I.

One night at the Troubadour I spotted this extraordinary girl.

So I asked who she was.

‘A professional,’

That was my introduction that on a scale of one to ten

there were women who were fifteens—beautiful, bright, witty, and

oh, by the way, they worked.

Once I became aware,

I saw these women everywhere.

And I came to learn that most of them were connected to Alex



II.

She had a printer engrave a calling card

that featured a bird of paradise

borrowed from a Tiffany silver pattern

and,
under it,

Alex’s Aviary,

Beautiful and Exotic birds.



A few were women you’d see lunching at Le Dôme:

pampered arm pieces with expensive tastes

and a hint of a delicious but remote sexuality.

Many more were fresh-faced, athletic, tanned, freckled

the quintessential California girl

That you’d take for sorority queens or future BMW owners.





III.

The mechanism of Alex’s sudden notoriety is byzantine,

as these things always are.

One of her girls took up with a rotter,

the couple had a fight,

he went to the police,

the police had an undercover detective visit

(who just happened to be an attractive woman)

and ask to work for her,

she all but embraced her

—and by April of 1988 the district attorney had enough evidence

to charge her with two counts of pandering

and one of pimping.

For Alex, who is fifty-six

and has a heart condition and diabetes,

the stakes may be high.

A conviction carries the guarantee of incarceration.

For the forces of law and order,

the stakes may be higher.

Alex has let it be known that she will subpoena

every cop she’s ever met to testify at her trial.

And the revelations this might produce

—perhaps that Alex compromised policemen

by making girls available to them,

—perhaps that Alex had a deal with the police to provide information

in exchange for their blind eye to her activities

—could be hugely embarrassing to the police and the district attorney.

For Alex’s socially correct clients and friends,

for the socially correct wives of her clients and friends

and for a handful of movie and television executives

who have no idea they are dating or

married to former Alex girls,

the stakes are highest of all.



IV.

Alex’s black book is said to be a catalogue of
Le Tout Los Angeles.

In her head are the ****** secrets

of many of the city’s most important men,

to say nothing of visiting businessmen and Arab princes.

If she decides to warble,

either at her trial or in a book,

her song will shatter more than glass.





V.

A decade ago, I went to lunch at Ma Maison,

There were supposed to have been ten people there,

but only four came.

One of them was a short woman

who called me a few days later and invited me to lunch.

When I arrived, the table was set for two.

I didn’t know who Alex was or what she did,

but she knew the important facts of my situation:

I was getting divorced from a very wealthy man

and doing the legal work myself

to avail lawyers who wanted to get a big settlement for me.


Occasionally, she said, I get a call for a tall, dark-haired,

slender, flat-chested woman

—and I don’t have any.

It wouldn’t be a frequent thing.

There’d be weekends away, sometimes in Palm Springs,

sometimes in Europe.

The men will be elegant,

you’ll have your own room

—there would be no outward signs of impropriety.

And you’d get $10,000 to $20,000 for a weekend.





VI.

The tall, slender, flat-chested brunette

didn’t think it was right for her.

Alex handed her a business card

and suggested that she think about it.

To her surprise, she did

—for an entire week.

This was 1978, and $20,000 then

was like $40,000 now,

I knew it was hooking,

but Alex had never mentioned ***.



Our whole conversation seemed to be about something else.



VII.

I was born in Manila

to a Spanish-Filipina mother and German father,

and when I was twelve

a Japanese soldier came into our house

with his bayonet pointed at us,

ready to do us in.

He locked us in and set the house on fire.

I haven’t been scared by much since that.



My mother always struck me as goofy,

so I jumped on a bus and ran away,

I got off in Oakland,

saw a help-wanted sign on a parish house,

and went in.

I got $200 a month for taking care of four priests.

I spent all the money on pastries for the parish house.

But I didn’t care.

It felt safe.

And the priests sparked my interest in the domestic arts

—in linen, in crystal.



A new priest arrived.

He was unpleasant,

so on a vacation in Los Angeles I took a pedestrian job,

still a teenager,

married a scientist.

