The BSD Approves: Installment 8

Welcome to the night before the morning after, the tainted seduction that leads to inevitable remorse and self-flagellation, undoubtedly which tomorrow's slightly clearer and newly intoxicated state will bring in spades.

But right now, recline in your faux-leather chair, pull it up to the computer, join the BSD in a cocktail of clouded origins and ingredients. It's time for The BSD Approves and tonight my fecund loins are ablaze in marvelous, dandyish aphorisms and sorted, depraved, and obscene reality, a potent, virulent cocktail able to sway the steadiest of ships.

Bitch, you look good enough to eat. Look here, shorty. I see you over there, talking to Jean-Pierre le Douche. You need to come talk holla at the real fat vibe Faberyayo 'cause you're looking mighty tasty. You lookin' like a meal. In fact, you look like Breakfast, bitch.

Kate Moss and Johnny Depp, couple. Trashing hotels, holla'in "fuck tha world!", smoking indoors, grabbing asses, fighting emphatically and making up even more so. Turbulent, violent, passionate. Everything the BSD wants in a relationship.

Maybe it's some sort of obvious mental inconsistency but the BSD wants a relationship where the girl(s) is(are) potentially jealous and intensely delirious and erratic. I want it to embody everything that is the enemy of common sense.

Picture DIQG spray-painting the outside of the houseboat's cabin, defacing the SS the George Takei epicly, completely, smashing windows on the port and starboard, rushing to the stern with an earnestness typically reserved for lunatics and poets, decidedly ruining the door as she enters the stabbin cabin foot-first Bruce Lee style, and with one fell swoop swipes the BSD's nautical wardrobe, nearly tripping over herself amidst a drug-fueled frenzy galvanized by the BSD's relentless womanizing and public indignation, his heartless passions loosed upon a DIQG wanna-be, and strides awkwardly, bespoke clothing in hand, pale blue eyes and creamily hued hands dewily grasping the Margiela, the Dior, the YSL, the Balmain, the Raf Simons, and, placing it on the polyurethaned wooden bow*, doused in lighter fluid and a dark sexuality, sets it alight to the bereavement of the BSD and fashion curators at large.

When the BSD gets home, he finds his home at sea awreck and disheveled, a veritable portrait of the man himself. He walks inside slowly, intently, focused, like the deer hunter. He sees DIQG at the table, bottle of Gordon's London Dry Gin in hand (knowing full well that 4 more bottles lie unopened near the stern) and she's sobbing, but through her tears and with an hatred reserved for lepers or an absent father, relinquishes in a sodden lump of ethereal resplendence on the shag rug, middle of the polished mahogany floor, unable to manage any more than a peep. Then, as if possessed by Mephistopheles himself, she rises up and at the BSD, lurching forward, gorgeous, darkly angelic, heaving towards him with rage and lust, scratching at his face, her fingernails tearing into his majestic shoulders, rippling and energized by the frenetic madness, daring to grab for her face.

The BSD seizes her jet black hair, pulls it violently, assuredly. She pants in his face and he in hers for naught but a millisecond. Abruptly thereafter, the BSD and DIQG are touchin' butts, and DIQG wakes up with bruises, but satiated.

Approved.

Awesome editorial by the BSD's buddy Eric Martin, shot for Metro*POP Magazine, featuring Cintia Dicker and Travis Hanson. Yes, the BSD's partied with her, and yes, she is a ginger- a very spicy hot ginger at that. Approved on all accounts.

These are the motherfucking Alexander McQueen shoes that earlier I thought should have their own post. However, in the interest of brevity, they are just fucking out of this world hot-ass awesomeness. Yo D-Shay, let's kick it. Approved.

Natasha Poly, my future ex-girlfriend, shot by Solve Sundsbo for Muse. Just really?

Work. Approved.

Cory Kennedy. I like her. Approved.

One day, in the not-too-distant future, the BSD will be asked to teach a class, probably on the philosophical ramblings of Descartes or the incoherent babbling of the Marquis de Sade, and when he goes to teach that class, he will wear this outfit, with an overcoat (clearly a one-off, feathered, and complete with embroidered initials and BSD logo) by Giambattista Valli. Approved.

Darling, where do you want the BSD to put it? Right now?

Would the BSD? Daaaaamn riiiight. Approved.

Sorry, but Nicki Hilton is looking delicious right here. Approved.

This dude's got some DERELICTE! going on and the BSD sees something he likes for his Fall/Winter wardrobe in the coat, the sloppy long-sleeved tee, the decadent necklace, and the hair (which, along with the Beard, the BSD is currently pursuing with deft flair and the appropriate aplomb, fear you not). Watch this space. January 2010.

Approved.

Welcome to my loft- WAIT! Not the rare camel sculpt--- well alright, alright. It's a party.

Approved.

Diet Butcher Slim Skin Goatskin Blouson Down Jacket. A-FUCKING-PROVED. Check that shit. It is fly as fuck.

Yay, though the day was long and the night spent penning this missive slightly longer, the BSD is off to dreams of candy, dereliction, snowfalls, windswept hair, a feverish love affair with DIQG, supple goatskin jackets, and of course, himself, kingly and good, handsome and cavalier.

*Despite the protestations of the SS the George Takei's chief architect and yachtsman, the BSD insisted on polyurethaning the bow, fully knowledgeable of the inherent dangers of a polyurethaned forward in both the handling and maneuvering of the foresail and the halyard.