Everybody. Into the hot tub now.

J.Cruel

Constant. Sartorial. Wonderment.

Everybody. Into the hot tub now.

June 5, 2009 at 1:50 pm · Filed under Cult of the Body, Rags to Bitches, Soldiers of Fortune

Swim

She explained the rules, and they said that they respected rules. Then one of them laughed. She could not be sure which.

Rocco was the one with the scar on his cheek. Vladimir wore rings on every finger. Stiva’s chest hair looked like disheveled macrame. Felix had a portrait of Brezhnev tattooed on his back. The one they called Wimpy had been an assassin in his youth. The one they called The Generalissimo never spoke.

But, underwater, they were all the same. They were all just hairy thighs.

Lycra one-piece with interlacing soutache. My, what a tangled web we weave.

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Recession Finds: Scapegoats

Ever since Grandmother Sneedletrumpet presented us with our first pair of kidskin button-up ankle boots on our seventh birthday, we've known goats had their uses. We enjoy goat cheese upon occasion. We think goat hooves and horns and that twisted little beard were an excellent choice by Satan's stylist: very sexy, very masculine, very Tom Ford-does-a-demon (which maybe he has).

But these days we've found a new use for goats. When someone says we've thrown all our money on frippery and finery that can only be worn once, we say we would wear it again except that the goats got into our closet. When they say our husband shouldn't have accepted that $10 million bonus from his failing bank after he pushed a big (and goat-influenced) investment in Crazy Cheney's Teabag and Waterboard Tortureporium, we say, "But think of the poor goats! Who will feed them if not we? What will they eat if not $100 bills?" When accused of buying houses and estates we cannot afford, we say, "Twasn't us! Twas the goats!" When asked why we have fled the country, we say we have taken the goats to convalesce beside Lake Lucerne.

We all need someone to blame. May we suggest a goat?

Featured Item

A Basket of Posies She was surprised when Trevor began to bring her home small trinkets: a knitted hand soap cover, a felt rock. He’d always been so thoughtful. He made her this necklace of felt flowers and vintage baby ribbon. He made her a pot holder crocheted with owls. He made her a lot of things at his secret Brooklyn Crafternoons, just so he didn’t have to tell her that he had been fired from his investment banking job two months ago. Leonora and Zoë were receptive to his troubles. As he crafted, they stared at him like two crocheted owls. He felt like a man again.

Ask the Editors

Q: The other kids at school don' t like me. What can I wear so they will?

A:. How we wish we had had a faceless cyber entity to ask this question of when we were small. Of course, we were born fabulous, but still it would have been nice to avoid our greatest regret: when we wore seamed stockings to M. Balmain's atelier.

First, we shall offer the obligatory reminder that one's inner beauty is what matters most. Second, we shall say that the best way to reveal one's inner beauty is to cover it with a lovely mink. But, my pet, you forgot to say whether you are a budding fashionista or fashionisto, whether you are a wannabe mean girl or the swishiest boy in the fourth grade? They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so we offer you a simple piece of pictorial advice. If you are a girl, try to be like her: