At various times, most of the time, now maybe, I have liked fashion. I subscribe to GQ. I know, but I do. I subscribe to weird French fashion magazines sometimes where the models are nude and waifs, and unhappy and look like gazelles. I have two minds. I have five or six. I like hippies and Upper East Side hopelessly self-important models and real amazing spiritual people and MMA fighting (mixed martial arts–don’t even get me started) and artists and bad-ass punks, and almost anyone who is on the outswing of their pendulum and anyone who is drinking the cup of passion in their life. I like Lindsey Lohan, and I”m not kidding. I am seeing that this life is the trip I have in this body. This one and that’s it…unless this isn’t it, but can I really be held accountable for material that was not in the syllabus?
I am not avoiding the topic. I do like fashion. I like thinking about and knowing something about the people who place importance on draped beauty, who define for us what length of pant to wear, or what print works for the cruise collection. I like that they are out there making it matter. What? Are we going to spend all day everyday on the sadness of the world? Even Jesus said the poor will always be with us. He followed it up with an admonition to keep our eye on the heavenly ball, but at this moment I am focusing on the frivolous Gucci ball. It does not matter and it matters a lot…to me. I want there to always be people caring about fashion. I do. I want it to be about clothes and why they matter. Sometimes those clothes are amazing. I’ll stop…after this. Let yourself care a little about the cut of the dress you see winking above the pumps, about the way the tie rebounds off the suit. It’s fun. The misery is always and everywhere; allowing beauty in the midst of it is like having dessert first. Life’s uncertain anyway, so dessert first, as they say, is probably a good idea.