michael Haneke’s Funny Games, I rolled my eyeballs and said “Here we go again.” When I heard Haneke was going to be in the director’s chair, it made me think twice. Haneke is probably my favorite living director, and his interviews are just as interesting as his movies. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t spend a few moments thinking about something he has said.

For fans of this German filmmaker’s oeuvre, it’s a logical decision to bring his most scathing commentary on society’s thirst for violence to the American audience, who pour millions of dollars into revenge fantasies in the box office year after year. After all, cruelty is perfectly acceptable as long as it’s directed towards the bad guys.

In the reiteration of the original Funny Games, the title has taken on richer, more complex dimensions where the movie viewer is being toyed with. Haneke is certainly no stranger to these games, as his “actual money flushed down the toilet” scene in The Seventh Continent (1989) had audiences screaming and fainting in the cinemas. The setting of a well-to-do American family in a vacationing home – though identical to the original “Funny Games” set, now looks like page after page of a luxury designer label catalog. Think Ralph Lauren and the whole Gossip Girl fetish for the Hamptons.

Given Haneke’s enlightening theory of the 19th century tradition of storytelling (audience are manipulated to align absolute good vs absolute evil) anachronistically being kept on life support by Hollywood and escaping Jewish intellectuals during WWII, there’s echos of the whole upper-crust, old guard mystique being constantly resusitated in the fashion world by the likes of Karan, Lauren, and Calvin Klein.

Haneke often cites the works of Leni Riefenstahl during the Nazi regime as a cause for an innate distrust of cinematic manipulation as propaganda. In the simplistic Hollywood order, fair, blonde, blue-eyed (remember, the eyes are the gateway to one’s soul) tend to be the noble hero, and the dark shadowy figure the villain. Here I can’t help thinking of Quentin Crisp’s observation of the perpetual fascination the Jewish male has for the Teutonic goddess.

Happily, Haneke smashes all these systems in both his original and the remake of Funny Games.

Now let us all pray Ron Howard can take a hint and box up his rights to a remake of Haneke’s Caché and tuck it in some dusty storeroom next to the arc of the covenant.


How Did Librarians Get Their Reputation (update: Jan 22, 2010)

Thursday, January 21st, 2010


Me in my cozy little library. Click on the pic for a higher resolution shot

Whenever I go to the public library, I wonder where it is that librarians get their notorious reputation. If you ask the typical guy, he’ll tell you it’s the whole “removing the spectacles and undoing the tight hair bun” fantasy. Somewhere underneath there is a wild child waiting to unleash. It sounds like something you would read in Maxim, FHM, or at the very least, Penthouse Forum.

No, I’ve always thought it was something more insidious. In order to appraise the full arsenal of all the weapons hiding behind the staid book covers – all within invocation with a few taps from her electronic card catalogue – surrounding the written word’s gatekeeper, all you need to look up is de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom, Michel Houellebecq’s Platform, Bret Easton Ellis, Shannon McKenna, crime fiction, Spillane, not to mention bodice rippers and nonconsensual romance novels, – because hey, if the assailant looks as hot as the guy on the front cover…it must be ok, right? Whatever!

Here’s my all time favorite evidence of just what librarians are really hiding behind that boring facade. Witness, Henry Miller’s classic Tropic of Capricorn. One paragraph here is worth its weight in a dozen truckload of adult magazines.

Valeska was generous, but the cousin was a softy. If she came within a foot of a stiff prick she was like putty. An unbuttoned fly was enough to put her in a trance. It was almost shameful the things Curley made her do. He took pleasure in degrading her. I could scarcely blame him for it, she was such a prim, priggish bitch in her street clothes. You’d almost swear she didn’t own a cunt, the way she carried herself in the street. Naturally, when he got her alone he made her pay for her highfalutin’ ways. He went at it coldbloodedly. “Fish it out!” he’d say, opening his fly a little. “Fish it out with your tongue!” (He had it in for the whole bunch because, as he put it, they were sucking one another off behind his back.) Anyway, once she got the taste of it in her mouth you could do anything with her. Sometimes he’d stand her on her hands and push her around the room that way, like a wheelbarrow. Or else he’d do it dog fashion, and. while she groaned and squirmed he’d nonchalantly light a cigarette and blow the smoke between her legs. Once he played her a dirty trick doing it that way. He had worked her up to such a state that she was beside herself. Anyway, after he had almost polished the ass off her with his back-scuttling he pulled out for a second, as though to cool his cock off, and then very slowly and gently he shoved a big long carrot up her twat. “That, Miss Abercrombie,” he said, “is a sort of Doppelganger to my regular cock,” and with that he unhitches himself and yanks up his pants. Cousin Abercrombie was so bewildered by it all that she let a tremendous fart and out tumbled the carrot. At least, that’s how Curley related it to me. He was an outrageous liar, to be sure, and there may not be a grain of truth in the yarn, but there’s no denying that he had a flair for such tricks. As for Miss Abercrombie and her high-tone Narragansett ways, well, with a cunt like that one can always imagine the worst.