We separated eight years later,

he took our two sons to another state

threatened to keep them if I didn’t agree to a divorce.

Keep them I said and hung up.

It’s not that I don’t have a maternal instinct

—though I don’t,

I just hate to be manipulated.



My second husband,

an alcoholic,

had Frank Sinatra blue eyes, and possibly

—I never knew for sure—

had a big career in the underworld

as a contract killer.

Years before we got serious,

he was going out with a famous L.A. ******,

She and her friends were so elegant

that I started spending time with them in beauty salons.

They were so fancy,

so smart

—and they knew incredible people,

like the millionaire who sat in his suite all day

just writing $5,000 checks to girls.



VIII.

I was a florist.

We got to talking.

She was a madam from England

who wanted to sell her book and go home.

I bought it for $5,000.

My husband thought it was cute.

Now you’re getting your feet wet.

Three months later,

he died.

After eleven years of marriage,

just like that.

And of the names in the book

it turned out

that half of the men were also dead.

When I began the men were old and the women were ugly.



IX.

It was like a lunch party you or I would give,

Great food Alex had cooked herself.

Major giggles with old pals.

And then,

instead of chocolate After Eight,

she served three women After Three



This man has seen a bit of life

beyond Los Angeles,

so I asked him how Alex’s stable

compared with that of Madam Claude,

the legendary Parisian procuress.

Oh, these aren’t at all like Claude’s girls,

A Claude girl was perfectly dressed and multilingual

—you could take her to the opera

and she’d understand it.





He told me that when she was 40

she looked at herself in the mirror

and said

Disgusting.

People over 40

should not have ***.

But She Was Clear That She Never Liked It

even when she was young.

Besides, she saw all the street business

go to the tall,

beautiful girls.

She thought that she never had a chance

competing against them.

Instead,

she would take their money by managing them.





X.

Going to a ****** was not looked down upon then.

It was before the pill;

Girls weren’t giving it away.

Claude specialized in

failed models and actresses,

ones who just missed the cut.

But just because they failed

in those impossible professions

didn’t mean they weren’t beautiful,

fabulous.



Like Avis

in those days,

those girls tried harder.

Her place was off the Champs,

just above a branch of the Rothschild bank, where I had an account.

Once I met her,

I was constantly making withdrawals and heading upstairs.





XI.

We took the lift

and Claude greeted us at the door.

My impression was that of the director

of an haute couture house,

very subdued,

beige and gray, very little makeup.

She took us into a lounge and made us drinks,

Whiskey,

Cognac.

There was no maid.

We made small talk for 15 minutes.

How was the weekend?

What’s the weather like in Deauville?

Then she made the segue. ‘I understand you’d like to see some jeunes filles?’

She always used ‘jeunes filles.’

This was Claude’s polite way of saying 18 to 25.

She left and soon returned

with two very tall

jeunes filles,

One was blonde.

This is Eva from Austria.

She’s here studying painting.

And a brunette,

very different,

but also very fine.

This is Claudia from Germany.

She’s a dancer.

She took the girls back into the apartment and returned by herself.

I gave my English guest first choice.

He picked the blonde.

And wasn’t disappointed.

Each bedroom had its own bidet.

There was some nice

polite conversation, and then



It was slightly formal,

but it was high-quality.

He paid Claude

200 francs,

not to the girls

In 1965, 200 francs was about $40.

Pretty girls on Rue Saint-Denis

could be had for 40 francs

so you can see the premium.

Still, it wasn’t out of reach for mere mortals.

You didn’t have to be J. Paul Getty.





XII.

A lot of them

were models at

Christian Dior

or other couture houses.

She liked Scandinavians.

That was the look then

—cold, tall, perfect.

It was cheap for the quality.

They all used her.

The best people wanted

the best women.

Elementary supply and demand.



XIII.

She had a camp number tattooed on her wrist. I saw it.

She showed it to me and Rubi.

She was proud she had survived.

We talked about the camp for hours.

It was even more fascinating than the girls.



She was Jewish

I’m certain of that.

She was horrified at the Jewish collaborators

at the camp who herded

their fellow Jews

into the gas chambers.

