Archive for Decline of Culture
It had been months since the Yankees had ravaged this part of the county, stealing every waistcoat, cummerbund, and cufflink between Atlanta and Macon. Still Beau Beauregard felt the sting. Blue was not his color.
He had torn out the linings of his silk smoking jackets just to make a filter for tea. His pocket squares were now reduced to handkerchiefs. It wasn’t fair! He thought of boyish Beau who had never tied a cravat let alone caught a sow. He thought of his silk Morocco green slippers and how the ladies gathered around him at the barbeque (so long ago!) as he lifted his trouser cuffs. It was well known that he had the largest feet in seven counties. It was a scandal with he had his evening britches tailored five inches too short. Was he no better than that gigolo Patrice Zouard who died his hair pink and downed creme de menthe like it was a tonic?
The house faced east, windows full with the morning light. It was too hot to stand here much longer, there were chores to be done. He let the heavy drape fall, concealing the room once again in shadow.
How could he have been so blind! The curtians! He ran from window to window, laughing. He would be green-eyed Beau once more!
Paisley jacket and trousers. Button fly with genuine mother-of-pearl. Whether you lie, steal, or cheat, you’ll never be underdressed again.
Sometimes we realize that fashion can be hard to understand. A reader once alerted us to a shopping review in The New York Times’ formidable Style section. She found the review dense, confusing, and devoid of any actual information about clothes. As a public service, we the editors took it upon ourselves to offer up a translation of these reviews. It’s a little service we like to call J.Cruel Into English™
In this week’s edition of Translations, we advise Cintra Wilson on a good lawyer, one who can a get her a restraining order from the jumpsuits that haunt her dreams. The store: Vince. The place: The Meatpacking District.
Sometimes we realize that fashion can be hard to understand. Lots of things are hard to understand. Chekhov. Metro North time tables. Cereal boxes. A reader alerted us to a recent shopping review in The New York Times’ formidable Style section. She found the review dense, confusing, and devoid of any actual information about clothes. As a public service, we the editors took it upon ourselves to offer up a translation of the offending article. It’s a little service we like to call J.Cruel Into English™
We loved the Academy Awards in our youth with a kind of fervor that we otherwise only lavished on our nanny, our pony, trips to the Ritz for tea, the monkey Father brought us from India, and tantrums. Now, however, we watch every year and wonder if our childhood self could possibly have been so gauche as to enjoy such a spectacle of ego and inanity. Read the rest of this entry »