The BSD Approves: Installment 12

Early afternoon once again finds the BSD deep within the fleecy grip of gin, filthy in his thoughts, immersed in languid lewdness and inspired by the obstreperous happenings at the weekend, his loins tingling with bawdy, ribald half-memories.

Yea, this is naught but a momentary lapse of sensual lucidity, and soon the BSD shall return, in all of his robust and strapping dignity to once again mutt the intrepid subconscious of his loyal followers, his groupies of louche recalcitrance.

It's Wednesday, "Hump Day" as some might call it, or "Another Day The BSD Defiles A Resplendent Barely-Legal Fashion Society Girl" as the BSD kindly denotes.

In his magnificence and benevolence, the BSD delivers to you, here below, another installment of The BSD Approves, a "wildly entertaining though oft-times disenchanting and disturbing oeuvre of self-love and overt self-indulgence" (New York Times, Style Section, Sunday, January 2, 2010).

I love everything about this look. It hints at the perverse sexual intensity that the BSD possesses and the insane lament. The places I would put those horns. The BSD Approves.

Dree Hemingway, scion of Ernest, future ex-girlfriend of the BSD. She has almost everything the BSD needs on which to build my lascivious literary empire; the name, the look, the loquacious disobedience and desire to upset her family's paradigm. She could ride the BSD's pony like Paul Revere.

Approved.

FREE + REALLY WET. If I had a nickel for every time a lady has said this to the BSD, I'd purchase Man About Town Magazine and YSL. Approved.

ANIA. Holy shit, not only dear friend and co-conspirator of the BSD, but good luck charm and cohort in concupiscence as well. Her filth and gloriously roguish tomfoolery make each and every day more blackened and feculent. In the best way ever.

APPROVED.

Tons of horniness today, right? As I mentioned before, it is Wednesday.

If this chick looked at the BSD this way (which inevitably she would), she'd already be in the backseat of my car, disappointed.

Approved.

This white piano could be the one on which the BSD will write his orchestral masterpiece, playing on the chord progressions of Wagner and the childlike, Baroque innocence of Brahms, invoking a serious suggestiveness and an indelicate shamelessness.

Approved.

For sure. The tits. BSD needs these to hide from his soul the morning after impetuously mutting a certain socialite/DJ and marrying her in a private ceremony aboard TSSTGT, replete with flowers and symphonies and daffodils and balloons and cartons of cigarettes and formidable amounts of the Creature and, of course, our dear friends and family.

Approved.

Emma Lou. For reasons only you can imagine (but suffice to say involve sensual recklessness and rash imprudence, as well as mindblowingly obnoxious feats of physical bewilderment and cheeky friskiness).

A-fucking-proved.

Debauched elegance and dilapidated delicacy. Much like the BSD's beautiful mind- transgressive genius.

Approved.

Um, yeah. Approved.

BOA hot-ass leather jacket. The BSD would genially and subversively approach your date, take her number and sizes, immediately order some Agent Provocateur, have it delivered via bike messenger to the lounge/house party/club, assault the bike messenger, take the Agent Provocateur, leave with her, bring her back to the loft on the Bowery, take her upstairs in the warehouse style elevator all the while softly tonguing her neck, reach for her undercarriage only to discover that she discarded her panties either in the cab or on the streets, one of those locales at which we were making out furiously, and upon arriving in the loft, hit the switches which light the candles and turn on the Otis Redding, and then, firmly and intently, give her the Gift.

Oh yeah. It's like that.

Approved.

The BSD Presents: Golden Girls Style

Fashion, being a cyclical and brutal beast, often times rehashes fantastic sartorial moments in our collective popular history.

If you were watching with an eye anywhere near half the intensity of the BSD's monocle of savoir-faire, you may have noticed something fascinating- it seems fashion's revolving door has opened to a lobby of Golden Girls inspired pieces.

If you check out the Alexander McQueen collection, Balmain, and much of Paris, you'll see the metallic encouragement and drapey elegance that Blanche Devereaux, Rose Nyland, Dorothy Zbornak, and Sophia Petrillo made so effortlessly chic.

Look at this lady! Post-menstrual and horny as the BSD, Blanche made the most of her gigantic shoulders and even larger libido. Her Southern charm and gaping vagina featured in many storylines in the series, and her fashion choices reflected her enigmatic persona.

Oddly shaped dildos? Maybe.

Emmy Awards? Fuck yes.

Golden Girls is one of the few shows in which each of the leading actors received Emmy Awards for their performances. No jokes here! I love me some GG- the real GG.

These ladies practically invented the three-piece-matching-ensemble. Genius.

Yeah. While searching for GG photos, I came across two which slightly disturbed and strangely aroused me. I've finally figured out what tattoo I'm getting. It's the one below.

WOW. Yes.

Epulets! Shell necklaces! Shoulder pads! Elegant draping! Rolled sleeves! Old, dry, saggy tits!

You'll be thinking about this one as you fall asleep tonight, and Estelle Getty will haunt your naughty dreams.

Like the Mona Lisa, her eyes follow you wherever you go.

Until the next time,

THANK YOU FOR BEING A FRIEND,

TRAVEL ROUND THE WORLD AND BACK AGAIN,

YOUR HEART IS TRUE, YOU'RE A FRIEND AND A CONFIDANTE.