That was the greatest betrayal in her life.



XIV.

She was this sad,

lonely little woman.

Later, Patrick told me who she was.

I was bowled over.

It was like meeting Al Capone.

I met two of the girls

who worked for her.

One was what you would expect

Tall

Blonde

Model.

But the other looked like a Rat

Then one night

she came out

all dressed up,

I didn’t even recognize her.

She was even better than the first girl.

Claude liked to transform women like that.

That was her art.

It was very odd,

my cousin told me.

There was not much furniture

and an awful lot of telephones.

“Allô oui,”



XV.

I had so many lunches

with Claude at Ma Maison

She was vicious.

One day,

Margaux Hemingway,

at the height of her beauty, walked by.

Une bonne

—the French for maid

was how Claude cut her dead.

She reduced

the entire world

to rich men wanting *** and

poor women wanting money.

She’d love to page through Vogue and see someone

and say,

When I met her

she was called

Marlene

and she had a hideous nose

and now she’s a princess.

Or she’d see someone and say

Let’s see if she kisses me or not.

It was like

I made her,

and I can destroy her.

She was obsessed

with “fixing” people

—with Saint Laurent clothes,

with Cartier watches,

with Winston jewels,

with Vuitton luggage,

with plastic surgeons.



XVI.

Her prison number was

888

which was good luck in China

but not in California.

‘Ocho ocho ocho,’ she liked to repeat

Even in jail, she was always working,

always recruiting stunning women.

She had a beautiful Mexican cellmate

and gave her Robert Evans’s number

as the first person she should call

when she was released.



XVII.

Never have *** on the first date.



XVIII.

There will always be prostitution,

The prostitution of misery.

And the prostitution of bourgeois luxury.

They will both go on forever.



“Allô oui,”



It was so exciting to hear a millionaire

or a head of state ask,

in a little boy’s voice,

for the one thing

that only you could provide

It's not how beautiful you are, it's how you relate

--it's mostly dialogue.



She was tiny, blond, perfectly coiffed and Chanel-clad.

The French Woman: The Arab Prince, the Japanese Diplomat, the Greek Tycoon, the C.I.A. Bureau Chief — She Possessed Them All!



XIX.

She was like a slave driver in the American South

Once she took a *******,

the makeover put the girl in debt,

because Claude paid all the bills to

Dior,

Vuitton,

to the hairdressers,

to the doctors,

and the girls had to work to pay them off.

It was ****** indentured servitude.



My Swans.



It reached the point

where if you walked into a room

in London

or Rome

as much as Paris

because the girls were transportable,

and saw a girl who was

better-dressed,

better-looking,

and more distinguished than the others

you presumed

it was a girl from Claude.

It was, without doubt,

the finest *** operation ever run in the history of mankind.



**.

The girl had to be

exactly what was needed

so I had to teach her everything she didn’t know.

I played a little the role of Pygmalion.

There were basic things that absolutely had to be done.

It consisted

at the start

of the physical aspect

“surgical intervention”

to give this way of being

that was different from other girls.

Often they had to be transformed

into dream creatures

because at the start

they were not at all



Often I had to teach them how to dress.

Often they needed help

to repair

what nature had given them

which was not so beautiful.

At first they had to be tall,

with pretty gestures,

good manners.

I had lots of noses done,

chins,

teeth,

*******.

There was a lot to do.



Eight times out of ten

I had to teach them how to behave in society.

There were official dinners, suppers, weekends,

and they needed to have conversation.

I insisted they learn to speak English,

read

certain books.

I interrogated them on what they read.

It wasn’t easy.

Each time something wasn’t working,

I was obliged to say so.



You were very demanding?

I was ferocious.



It’s difficult

to teach a girl how to walk into Maxim’s

without looking

ill at ease

when they’ve never been there,

to go into an airport,

to go to the Ritz,

or the Crillon

or the Dorchester.

To find yourself

in front of a king,

three princes,

four ministers,

and five ambassadors at an official dinner.

There were the wives of those people!

Day after day

one had to explain,

explain again,

start again.

It took about two years.