I know the queen of the printed matter has her hand in deciding which title enters her castle. Oftentimes, I can’t help but picture her pronouncements on the donated books for the day: “The Mormon Bloggernacle’s Guide to Sick Skateboard Tricks, Lara Flynn Boyle’s Homecook Recipes Vol. 2, Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers audiobook read by Sean Hannity all goes back on the For Sale table. Let’s keep at least three copies of Tropic of Capricorn around.”

And you know, she knows, what’s inside.


Book Review: Kata: The Key to Understanding and Dealing with the Japanese! by Boye Lafayette de Mente

Tuesday, January 19th, 2010


This interesting little book manages to pack insightful observations about the history and permutations of traditional Japanese “kata,” or form in 168 pages. The easiest way to understand kata is that it’s the Japanese people’s idea of the “correct” way of doing something, which in Western equivalent, is etiquette. The Japanese, having derived its culture from a military heritage, infuses “form” into every aspect of their lives: everything from the correct form of humility, to bowing, exchanging name cards, ambiguity in giving answers, making an apology, dealing with foreigners, traveling in groups, and running an office. While this book seems to be geared more towards businessmen and women attempting or considering doing business with the Japanese, it also briefly looks at the cult of cuteness, infantilism, copying, and the Japanese approach to baseball. There’s even a quick observation of the importance of role-playing (which some of us may know as cos-play) and that those we now see at the Hajaruku district, while appearing outlandish, will return to their staid office clothing come Monday morning.

I read in other Amazon reviews that De Mente exhibits a certain ethnocentric arrogance in his look at Japanese culture (the author worked in Japan as a member of the U.S. Military Intelligence Agency in 1949), so I paid additional attention for that monster to rear its ugly head. But I found that that’s precisely where the strength of some of De Mente’s observations lie. No one ever learns anything when everyone is at their best behavior. The protection of etiquette is that it veils what we really want to say. Unfortunately, the quoted praises in the bookcover are from people in similar positions, meaning non-Japanese. I’d be interested to hear what the ethnic Japanese practicing Kata really think about De Mente’s observations, because an analysis of behavior is sometimes akin to conspiracy theories: easy to point out, difficult to disprove. You have a list of evidence and that list traps you into what you “see” in order to support of your evidence.

De Mente states at one point that the Japanese are eager to promote their kata mentality and “continue to emphasize its strong points as the ultimate social formula which the rest of the world should adopt.” I tend to think this is not accurate, as all the Japanese I have come across are insular, keep to themselves, and have no interest in proselytizing their “way” to outsiders. De Mente continually brings up the notion that the Japanese use language, kata, and Japanese-ness as barriers to outsiders (foreigners) from penetrating their culture. That, to me, doesn’t seem as if the Japanese are all that interested in getting the world to adopt their social formula at all. By contrast, when comparing the Japanese to progressive Western culture, De Mente observes that “their society is ruled by form and formulas and in a sense, in many areas, is empty of the individual human content that makes up a much more complete and satisfying emotional and spiritual life.” It seems instead, the writer feels that Western culture is the ultimate social formula that the Japanese should adopt.

There’s also mention of how the Japanese tend to be unfair (“in the Western sense”) and consider anyone who they have not developed good working relationships with to be “fair game.” But then he advises that to get the upper hand – when dealing with the Japanese – one should draw them away from their base, use English as a barrier when one wants to be demanding and get things accomplished, and exploit the tendency of the Japanese to treat any transactions made in a language other than their own as an event that exists in the “other” realm from their reality.

The author often portrays the Japanese as tit-for-tat businessmen who trade favors, lunches, and parties for business deals. He talks about “Machiavellian political intrigue” where office workers block and sabotage each other’s projects for personal promotion. The truth is, this has nothing to do with Japanese kata. It’s capitalism at it’s best, as a global Western culture is quickly replacing anachronistic societies. Working at many different offices in New York City and New Jersey , I have seen these same white collar dramas play out time and again, without a single Japanese person in sight.

