Go Go Maripol ~*~
so I receive an invitation to the home of the divine Miss Maripol, author of the greatest single book of 80s inspiration Maripolarama and when I arrive Roberta Bayley, Lee Childers, and Danny Fields are already there and it is everything I can do to make sure I do not fall over like some sort of gawky lil freak.
And there's Lee, holding open a copy of We're Desperate, the single greatest book of West Coast punk inspiration by my honey (and personal photographer) Jim Jocoy, pointing to a picture and saying "That's me!" with a huge grin, and Maripol saying, "You know I was looking at that photo the other day saying, 'He looks so familiar.'"
Then Maripol asks me, "What time is the movie?" and I say "7:05" and Roberta asks, "What are you going to see?" and I say, "The Devil Wears Prada" and Roberta says, "Oh we tried to see the 2:30 show but it was sold out," and Maripol says, "Not to worry. I have a plan." And I never worry because when it comes to getting in somewhere, Maripol rules the world. I have been with her on countless occassions where she simply slipped past security, past long ass lines, and got us in without so much as a blink. Truly, this woman is a professional.
Indeed the show was sold out, but a woman with a plan never fails.
And so we saw the film which made me think I have to stop wearing cotton and spandex and sneakers all the time. But then I think fuck it, my stilettos are collecting dust, but I'm not about to get up in Blahniks so I can sit in an office all day long. That's just asking for foot surgery. But then I think, I should get dressed when I go out. Stop rocking stretch jeans and sweatshirts. But then I think, where the hell am I going? Mostly back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge. Not really a high-fashion look for the summer.
And so the stilettos collect dust and the Westwood suit sits alongside my Lagerfeld and Richard Tyler gowns, wondering if I can still fit my fat ass into em. Why I bought couture in my days of Diet Coke thinking it would always fit I will never know ..
And there's Lee, holding open a copy of We're Desperate, the single greatest book of West Coast punk inspiration by my honey (and personal photographer) Jim Jocoy, pointing to a picture and saying "That's me!" with a huge grin, and Maripol saying, "You know I was looking at that photo the other day saying, 'He looks so familiar.'"
Then Maripol asks me, "What time is the movie?" and I say "7:05" and Roberta asks, "What are you going to see?" and I say, "The Devil Wears Prada" and Roberta says, "Oh we tried to see the 2:30 show but it was sold out," and Maripol says, "Not to worry. I have a plan." And I never worry because when it comes to getting in somewhere, Maripol rules the world. I have been with her on countless occassions where she simply slipped past security, past long ass lines, and got us in without so much as a blink. Truly, this woman is a professional.
Indeed the show was sold out, but a woman with a plan never fails.
And so we saw the film which made me think I have to stop wearing cotton and spandex and sneakers all the time. But then I think fuck it, my stilettos are collecting dust, but I'm not about to get up in Blahniks so I can sit in an office all day long. That's just asking for foot surgery. But then I think, I should get dressed when I go out. Stop rocking stretch jeans and sweatshirts. But then I think, where the hell am I going? Mostly back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge. Not really a high-fashion look for the summer.
And so the stilettos collect dust and the Westwood suit sits alongside my Lagerfeld and Richard Tyler gowns, wondering if I can still fit my fat ass into em. Why I bought couture in my days of Diet Coke thinking it would always fit I will never know ..
posted by powerHouse Books at 11:22 AM
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