Words, to your mother.

Epic moment this (late) morning: I was struck with what I like to call "the beat". Words came to me before I'd even gotten out of bed and I began writing a story that I cannot wait to finish. Such an exhilarating feeling.

Then I thought I lost my keys, credit card, licence, and student ID, but I just found them, at 7:30 p.m., in my kitchen. I sketched into the building, the intrepid that I am, while a boy was leaving. He gave me weird eyes.

London lost an estimated 700 million GBP from yesterday's complete infrastructural failure. And the transport chief says, "We did the best we could." Weak.
Just watched Elem Klimov's Добро пожаловать, или Посторонним вход воспрещён (Dobro pozhalovat, ili Postoronnim vkhod Vaspryecyhon) which is a Krushev-era Russian film about kids at summer camp and it was hi-larious. In one scene the boys dove into a poison ivy grove so that they would not have to see their parents at visitor's week. Adorable! I could watch Russian films all day long.

Back to Cool

In the space of 90 minutes I slipped back into myself. Hilary Masters is teaching me Survey of Forms: Fiction.

Again, Hilary Masters, son of Edgar Lee Masters who wrote Spoon River Anthology, is teaching ME the art of fiction. By the passage of knowledge I will reap the genius of several highly regarded authors, as channeled through a highly regarded author whose dad was my required reading in high school.

I think badass may run in the family. He regaled us with tales of phone calls from Eleanor Roosevelt, checking in on Hyde Park's local news. He loves Weeds, especially Nancy Botwin. He was stranded in Oklahoma on Route 66 alongside his 1940 convertible.

I'm reunited with my first love, a creation borne from stealing, lying, and antagonizing. From wrong, right. I'd giggle if I weren't in a computer cluster.

I'm seeing Ratatat on Friday at Diesel, a real-life Pittsburgh nightspot. In the words of Buster Bluth, I feel alive!



And I want this^. I wonder if it's vegan (since it's Stella McCartney)...

Remember Proenza Schouler? Those two guys who are kinda dating, maybe brothers? Well this is what they've tossed onto the table, and if I were a rich man I'd be in it. And that wordplay would have increased proximity too.
<-- Well of course Miuccia Prada "thought using a little bit here and there is tacky, so we've had all Switzerland working on couture lace. They're in shock."

Yes, hospitalised for shock after a year of 16-hour workdays spent frilling up lace to pay for some horrendous[ly expensive] efficiency. Oddly, les élites du monde d'haute couture seem poised to continue praising this lacy bullshit until someone comes forward with some criticism that diverges from the homoerectile Oedipal compulsion party line. Of course this person will be a freelance fashion reporter, or some Rachel-Zoe-with-glasses publicity whore whom no one will take seriously. Hence, more praise, more money, and all I get is a pair of glasses. (They're great glasses!)

Leg-er! Hemlines hike up in Leger's scooping catsuit-style minidresses. Slinky materials wrap the hips and midsection, and cleavage takes a backseat to buns and thighs. My favorite piece is the open-chested dress that forms a heart! Adorable.

Diane Von Furstenberg's Fall 2008 collection is sensual, creamy, and reminiscent of the 1940s manned-down silhouette of sex appeal. This last outfit is the most vibrant and gorgeously composed ensemble I've seen for fall and maybe even forever. Diane's still got it.

Notes to self:

-FenderBender

-pregnancy and young couples (Making parentheses around her stomach with his hands, he pronounced in shrill, precise tones, "This. Will not become. That.")

-Ginger's coffee that tastes like burnt azz.

Back to school, back to cool. Stay trill, yinz.