Fuck yes. Approved. [Note: Double Beard, hot blondes (The BSD sees you, Lily. Please bring back the Maxwell cd you stole from me. [[accusatory glance]]), "FUCK OFF" hat, and is that a Modelo to the bottom left?]
Georgia, Georgia, The whole night through. Approved. IM me.
Haircut awesomeness. Approved. Awesome pea-type trench. Excellent.
Anna Selezneva. Privet, kak dela? Prostite za neudobstva. Ya znau chto vce budet horosho. Vce bilo chet znaet kak. Approved.
Oh my god, this wins on so many levels. 1) First of all- Erin Wasson. Approved. I'd rob you of the ability to walk. Honestly, Erin, and let's talk here, 'cause it's been a while coming. Yeah, yeah, it's just us. No, don't worry, this part is totally private. Yeah, like a private chat. Yes I remember AOL and the chatting shi---- Yeah, I promise no one will see this. What? Erin! Would I do that to you?!? What do you think I am? Of course, baby, just you and me... Will you just stop asking questions!?! Fuck. OK. Sorry about losing my cool there. Back to us... How bout you, me, a bottle of gin? You be you, I'll be me, and we'll see where this thing goes. 2) Dude, yes. There is a piece of the BSD in you. Just like there will soon be a piece of the BSD in Erin Wasson. Approved. Bonus points for the "Fuck Off" hat.
Its hard making my romantic appeals online via an hysterically funny and massively popular online high menswear fashion blog. Its clear I have the looks, the overwhelming I know not what that brings women to their knees, the sculpturally defined body, the intellect of a MENSA-worthy candidate, the tongue of Joyce, the sensibility of Wilde, the charm of Flynn, the louche style of Brummel, the appetite of the Earl of Rochester, the avarice of Howard Hughes, the musical tastes of Wagner, the artistic abilities of Matisse, the advanced free thinking of Jacques Vache, the ability to throw a sexy party like Sir Francis Dashwood (look it up), the sexual prowess of Caligula--- You know what, Leigh, just call me already. It scares me to see such exquisite comeliness. Some would say pulchritude, but not me. I'd be too busy fixing a G&T, lounging on my round, turning bed, begging you not with my words but with my eyes, fixed tenderly and enduringly on the Shangri-la which is your body, Dionysus' own altar of bacchanalian worship, inspiration to the artist who creates with every breath, every move, every word, every lascivious thought, the inner BSD.
Snarls and stank. Up in this club. This party looks funky. Approved.
I don't know if its the tattoos, the shit-eating "I know something you don't know" look, Idaho on her arm- it just works for the BSD. And sometimes, more often than not, especially with the BSD, some questions are better left unanswered. The BSD has begun making his Shanemas list, and this young woman is on it. Approved.
The BSD is finding all kinds of things he likes lately. This young lady can come over, have a seat in the waiting room, read from my voluminous collection of classics, knowing that the BSD will never devolve into an Orgon-like character, prudish and a bigot, but will remain always, in many ways, Tartuffe incarnated*. If Moliere doesn't strike her curiosity, she can pick up Euripides and contemplate whether Medea should have taken revenge on Jason, who has characteristically left her for another woman. Approved. Bonus points to the BSD for an Euripides reference.
YOU BETTA WORK! Approved.
Lady Oh-My-GaGod what happened to her fucking tits?? NOT Approved. Not to mention, and I don't want to get started here on some frivolous tangent, in which, from all appearances, I am about to willfully indulge myself, her face looks really thwarted. I want to say she had an off night, because much of the BSD supports her absolute inanity with blind indifference, stunned and amazed every time she peeks her head out of a car wearing something just fucking absolutely retarded, but I ran into her outside the bathroom at the Boom Boom Room, and it was a trainwreck. Gaga had yayo all over her face, smeared, rubbed, gratuitously and without remorse, into the underpinnings of her nose, resulting in an audible drip. Always immaculate from the neck down, this woman [sic] is an art gallery of the avant-garde, a veritable MoMA of pop music. She is some sort of treasure and belongs in a museum. Flapjacks.
Vespa. Approved. Yellow Vespa. Double approved.
I hated this the first time I saw it. Up close I like it a bit more. Still not approved, but up for debate.
Awesome grey sportcoat. Approved. Beard. You know it.
*As the play begins, the well-off Orgon is convinced that Tartuffe is a man of great religious zeal and fervor. In fact, Tartuffe is a scheming hypocrite. He is interesting as a character in that he gets around Orgon not by telling lies but by allowing him to use his power as the master of the household over everyone else. By the time Tartuffe is exposed and Orgon renounces him, Tartuffe has legal control of his finances and family and is about to steal all of his wealth and marry his daughter — all at Orgon's own invitation.
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