There would always be a man

who would then say of her,

‘But she’s absolutely exceptional. What is that girl doing here?’ ”





XXI.

A New York publisher who visited

the Palace Hotel

in Saint Moritz

in the early seventies told me,

I met a whole bunch of them there.

They were lovely.

The johns wanted everyone to know who they were.

I remember it being said

Giovanni’s Madame Claude girl is going to be there.

You asked them where they came from and they all said

Neuilly.

Claude liked girls from good families.

More to the point she had invented their backgrounds.



I have known,

because of what I did,

some exceptional and fascinating men.

I’ve known some exceptional women too,

but that was less interesting

because I made them myself.



Ah, this question of the handbag.

You would be amazed by how much dust accumulates.

Or how often women’s shoe heels are scuffed.





XXII.

She would examine their teeth and finally she would make them undress.



That was a difficult moment

When they arrived they were very shy,

a bit frightened.

At the beginning when I take a look,

it’s a question of seeing if the silhouette

and the gestures are pretty.

Then there was a disagreeable moment.

I said,

I’m sorry about this unpleasantness,

but I have to ask you to get undressed,

because I can’t talk about you unless I see you.

Believe me, I was embarrassed,

just as they were,

but it had to be done,

not out of voyeurism, not at all

—I don’t like les dames horizontales.



It was very funny

because there were always two reactions.

A young girl,

very sure of herself,

very beautiful,

très bien,

would say

Yes,

Get up, and get undressed.

There was nothing to hide, everything was perfect.



There were those who

would start timidly

to take off their dress

and I would say

I knew already.

The rest is not sadism, but nearly.

I knew what I was going to find.

I would say,

Maybe you should take off your bra,

and I knew it wasn’t going to be

beautiful.

Because otherwise she would have taken it off easily.

No problem.

There were damages that could be mended.

There were some ******* that could be redone,

some not

Sometimes it can be deceptive,

you know,

you see a pretty girl,

a pretty face,

all elegant and slim,

well dressed,

and when you see her naked

it is a catastrophe.



I could judge their physical qualities,

I could judge if she was pretty, intelligent, and cultivated,

but I didn’t know how she was in bed.

So I had some boys,

good friends,

who told me exactly.

I would ring them up and say,

There’s a new one.

And afterwards they’d ring back and say,

Not bad,

Could be better, or

Nulle.



Or,

on the contrary,

She’s perfect.

And I would sometimes have to tell the girls

what they didn’t know.

A pleasant assignment?

No.

They paid.



XXIII.

Often at the beginning

they had an ami de coeur

in other words,

oh,

a journalist, a photographer, a type like that,

someone in the cinema,

an actor, not very well known.

As time went by

It became difficult

because they didn’t have a lot of time for him.

The fact of physically changing,

becoming prettier,

changing mentally to live with millionaires,

produced a certain imbalance

between them

and the little boyfriend

who had not evolved

and had stayed in his milieu.

At the end of a certain time

she would say,

I’m so much better than him. Why am I with this boy?

And they would break up by themselves.



Remember,

this was instant elevation.

For most of them it was a dream existence,

provided they liked the ***,

and those that didn’t never lasted long.

A lot of the clients were young,

and didn’t treat them like tarts but like someone from their own class.

They would buy you presents,

take you on trips.



XXIV.

For me, *** was something very accessoire

I think after a certain age

there are certain spectacles one should not give to others

Now I have a penchant for solitude.

Love, it’s a complete destroyer,

It’s impossible,

a horror,

l’angoisse.

It’s the only time in my life I was jealous.

I’m not a jealous person, but I was épouvantable.

He was jealous too.

We broke plates over each other’s heads;

we became jealous about each other’s pasts.

I said one day

It’s finished.

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and say:

Break my legs,

give me scarlet fever,

an attack of TB, but never that.

Not that.



XXV.

I called her into my office

Let us not exaggerate,

I sent her away.

She came back looking for employment,

but was fired again, this time for drugs.

She made menacing phone calls.

Then she arrived at the Rue de Boulainvilliers with a gun.

