After a Fashion
The good (Gail), the bad (the big snip), and the fugly (Kim Kardashian) as deigned by Your Style Avatar
I woke up feeling good this morning. Maybe it's just in contrast to how bad I've been feeling lately. Fifteen days post-surgery, I've been ready to wake up feeling good – clearheaded, rested, and pain-free. Wow. Now, if I could just remember some of the things I've done or not done. I'm frequently unsteady on my feet and use a cane, walker, or wheelchair (it depends on whether I'm going to the bathroom or the charity ball), and working those accessories into an outfit is a real challenge. I've considered adopting the Dr. Scott look from The Rocky Horror Picture Show: a wheelchair and plaid blanket with fishnets and heels underneath, of course. But it may be a little too chilly to debut that look until spring. Besides, it will most likely be spring before I fully recover from my next surgery, the dreaded one where I go to the vet for the big snip. Yes, the next column of mine you read will have been written by a man with no balls. But will the future columns have any less sass and brass? I think not.
I practically had to be wheeled on a gurney into the front row for Gail Chovan's Blackmail show at Justine's. Gail texted me in the morning, mentioning that she wished I were there sewing with her again. The clouds in my brain parted, and it dawned on me that this was the day of the debut of Gail's new collection, 14. I was feeling hideous; there was no way I could go, but there was no way I could not go. I haven't missed a show of Gail's in 12 years. I looked like death and certainly felt like it. I decided I would go, even if it was my briefest appearance at a fashion show ever. Finding no glamour within or without, I wore all black topped with my fabulous Coco Coquette wig from Halloween and carried my pearl-handled cane. I lounged on a settee at the end of the runway (it had been electronically protected from anyone else sitting there), leaning on Roggie Baer who provided much support and commentary. Or at least Roggie listened to my commentary. We saw much more than black: exquisite toile-and-lace ensembles, architectural dresses and gowns in black with deep blue, and a fabulous hoop-skirted cocktail dress. Gail's shapes and construction defied convention, as usual, as did the show itself, with the ethereally beautiful models dreamily floating down the runway in slow-motion. It is a signature look for a Blackmail show, but a look that never fades.
So the lovely and talented Kim Kardashian has filed for divorce 72 days after her outlandishly ridiculous wedding. What a fool this makes her seem – remember the three wedding dresses she had to have? The custom-made Christian Louboutin shoes? The circus animals? (Yes, I mean you, Khloe Kardashian.) Pathetic. The "sanctity" of marriage, I believe it's called by the Christian right. How very holy. Kim certainly added a shimmering star to the pantheon of glittering, glaring ruptures to all that sanctity. The mass of gifts the couple accumulated have become a sticking point, according to TMZ, with Kim deciding to not return the gifts (which she feels would be insulting because they were given with "love"), but instead, she'll make a puny $200,000 contribution to charity. (Wow, she must have really wanted to keep all those toasters and sex toys.) And to what charity will she donate? That has not been revealed, but I'll bet it's something really heartwarming like the Toddlers & Tiaras Foundation for Early Cosmetic Surgery or the Make a Bitch Foundation. I find this woman, this fabrication of a woman, so loathsome, so despicable, that I wish she would simply vaporize, leaving us with no memory of her. Wait, isn't that where her "career" is heading now? Britney? Paris? Anyone?