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.

snapshots of a lesser Hilton

I flew 2,228 miles to Portland last week, and took exactly three pictures with my digital camera.Not to say that the lush greenery and mountainous terrain didn't lend itself to being photographed, it's just that I was never so inclined to view the world through a lens finder.I have always lamented being placed in front of famous landmarks and such just to provide photographic evidence that I was there. Somehow, the thought of posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, or Mayo Clinic is just about as appealing as a round of chemotherapy.

Looking back, this disdain most likely stems from growing up with a mother who always carried a Kodak Insta-Matic in her purse to document even the drollest events. Forever, a blinding flash will be connected to that split second before blowing out the candles, or waiting to ride the next roller coaster, or hurrying to catch the Grey Line tour bus. Lifus interruptus, as it were; that momentary pause necessary to position subjects just so to create the perfect shot -- with another one taken just for good measure.
Most of these trifles have been replaced by the advent of digital cameras which allow you to compose a perfect photograph after the fact. The Alamo or Sphinx can always be added to the background later on in the comfort of your home office.But back to my original point, and I do have one. On my way to downtown Portland on the Red Line, I passed Mt. Hood. I passed daring and bold architectural statements. I crossed the Willamette River, and exited at the beautiful courthouse in Pioneer Square camera firmly packed in my messenger bag next to the Rolaids, gum and bottled water. I visited the world famous Chinese Garden, and took a tram 500ft. up the side of a mountain overlooking the city, and not one photograph.

So what did I take pictures of you may ask?

Why the fabulous sliding barn door to the bathroom in my hotel room, of course.

cocktails on 95

The room seemed auspicious enough, smelling of gumbo; a jumble of cities and continents imported on the skin and clothing of tourists happy to be illuminated in the glowing half-light of the Chicago skyline at sunset.I inwardly imagined that if one is forced to drink a cocktail before dinner, then it should most definitely be done on the top floor of the Hancock Tower. Here we were entombed in a steel monolith overlooking Lake Michigan and the teeming streets below whose dust still covered the soles of our shoes.My fear of heights -- thankfully dulled by the Sidecar which sat in front of me -- was discarded somewhere between the 75th and 82nd floors as we had been quickly propelled to this very spot by one of the fastest elevators in North America, according to the building's website. Not to take credit from the wonderful company that alternately enveloped and preoccupied me in conversation while volunteering to catch me if I faltered and needed physical support.

Politics, love life, and Lindsay Lohan were all topics du jour, as Julia, Doug and I deftly danced through the minefields of popular culture, failing to detonate anything more explosive than an equal condemnation of the Bush regime. My mind wandered to the spiders who made their webs outside the windows up here on the 95th floor, logically questioning their survival up here among the clouds. Of course, then I started thinking about the window washers, and was transported in my own mind outside the confines of our glass enclosed space, billowing against the high winds only to be blown to my death below.

My vertigo suddenly returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and the brave face that I had put forth crumbled like the pyramids of Giza.

The fastest elevator in the world indeed.

"i didn't ought to have went."

I have no idea what was running through Robert Benchley's mind back in 1925 when he wrote the sentence immortalized in my subject header, but let me take a stab at it anyway.

1) If Golden Corral had existed, he may have been referring to that ubiquitous third trip through the buffet line. However, the advent of Alka Seltzer around the same time would most likely preclude any proclamation of gustatory guilt. [Note to readers: Start at the end of the chow line and work your way forward, as buffets are notorious for front-loading with leafy green vegetables, pudding and such so that you don't have any room for the roast beef au jus, Manwich, or what have you.]

2) Benchley could possibly be admonishing one specific trip to the Algonquin the night before a particularly important editorial deadline. But seeing as I know a little something about neither bars nor deadlines, I cannot suppose.3) Dorothy Parker, long noted as an insufferable companion -- and a sufferer, could prove to be a likely source for the above-mentioned quote for she was known to be a steadily bad influence on the writer. "Tontant Dwinker," I believe is the acronym.