She shot three bullets

I was dressed in the fashion of Courrèges at this moment

He did very padded things.

I had a padded dress with a little jacket on top.

The bullet

—merci, Monsieur Courrèges

—stuck in the padding.

I was thrown forward onto the telephone.

I had one thought which went through my head:

I will die like Kennedy.

I turned round and put my hand up in a reflex.

The second bullet went through my hand.

I have two dead fingers.

It’s most useful for removing bottle tops.

In the corridor I was saved from the third bullet

because she was very tall

and I am quite petite, so it passed over my head.



XXVI.

There were men

who could decapitate,

****, and bomb their rivals

who would be frightened of me.

I would ask them how was the girl,

and they’d say

Not bad

and then

But I’m not complaining.

I was a little sadistic to them sometimes.

Some women have known powerful men because they’re their lover.

But I’ve known them all.

I had them all

here.



She will take many state secrets with her.



XXVI.

I don’t like ugly people

probably because when I was young

I wasn’t beautiful at all.

I was ugly and I suffered for it,

although not to the point of obsession.

Now that I’m an old woman,

I’m not so bad.

And that’s why

I’ve always been surrounded by people

Who

were

beautiful.

And the best way to have beautiful people around me

was to make them.

I made them very pretty.





XXVII.

I wouldn’t call what Alex gives you

‘advice,’

She spares you Nothing.

She makes a list of what she wants done,

and she really gets into it

I mean, she wants you to get your arms waxed.

She gives you names of people who do good facials.

She tells you what to buy at Neiman Marcus.

She’s put off by anything flashy,

and if you don’t dress conservatively, she’s got no problem telling you,

in front of an audience,

You look like a cheap *****!

I used to wear what I wanted when I went out

then change in the car into a frumpy sweater

when I went to give her the money she’d always go,

Oh, you look beautiful!



Marry your boyfriend,

It’s better than going to prison.

When you go out with her,

she’ll buy you a present; she’s incredibly generous that way.

And she’ll always tell you to save money and get out.

It’s frustrating to her when girls call at the end of the month

and say they need rent money.

She wants to see you do well.





We had a schedule, with cards that indicated a client’s name,

what he liked,

the names of the girls he’d seen,

and how long he’d been with them.

And I only hired girls who had another career

—if my clients had a choice between drop-dead-gorgeous

and beautiful-and-interesting,

they’d tend to take beautiful-and-interesting.

These men wanted to talk.

If they spent two hours with a girl,

they usually spent only five or ten minutes in bed.



I get the feeling that in Los Angeles, men are more concerned with looks.



XXVIII.

That was my big idea

Not to expand the book by aggressive marketing

but to make sure that nobody

mistook my girls for run-of-the-mill hookers.

And I kept my roster fresh.

This was not a business where you peddle your ***,

get exploited,

and then are cast off.

I screen clients. I’ve never sent girls to weirdos.

I let the men know:

no violence,

no costumes,

no fudge-packing.

And I talked to my girls. I’d tell them:

Two and a half years and you’re burned out.

Save your money.

This is like a hangar

—you come in, refuel, and take off.

It’s not a vacation, it’s not a goof.

This buys the singing lessons,

the dancing lessons,

the glossies.

This is to help you pay for what your parents couldn’t provide.

It’s an honorable way station—a lot of stars did this.



XXIX.

To say someone was a Claude girl is an honour, not a slur.



Une femme terrible.

She despised men and women alike.

Men were wallets. Women were holes.



By the 80s,

if you were a brunette,

the sky was the limit.

The Saudis

They’d call for half a dozen of Alex’s finest,

ignore them all evening while they

chatted,

ate,

and played cards,

and then, around midnight,

take the women inside for a fast few minutes of ***.



They’d order women up like pizza.



Since my second husband died,

I only met one man who was right for me,

He was a sheikh.

I visited him in Europe

twenty-eight times

in the five years I knew him

and I never slept with him.

He’d say

I think you fly all the way here just to tease me,

but he introduced me

by phone

to all his powerful friends.

When I was in Los Angeles, he called me twice a day.

That’s why I never went out

he would have been disappointed.