I don’t want to give the impression that this is a negative book about the Japanese. It does laud many of the great qualities of a disappearing culture. After all, this is the very same author who wrote “Why the Japanese Are a Superior People!” I love the spot-on sections on the Japanese being “modernized, but not Westernized,” the superficial acquisition of Western “product” as identity, and silence utilized as a weapon to expose the Americans, who fear pauses and combat that fear by talking non-stop. That had me rolling on the floor.


Haute Couture’s Diffusion & pyramid marketing schemes, and Swedish Furniture made in Mexico (update: Jan 15, 2010)

Friday, January 15th, 2010


When Kanye West’s Auto-Tune malfunctions in the studio, he resorts to the next best thing: wearing Cher’s Uninhibited.

I was at that rat’s maze some of you know as Ikea. Normally I go there to play “gay couples vs. mail order brides,” tallying up which group has a higher head count before my visit is up. I actually like Ikea’s stuff. Snobs may poo-poo it as disposable furniture, but that is precisely the charm of it. Who wants to live with the same furniture forever unless is it’s an authentic Shaker dresser? Ikea gives you the living space of the season, and it’s affordable enough to toss if you wake up one morning on the wrong side of bed and hit your head on that armoire.

Modern high fashion, another concept that changes with every season, by contrast, is pure smoke and mirrors. That’s why I roll eyeballs and muffle a laugh when I hear our girls go ga-ga over brand labels and furiously name-dropping designers as if being “associated” with those names is a validation ticket to more woman. It’s no different than Asian women purchasing luxury items as simulacrum for an identity.

I tried valiantly to remember a tv documentary I saw almost twenty years ago. It was an incisive and critical look at the fashion industry. This was just at the nascent stages of supermodel worship, so most of the program concentrated on the nuts-and-bolts of fashion marketing. My memory failing me, I dragged out my trusty old Sony Betamax, plugged it in, and who would have known! That very videocassette is still in the player. It is Gina and Jeremy Newson’s The Look (1992) produced by Janet Street-Porter for BBC-2. It’s a fantastic, eye-opening program. I was surprised you can’t even find it mentioned online. When I typed in “fashion industry”+”documentary”+critical, all that turned up were more supermodel infatuation films. I guess people just can’t handle the truth.

Among some of the gems discussed in the program is the notion of seating at a fashion show. Celebrities and magazine editors jockey for the most prestigious front row seats, but they are also the worst seats in the house. All the photographers stand in front of you and you see nothing. But it’s important to be seen in those seats. What’s more, if you’re a magazine fashion writer and you say one bad word about a collection, you won’t be invited back the next show. So in order to give us fashion advice, these editors who crave the most prominent seats have to brown-nose the designers just so they’ll be invited back another season. But in order to get that invite, they can’t say a critical word about the collection. And we’re taking fashion advice from these tastemakers? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?

The concept of diffusion is the most fascinating item for me. A collection showcases a dress for $30,000 on a runway. 6 people (mostly nouveau riche ladies of middle eastern oil tycoons alongside wives of junk bond dealers) can afford it. The label gets brought down a notch to a $3000-$5000 dress and now hundreds of people who want to purchase the simulacra of taste and breeding hand their credit cards over. The designer adds a consumer line to their collection (Emporio Armani, Armani Exchange, DKNY, Lauren, Brooks Brothers 346) and the washed masses rush in to drop $200 -$400 for a simple sweater. Most of the time, the designer themselves don’t even have ANYTHING to do with making the clothes at this level. They merely sell the licensing rights to their name, and some no name clothier from Thailand slaps the purchased logo onto their handiwork and mark it up by 500%. (This aren’t the knockoffs, it’s the *cough* real thing that then gets shipped to U.S. Stores as the genuine brand item.) You wait and you wait for that sale at Macy’s (which comes around approximately every 12 hours). And finally for those who simply need to feel rich and look like Linda Evangelista (oh alright, Gisele Bundchen for you Ugg Boots wearing embryonic fashionistas), they drop what’s left of their week’s pay on a bottle of Eau de Parfum. (Chanel No.5: Total cost of ingredients $3, packaging: $6, Administration $8. Advertising $8. Final price: $62..00 in 1992)

Where do I fit in in this absurdist pyramid? I’d have to say I’ll be at the Goodwill / Oxfam with my trusty measuring tape. And oh can I pick them! My togs are so fetch, when I sashay pass old biddies in Philly, they rise from their wheelchairs in pilled-cardigans grumbling “oh no she didn’t!”

To that I say, “if you think I look antiquated now, wait till you see what I have in store for next season! Grandmama, Please!”