4) A trip to anywhere in New Jersey. Enough said.

5) My final guess would have to include something to do with the workplace. Oh, how Benchley hated toiling in the confines of an office, as do most proletariats. But seeing as our present occupations enable our spouses to live in the manner to which they have become accustomed, work has become a necessary evil. Although, the thought of abruptly quitting to go live off of the free salad bar at Golden Corral can't be altogether discarded.

mail carrier's tabernacle of the divine serendipity

I made my annual pilgrimage to the Northeast Station Post Office at 900 Blackson this afternoon -- a sort of Hajj, if you will seeing as I normally like to avoid the lines, lay back and enjoy my taxpayer-subsidized delivery service. However, in this case I was summoned to pick up a package that would neither fit in my mailbox, nor be safely placed on the front porch away from prying eyes and pedophiles.

I had ordered a Calvin Klein tuxedo online against the wishes of co-workers and soothsayers alike. But, my inner muse directed me to throw caution to the wind, and hit the submit button so that the suit would arrive well in time before the HRC Gala dinner in mid-March. Hence, the above mentioned trip to the post office five days after the fact.I walked inside and was greeted by a line of 20 people in various stages of exasperation (not to be confused with perspiration, mind you as this was an extremely clean crowd based on attire alone.)
Normally, I am not one to grouse about such things as the price of tea in Mexico, or the high ratio of customers to employees. But, I'd like to make an exception this time around. Where were my federal workers?

To compound matters, a cd player behind the counter was blasting what could best be described as a compilation of the Greatest Church Tent Revivals Hymns of 1987, forcing me to consider looking for funeral home fans in the back of the pews alongside the self-adhesive stamps and Priority Mail envelopes.Didn't separation of church and state specifically prohibit this type of proselytizing on government property? I was ready to speak in tongues, none too friendly.The lady next to me was obviously of the same agnostic mindset as we both smiled knowingly at each other and bobbed our head in time to the rhythmic chants of "praise him, praise him."A man's voice boomed from the speakers... "raise your hand if you are here to worship Jesus!"

Not surprisingly, everyone stood still in sheepish silence. Perhaps he should have asked if anyone was just there to pick up a package.

press release

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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
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Renowned Scholar Cracks "Carr Paradox"

Austin, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER 14, 2078. At the turn of the millennium, a little known Texas author was posting to blogs and creating a name for himself on the World Wide Web, as it was referred to at the time. His treatises on life, sex, and the predicament of casual fashion as it directly correlates to the decline of Western civilization were hailed by fans and critics alike. For years following his death, researchers scrutinized these written gems for clues to crack the mystery that shrouded the reclusive writer's life. Now, after fourteen years of sleuthing, Portland author Francine Esther Harding — herself an artist — claims she has the answer. And her online reference work, OrWhatHaveYou.Org, will eventually reveal all.

You might call it “The Carr Paradox,” but a more accurate title would be “Brian Carr's Philosophy about Things on Places.” The term was coined by the Oregonian scholar herself. It is also the title of her essay to appear next year in "The Trans-Orbital Monthly," now available on most interplanetary shuttle flights.

The paradox, according to Harding, is that the War on Terror era scribe, Brian Carr, conspicuously flaunted his homosexual affinities throughout his entire life, but never became a recognized member of the gay movement itself. This factoid hints at a far more fundamental problem: the writer was consumed by his own sexuality.

“The only solution to the paradox,” asserts Harding, “is to keep your grip on both horns of the dilemma and never let go of either one. Carr was the propagator of ‘the institution of manly love’ yet he always felt on the periphery of the gay community. My research explains how this maddening contradiction was possible.”


And the answer to the Carr Paradox? Was Carr a Queer? “The answer,” quips Harding, “is no, Carr was not a Queer. He was infinitely too good of a Queer to ever be a Queer.”

For more information, contact:
Francine Esther Harding, Curator
OrWhatHaveYou.Org
75521 N Woolsey Ave
Portland
OR 97203