***.

Listen to me

This is a woman’s business.

When a woman does it, it’s fun

there’s a giggle in it

when a man’s involved,

he’s ******,

he’s a ****.

He may know how to keep girls in line,

and he may make money,

but he doesn’t know what I do.

I tell guys: You’re getting a nice girl.

She’s young,

She’s pleasant,

She can do things

she can certainly make love.

She’s not a rocket scientist, but she’s everything else.



The world’s richest and most powerful men, the announcer teased.

An income “in the millions,” said the arresting officer.

Pina Colapinto

A petite call girl,

who once slid between the sheets of royalty,

a green-eyed blonde helped the police get the indictment.

They really dolled her up

She looks great.

Never!

What I told her was: ‘Wash that ******.’





XXXI.

Madam Alex died at 7 p.m.

Saturday at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center,

where she had been in intensive care after recent open heart surgery

We all held her hand when they took her off the life support

This was the passing of a legend.

Because she was the mother superior of prostitution.

She was one of the richest women on earth.

The world came to her.

She never had to leave the house.

She was like Hugh Hefner in that way.


It's like losing a friend

In all the years we played cat and mouse,

she never once tried to corrupt me.

We had a lot of fun.


To those who knew her

she was as constant

as she was colorful

always ready with a good tidbit of gossip

and a gourmet lunch for two.

She entertained, even after her conviction on pandering charges,

from the comfy depths of her blue four-poster bed at her home near Doheny Drive,

surrounded by knickknacks and meowing cats,

which she fed fresh shrimp from blue china plates.



XXXII.

She stole my business,

my books,

my girls,

my guys.

I had a good run.

My creatures.

Make Mommy happy

Oh! He is the most enchanting cat that I have ever known.



She was, how can I say it,

classy.

When she first hired me

she thought I was too young to take her case.

I was 43.

I'm going to give you some gray hairs by the time this is over.

She was right.





XXXIII.

I was fond of Heidi

But she has a streak that is so vindictive.



If there is pure evil, it is Madame Alex.





XXXIV.

I was born and raised in L.A.

My dad was a famous pediatrician.

When he died, they donated a bench to him at the Griffith Park Observatory.



I think that Heidi wanted to try her wings

pretty early,

and I think that she met some people

who sort of took all her potential

and gave it a sharp turn



She knew nothing.

She was like a little parrot who repeated what she was supposed to say.



Alex and I had a very intense relationship;

I was kind of like the daughter she loved and hated,

so she was abusive and loving at the same time.



Look, I know Madam Alex was great at what she did

but it's like this:

What took her years to build,

I built in one.

The high end is the high end,

and no one has a higher end than me.

In this business, no one steals clients.

There's just better service.



XXXV.

You were not allowed to have long hair

You were not allowed to be too pretty

You were not allowed to wear too much makeup or be too glamorous

Because someone would fall in love with you and take you away.

And then she loses the business



XXXVI.

I was pursued because

come on

in our lifetime,

we will never see another girl of my age

who lived the way I did,

who did what I did so quickly,

I made so many enemies.

Some people had been in this line of business

for their whole lives, 30 or 40 years,

and I came in and cornered the market.

Men don't like that.

Women don't like that.

No one liked it.



I had this spiritual awakening watching an Oprah Winfrey video.

I was doing this 500-hour drug class

and one day the teacher showed us this video,

called something like Make It Happen.

Usually in class I would bring a notebook

and write a letter to my brother or my journal,

but all of a sudden this grabbed my attention

and I understood everything she said.

It hit me and it changed me a lot.

It made me feel,

Accept yourself for who you are.

I saw a deeper meaning in it

but who knows, I might have just been getting my period that day!



XXXVII.

Hello, Gina!

You movie star!

Yes you are!

Gina G!

Hello my friend,

Hello my friend,

Hello my movie star,

Ruby! Ruby Boobie!

Braaawk!

Except so many women say,

Come on, Heidi

you gotta do the brothel for us; don't let us down.

It would be kind of fun opening up an exclusive resort,

and I'll make it really nice,

like the Beverly Hills Hotel

It'll feel private; you'll have your own bungalow.

