[J.Crew blazer + J.Crew check blouse + Paul & Joe suede fringed booties + Mike & Chris leather shorts + Rachel Pally glitter scarf + vintage pendant.]
This blue blazer has morphed into sort of a cartoon of a garment. It makes me feel—when I put it on over anything at all—as if I should be rolling my eyes at kids in the grocery store, rattling off the names of pills I’m positive the fictional housekeeper is swiping from the medicine cabinet, or going out to eat, but sending back all the food just because I can. In other words, becoming some sort of character from a Bret Easton Ellis story. Maybe it’s because blazers have an 80s vibe; an innuendo.
From The Informers, Bruce Calls From Mulholland:
Last summer Bruce stayed with me at Camden and we took the workshop together and it was the summer Bruce and I would swim in Lake Parrin at night and the summer he wrote the lyrics to the theme song from “Petticoat Junction” all over my door because I would laugh whenever he sang the song not because the song was funny—it was just the way he sang it: face stern yet utterly blank. That was the summer we went to Saratoga and saw the Cars and, later that August, Bryan Metro. The summer was drunk and night and warm and the lake.
Blazers remind me of this crazy kid I worked with in Charleston, SC who had a shock of blond hair, visited the dentist every couple of weeks because he “didn’t care how much it costs; I want perfect teeth,” worked weekends at a high-end shoe store on King St. to shoplift Prada loafers, and once told me, “You’re hot and all, but your cheekbones could use a little help.” Refined, despite himself.
He would have fit right in as a character in any of Bret’s stories.
Meanwhile, back in Nerdsville…
I cannot believe I biked back and forth to work 4 times today in this (whilst reciting lines from Discovering Japan: “Godzilla… Godzilla, you idiot… I said Godzilla…”). I must have looked like some preppy goth Witch of the West matriculating at Screw You U with a major in No Wire Hangers.
I wish I was a witch—then I could jinx all the grody dudes who seem to think that because I’m on a bike, they’re even more justified in yelling gross things at me, because—I don’t know, I can hear. Seriously? Could we please start a movement to start yelling obscenities at men who are minding their own business?
Double bubble boil and trouble would have come in handy that time the backfiring pickup truck driver shouted “BABY, OH YEAH,” at me then got stuck at a red light a few yards ahead of me so I had to pull up next to him. And he did it again—as if I didn’t hear him the first time. I would have rolled back the sleeves of my blazer, smiled, cast a spell and turned his mouth into a kazoo.
[The Eagles, covering “Witchy Woman” 1973.]