AND IF YOU THREW A PARTY,

INVITED EVERYONE YOU KNEW,

YOU WOULD SEE,

THE BIGGEST GIFT WOULD BE FROM ME,

AND THE CARD ATTACHED WOULD SAY,

"THANK YOU FOR BEING A FRIEND."

Stay Gold, Motherfuckers!

Bitch Is Crazy

Great Moments in Beard: Installment 9

Jason appropriately grabbed his aggressive-salmon colored drink, nattily illustrating the patterned goodness of his sports coat and amply drawing attention to his masterful grasp of color, then proceeded to drank the Creature once he accepted that the "double watch" was yet to catch on.

Yet, as William Shakespeare was quick to point out, "He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man."

Bonus points to Jason for what appears to be a miniature boutonniere.

The BSD Approves: Installment 11 (Shanemas Wish List Edition)

It's been a long time and I shouldn't have left you without a dope beat to step to.

But yea, I did.

In the lubricious interim since we last spoke, the BSD has been downing gins and tonics, immersing himself in classical literature, symphonious harmonies, averaging 4 goals and 2.5 assists per game of indoor soccer, and scouring the bowels of the Earth for things both naughty and nice to Approve and Disapprove, as is his mercurial wont.

As I write this tome, I sit besieged by Portrait of An Artist on the Wealth Channel, drinking in its every word and luxurious aim, the BSD making his own capricious assessment of Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix, most assuredly a more poignant, gnostic, and perspicacious estimation of this revolutionary work. Obviously, had the BSD been around at that time we'd be telling a very different story, one more centrally fascinated on drunken debauchery and lewd dealings and probably a painting whose meaning (and focus) is obscured by these inclinations but remains timelessly nevertheless intoxicating.

Now, Ladies, the BSD shall put the paint to this canvas, splash it all over your nude personage, roll you around sloppily and paint-splattered on my masterwork, and adamantly make sweet, sweet passion on you. Sweet, literary and sanguine passion. Right on you. That's right.

Sip it up. That gin is not going to drink itself.

For some reason when I look at this picture, all I can see is the girl on the right. Maybe it's because she's doing that "tongue-into-the-cheek-like-she-really-enjoys-mouth-massaging-the-BSD's-awe-inspiring-junk" face.

Right on. Approved.

(Ladies, take note.)

The BSD has a birthday coming up. Hint hint.

Approved.

Here is another gift idea for the BSD.

Approved.

This photo reminds the BSD of his old penthouse on the Upper East Side and the adjunct fire escape. That, and of course, hollering at bitches from it. Hollering at bitches + fire escape chillin' = Approved.

Leather jacket, so long as the fit is tight and the BSD's slim and slender physique is put conspicuously on display for the indulgence and amelioration of those with the female gift.

Approved.

A bedazzled hat? Fuck yes. Approved.

Oh yeah, this thing. Approved.

I had the help put the sign out front again. It's that time of year.

Approved.

It's No-Shave November and you know what that means- Beard Battles!

Approved.

The BSD loves mirrors because he's never been disappointed nor seen anything he hasn't liked in one.

Approved.

Now that is a motherfuckin cockpit! Put the BSD in this thing and he will take your girlfriend and change her phone number so can't reach her.

Approved.

The BSD was only wrong once- that's when he thought he had made a mistake. His mistake? Thinking he couldn't get away with these glasses.

Approved (He can).

Alas! The BSD's new haircut. Yep, because that's how I roll- high and tight.

See what I did there? There it is.

Approved.

Yeah he is. I hope that motherfucker can make a drink and saves me a seat with all my friends.

If he can, Approved.

Abbey Lee, the incongruousness of your face with the blatant nudity of your torso confuses the BSD, as if you are trying to surprise him by showing up nude, which, let it be known, would not surprise him in the least bit.

But you can bet your sweet Australian ass it would be Approved.

The only costume I've seen which I've liked more than my own. The BSD recently read an article, or maybe it was the dictionary, and he came upon a new word- jealousy. Still not entirely sure of it's meaning, the BSD thinks that maybe that is how he would feel if he was both a) capable of feeling and b) if someone did something cooler than he.

Still, for the effort, this outfit is Approved.

For the fact that it's not the BSD rocking it, Not Approved and you should go choke on a bag of dicks.

T. Approved.

Sweet bike. Approved.

As the BSD is a king, it is only fitting that this be his toilet. Be impressed, intrigued, and slightly curious.

As to what, the BSD is not sure.

Approved.

Yeah, this thing is fucking tits. The BSD wouldn't mind finding this in his Shanemas Stocking.

So there are some ideas- still 45 days, 1 hour, and 15 shopping minutes left.

The BSD's Unintentionally Artsy Halloween

Pious as all hell and reeking of the demon seed, the BSD trounced around NYC this weekend, appalling and elegant, absolving the sins of the City's nefarious characters, sublime in his actions and confident in his Bearded Glory.

The BSD was righteous in his ways and free with his mouth.

Embracing the sin and dereliction, the BSD fondled the casual and inherent concupiscence.

With cigarette in hand and the Holy Spirit oozing from his loins, the BSD made a spectacle of his Bearded Self, imbuing on the lost souls a subtle touch of lost innocence, a dusting of devoutness, and with a firm hand, majestic veneration, mostly of his spiritual and deafening loins.