The only problem out here is the climate—it's so brutal.

Charles Manson was captured a half hour from Pahrump.



I said, Joe! What are you doing?

You gotta get, like,

a garter belt and encase it in something

and write,

This belonged to Suzette Whatever,

who entertained the Flying Tigers during World War II.

Get, like, some weird tools and write,

These were the first abortion tools in the brothel,

you know what I mean?

Just make some **** up!

So I came out here to do some research

And then I realized,

What am I doing?

I'm Heidi Fleiss. I don't need anyone.

I can do this.

When I was doing my research, in three months

I saw land go from 30 thousand an acre

to 50 thousand an acre,

and then it was going for 70K!

It's urban sprawl

—we're only one hour from Las Vegas.

Out here the casinos are only going to get bigger,

prostitution is legal, it's only getting better.





XXXVIII.

The truth is

deep down inside,

I just can't do business with him

He's the type of guy who buys Cup o' Noodles soup for three cents

and makes his hookers buy it back from him for $5.

It's not my style at all.

Who wants to be 75 and facing federal charges?

It was different at my age when I

at least...come on, I lived really well.

I was 22,

25 at the time?

It was fun then, but now I wouldn't want

to deal with all that *******

—the girls and blah blah blah.

But the money was really good.



I would've told someone they were out of their ******* mind

if they'd said in five years I'd be living with all these animals like this.

It's hard-core; how I live;

It's totally a nonfunctional atmosphere for me

It's hard to get anything done because

It’s so time-consuming.

I feel like they're good luck though....

I do feel that if I ever get rid of them,

I will be jinxed and cursed the rest of my life

and nothing I do will ever work again.



Guys kind of are a hindrance to me

Certainly I have no problem getting laid or anything.

But a man is not a priority in my life.

I mean, it's crazy, but I really have fun with my parrots.



XXXIX.

I started a babysitting circle when I wasn't much older than 9

And soon all the parents in the neighborhood

wanted me to watch over their children.

Even then I had an innate business sense.

I started farming out my friends

to meet the demand.

My mother showered me with love and my father,

a pediatrician,

would ask me at the dinner table,

What did you learn today?

I ran my neighborhood.

I just pick up a hustle really easily,

I was a waitress and I met an older guy who looked like Santa Claus.



Alex was a 5' 3" bald-headed Filipina

in a transparent muu muu.

We hit it off.

I didn't know at the time that I was there to pay off the guy's gambling debt.

It's in and out,

over and out.

Do you think some big-time producer

or actor is going to go to the clubs and hustle?



Columbia Pictures executive says:

I haven’t done anything that should cause any concern.

Jeez, it's like the Nixon enemies list.

I hope I'm on it.

If I'm not, it means I must not be big enough

for people to gossip about me.



That's right ladies and gentlemen.

I am an alleged madam and that is a $25 *****!

If you live out here,

you've got to hate people.

You've got to be pretty antisocial

How you gonna come out here with only 86 people?

That's Fred.

He's digging to China.

You look good.

Yeah, you too.

It's coming along here.

Yeah, it is.

I wanted to buy that lot there, but I guess it's gone?

That's mine, man! That's all me.

Really?

I thought there was a lot between us.

No. We're neighbors.



He's a cute guy

He's entertaining.

See, I kind of did do something shady to him.

I thought my property went all the way back

and butted up against his.

But there was one lot between us right there.

He said he was buying it,

but I saw the 'For Sale' sign still up there,

So I went and called the broker and said,

I'm an all-cash buyer.

So I really bought it out from under him.

But he's got plenty of room, and I need the space for my parrots.

Pahrump will always be Pahrump, but Crystal is going to be nice

All you need are four or five fancy houses and it'll flush everyone out

and it'll be a nice area.

They're all kind of weird here, but these people will go.

Like this guy here,

someone needs to **** him.

I was just saying to my dad that these parrots are born to a really ******-up world

He goes, Heidi, no, no; the world is a beautiful garden.

It's just, people are destroying it.

