J.Cruel

Constant. Sartorial. Wonderment.

Archive for Denial

The Salem Bargain Hunt

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My name is Goody Rebecca. I hath spent the summer months in penitence for a foolish daisy chain. This harlot wreath did add years unto my purgatory. What to do? You would be surprised to see me today, hair braided and tucked in a neat cap. Yes, I do toil in the field now.

What do I know about plowing? Not much. Daniel Putnam hath given me this task so that I might pay off my eternal debt in the yawning hellmouth of the beyond.

I lean far over my work, prideful in the new stitching in my shirt hem. Plowing is devilish work. Instead I dream of stitching a bit of lace to my cap like Lucy, the whore of Rhode Island.

I lay my head against a rusty plow and began to murmur holy words. Daniel does hear my whispering. 

“Goody Rebecca,” he said “did you just ask the Lord ‘What art oxen?’

The adventures of Goody Rebecca continue in Paul Rudnick’s “Confessions of a Pilgrim Shopaholic” from this week’s New Yorker. 

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Translations: Vince

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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

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Reverie on Rivington

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Angie knew when to say no, she just didn’t want to. Hunter told her that his band was going on at 10. Normally he played spoons in the electro-funk quartet Cobalt and the Beholder, but tonight he clapped quietly in the background of The Worship Potential, the Vatican II, alt-folk band that was really big on the internet. Angie cut the bottoms off her very best pair of leather pants, the ones from her Kitty Pit days, and painted her face tuberculosis white. Oh how he would love her tonight, the ghost of girlfriends past.

Hunter clapped well, if too loudly, tonight. The other band members glared at him at the end of the set, but it was in their nature to quietly forgive him and thank him before floating ethereally away in their khaki pants. Hunter wasn’t like them, but oh how he wanted Joanna, the squirrel-voiced singer who cooed her way through every song. He hurried after her, to the after-party in some grassy, moonlit field.

Angie saw him leave with her and she stood there in the darkness. The leather shorts were slowing turning her lower intestines numb. Crying, she started to slide down the greasy wall of the club. But she could only get halfway.

High waisted Jamin leather shorts with vintage snaps. Do not dry clean. 

Dusk in Darien

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He had hoped that she would sit next to him in the car, in the smooth space between the seats. Instead she slumped on the armrest near the window, like a person found against a door after a fire. She had been awful in the play. She knew it, she knew the kids would know it, she knew the kids would know that she knew it. He was the only one that didn’t know. This was because he didn’t know anything about art. What she could tell him about art if he’d only listen to her! She had been trained as a ballerina and a basket weaver, but people told her—strangers on the street!—that she was too lovely not to act. So she joined a local troupe and acted lovely in a terrible play. This play was not art! Did he know? No, he did not.

Maybe they should yell some more, by the parked car, in front of the headlights where it would look really dramatic. She made a lot of vigorous hand motions as she screamed at him, like she was landing a transatlantic flight at Idlewild. He kept his arms crossed and pulled a surprised expression like a passive-aggressive fish. When they yelled together, it was like they were really important people. Loud artists. It didn’t matter. In a few months they would be in Paris, yelling in French. Like really important French people. Things would be so much better there, so angry and alive!

Luxurious bomber made from silky goat suede. Action back for easy movement. Covered center placket for a clean look.

Translations: Bird

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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™

Read the rest of this entry »