dusk before fashion

....8:15pm to be precise. Forget Milan, New York, or Tokyo. Last Friday night, the fashion capital of the world was most definitely relocated to MLK Boulevard in the Blanton Museum.Tribeza Magazine hosted a world-class event replete with all the beautiful people in Austin, plus a few tourists that wandered in by mistake.Why is it that a stiff cocktail adds 4 inches to those svelte runway models as they careened down the runway like wayward jets coming in to land at La Guardia?
The music, the crowds, and the pret-a-porter collection came hot off the racks from Estilo, Garden Room, The Girl Next Door, Keepers, and one more -- I forget who. All that fashion gave me temporary amnesia, the swirling dervishes of cotton, silk, and suede clouded my thoughts. Thank god someone had the foresight to remove the tags.

Front row seats allowed us a close up view of the very hems which were graced by these beautiful gazelles, as well as the scuffed shoes of the male models -- something that was not lost on those of us at sole level.In the end, despite one technical hiccup that resulted in one retailer being confused for another -- similar to Nordstrom's being mistaken for Wal-Mart -- the evening ended on a high C.
Drinks, laughter, and gaiety ensued at the Belmont, and then the rest is documented in some binder down at central booking.

hash and eggs

I cannot tell a lie. I must tell several, in quick succession. And why not? What else am I supposed to do when faced with this... "assignment," for lack of a better term. ("Dilemma" was already being used.) I was given the task to go into my literary closet and resurrect the dead. Poems and prose alike, just hanging there lifeless on wire hangers no less. Outfits once destined for the Salvation Army had to be stitched into a passable frock for daytime wear -- and cocktails at 11am. Hemline above the knee, if you please.
How was I to bring new meaning to these works that had found themselves couched comfortably in the confines of a dark 3x5 cell awaiting word from my executors for the date and time of my estate sale? These are the items that would be placed in -- what do they call them? LOTS, oh yes. A fancy catch-all term for "everything in this box $1."
Anyways, this whole ordeal got me to thinking about my own mortality. And the fact that I'm half past due for a Manhattan. They say that when you have a photograph taken, that it takes away a part of your soul. Personally, I think they are getting "soul" and "salary" mixed up, but that's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that we writers pour so much of ourselves onto the printed page, certainly we must sacrifice a little bit of our life energy to the written word. Believe you me, there's a small charge to be paid the Reaper for every split infinitive and dangling participle. A short story is all good and well. But, a novel will just about fuck you up in the worst way. Hell, cigarettes only chop 7 minutes off your life, but a serialized book will top that by a good half hour.
The way I see it, there really is no use in going back to revisit the past and find it inadequate to the memory of the present. You can't unscramble an egg. The stories are still there, in the shoebox of my mind... but the shoes are missing. There, I've gone and done it. I've ruined the assignment. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts and punish myself with a thirst-quenching cocktail.