Recession Era Rags

Once upon a time, when I lived in New York, I thought of myself as something of a fashion maven. No, I did not follow the trends. With a closet like mine, I didn’t have to. You see, I am into fine fabrics, clean lines, exquisite details and neutral colors. My style was my own: man-eater meets librarian meets label whore meets punk rocker, or something like that. The over all affect was spectacular, as I am sure anyone who knows me can tell you.

But these days my closet is nothing to blog about. I mean let’s face it, is any garment truly timeless? Okay, perhaps crotchless panties. But never having owned a pair myself, I wouldn’t know.

Usually, when I ask myself these kinds of questions I turn to style guru Imogen Lamport over at Inside Out Style. As we say in the Rastafarian community, Big Up, Imogen! That lady is a super star. And she has got the best hair on the interwebs. Tell her I sent you.

Anyway, with all of the "Bankrupt. Everything Must Go" sales, I have been toying around with the idea of updating my wardrobe for the first time since the 1990’s. But something happened on my way to the shops. I saw a woman wearing a coat trimmed in fur. Though fur is not my thing, the coat was beautiful. Every detail screamed expensive and the woman herself looked filthy rich. Normally, I would have admired the coat and moved on. Instead I was disgusted. For some reason, I thought that her display of wealth, real or fake, was in bad taste. Further, I had to push back the urge to knock her over the head, take her handbag, and run like hell. Lucky for her, I am still on parole.

Anyway, this me thinking. What am I going to wear during the depression? If we are entering an age where class warfare will be de rigueur, what outfit would honor the times we are living in and reflect my personal style?

The cashmere robe as outerwear?
The bathing suit top as bra?
Hospital Gown as Inauguration couture?
Shopping bags from high end stores as purse?

The choices are overwhelming.

So let me ask you, what are you planning on wearing to the recession?

What Doesn't Kill You

Not long ago, wild monkeys in a Malaysian rainforest attacked me. That happened a few months before the wild rat attack that I survived while in Thailand. There was the harrowing escape from 50 angry bulls while hiking in Ecuador, the nearly fatal run-in with a pack of feral dogs in the mean valleys of Canyon Lake, California and the killer cockroaches in Morocco.

Of course there was my being held hostage by two different armed groups in the same week during a trip to Colombia. And while no guns were involved, I cannot forget the fistfights in Ghana, Holland, Italy and Coney Island. These were followed-- years later-- by some brutal verbal fisticuffs in, naturally, Finland, Norway and Denmark.

I have lived to tell about my unpleasant case of trichinosis that I caught while in Guatemala, the malaria that I caught while in Liberia, the strange three day “someone must of drugged my drink” illness that had me laid out flat for three days in a mysterious Parisian apartment. Oh, I must not my six month pregnant belly in a way too small bathing suit in Anguilla-- who knew that embarrassment could be a critical condition?

But what nearly did me in was the salmonella poisoning that I got this weekend. Never eat Indian food at an Irish restaurant cooked by a Chinese chef.

Photo by Andrew Carter

An Open Letter To The Hoes At The Club

Listen bitches, you all have been messin' with my Esther Williams flow for long enough. I know, I know, if I had started my New Year's resolution when I normally do in mid-April instead of January 2nd like the rest of you losers, I recognize that I would not have this problem. But this is not about my timing. This is about your bad behavior, your sick habits, and let's face it, your mental illness.

And since I have committed to this swimming thing by laying out cash for the club fees and the new bag to carry my towel, pool shoes, and new swimsuit-- we need to come to an arrangement right here, right now.

In addition to abiding by the rules posted at the club, such as, no spitting, coughing or entering the pool while knowingly suffering from Tuberculosis or Bird Flu. Me, myself personally expect you to abide by the following:

1. Do not under any, any circumstances talk to me. I find talking to people in bathing suits discomforting. I never wanted to picture you naked and now with very little imagination I can and it makes me gag.

2. Stop kicking water in my face dumb ass. I don't want to get my weave wet, okay bitch? And no, I will not put my head underwater so stop asking your aged husband because I can hear you.

3. Stay away from me. I am not swimming in a lane because I am doing something called "aqua aerobics". Yes jackass, I know that they don't have this in the Ukraine. You don't seem to mind your snail pace crawl across the pool and the extra 85 pounds. But me? I am trying to rid my body of some baby phat. Also, I am trying to become one with the water.

4. Do not swim so close to me or snort water out of your nose next to me. And if you can help it, don't cross inches in front of me as I am coming down the pool. It is just rude.

5. In the dressing room, don't smile at me, especially if I am naked. Likewise, don't try to catch my eye and for god's sake, can you not walk behind me just as I am bending over?

6. I'll admit that I am duly impressed by your new limited edition Yves Saint Laurent bag, the killer boots, and this season's best Gucci coat, but you are just going to the pool. And since you are just going to the pool, do you think you could leave your maid and nanny at home for a change? Ditto for your prepubescent son, who by the way, is getting too old to go into the women's changing room. I caught him trying to sneak a peek and frankly, I will not rest easy at night knowing that a sighting of my postpartum body will lead to years of psycho-therapy for him. And your maid was also checking me out. In truth, it sent shivers down my spine because getting naked in front of a complete fully clothed stranger reminded me of the Clinton era. And I am a new woman now.

My rules are simple and not in any way a request. If you choose to ignore my them, you will get my new kick board up your ass.

And finally, the pool is for everyone to enjoy, so let's have some fun. Besides, it is only a matter of time before one of us quits anyway.

Dope

All this uncertainty has me wanting to drink the snake oil. Like everyone, I hate not knowing if I am going to wake up to the 2009 Great Great Depression or the 2009 Descent into Global Anarchy or the 2009, WTF! How The Hell Did I End Up On This Iceberg?

To calm my nerves and to keep my pledge to lay off the prescription drugs, I decided to tap into the higher forces and get the dope with my free horoscope on line. But on my way to the computer, I passed the promotional bottle of bubbly that I received two years ago from my local Park n' Shop and after knocking it back, the world got real clear. A woozy feeling came up from my toes and suddenly, I could just make out what the future will bring. I have to warn you, alot of what was revealed to me looked like a very grainy low tech amateur porn but here are some of the highlights:

Prince Charles will be caught on tape trying to hire a hit man to finally off the Queen Mother so that he can be King before the family has to sell off their property due to bad investments.

In Italy, my 1996 “stolen” passport will be found in the personal effects of Berlusconi’s wife, sparking rumors that the Prime Minister is running an underground sex ring. This scandal will serve as a distraction against record unemployment rates and calls for the dissolution of the EU.

Meanwhile, in the United States, this week, George Bush will lose his wallet while out for a walk on White House grounds. It will be found by a secret service agent who will only take the compromising photos of Bush and Bin Laden enjoying a round of beers and a couple of hookers in pre-Katrina New Orleans. Sometime in mid-February the wallet and the rest of its contents will be sent to Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas. It is unclear what happens to the Bin Laden/Bush pics.

Donald Trump decides to save his recession era real estate empire by investing in homes that promote green living: recycled glass igloo houses for people residing in the Northern Hemisphere and cardboard tents for people who live in the Southern Hemisphere.

And to the shock of every American, China and the Middle East ask the US to payback loans made to Walmart, Cosco, Best Buy, Exxon, Visa and Mastercard.

Heroin returns as the party drug of choice for the under 60 set. The over 60's turn to the cheaper alternative, methadone.

And at the end of 2009, just in time to ring in another new year, Mao suits come back into fashion by government decree.