I’m looking into green building options

I don't want anything polluting,

I want a huge auditorium,

but it'll be like a jungle where my birds can really fly!

Where they can really do what they're supposed to do.

There were over 300 birds in there!

That lady,

She ran the exotic-birds department for the Tropicana Hotel,

which is a huge job.

She called me once at 3:30 in the morning

Come over here and help me feed this baby!

Some baby parrot.

And I ran over there in my pajamas

—I knew there was something else wrong

and she was like

Get me my oxygen!

Get me this, get me that.

I called my dad; he was like,

I don't know, honey, you better call the paramedics.

They ended up getting a helicopter.

And they were taking her away

in the wind with her IV and blood and everything

and she goes, Heidi, you take care of my birds.

And she dies the next day.

She was just a super-duper person.



XL.

I relate to the lifestyle she had before,

Now, I'm just a citizen.

I'm clean,

I'm sober,

I'm married,

I work at Wal-Mart.

I'm proud to say I know her. I look into her eyes

and we relate.





I got out in 2000,

so I've been sending her money for seven years

She was…whatever.

Girlfriend?

Yeah, maybe.

But ***, I tried like two times,

and I'm just not gay.

She gets out in about eight or nine months

and I told her I would get her a house.

But nowhere near me.

I didn't touch her,

but I'd be, like...

a funny story:

I told her,

Don't you ever ******* think

about contacting me in the real world.

I'm not a lesbian.

Then about two years ago, I got an e-mail from her,

or she called me and said, 'Google my name.'

So I Googled her name,

and she has this huge company.

Huge!

She won, like, Woman of the Year awards.

So I called her and I go,

Not bad.

She goes, 'Well, I did all that because you called me a loser.'

I go, '****, I should've called you more names

you probably would've found the cure for cancer by now.



XLI.

No person shall be employed by the licensee

who has ever been convicted of

a felony involving moral turpitude

But I qualify,

I mean, big deal, so I'm a convicted felon.

Being in the *** industry, you can't be so squeaky-clean.

You've got to be hustling.

Nighttime is really enchanting here

It's like a whole 'nother world out here, it really is

I’m so far removed from my social life and old surroundings.

Who was it, Oscar Wilde, I think, who said

people can adjust to anything.

I was perfectly adjusted in the penitentiary,

and I was perfectly adjusted to living in a château in France.



We had done those drug addiction shows together

Dr. Drew.

Afterward we were friendly

and he'd call me every now and then.

He'd act like he had his stuff together.

But it was all a lie.

Everything is a lie.

I brought him to a Humane Society event at Paramount Studios last year.

He was just such a mess.

So out of it.

He stole money from my purse.

He's such a drug addict because he's so afraid of being fat.

He liked horse ****, though. He did like horse ****.

This one woman that would have *** with a horse on the internet,

He told me that’s his favorite actress.

Better than Meryl Streep.



XLII.

The cops could see

why these women were taking over trade.

Girls with these looks charged upwards of $500 an hour.

The Russians had undercut them with a bargain rate of $150 an hour.

One thing they are not is lazy.

In the USSR

they grew up with no religion, no morality.

Prostitution is not considered a bad thing.

In fact, it’s considered a great way to make money.

That’s why it’s exploding here.

What we saw was just a tip of the iceberg.

These girls didn’t come over here expecting to be nannies.

They knew exactly what they wanted and what they were getting into.

The madam who organized this raid

was making $4 million a year,

laundered through Russian-owned banks in New York City

These are brutal people.

They are all backstabbers.

They’re entrepreneurs.

They’re looking at $10,000 a month for turning tricks.

For them, that’s the American dream.



XLIII.

If you’re not into something,

don’t be into it

But,

if you want to take some whipped cream,

put it between your toes,

have your dog licking it up and,

at the same time,

have your girlfriend poke you in the eye,

then that’s fine.

That’s a little weird but we shouldn’t judge.



She was my best friend then

and I consider her one of my best friends now,

because when I was going through Riker’s

and everyone abandoned me,

including my boyfriend,

I was hysterical,

crying,

and she was the one that was there.

And, when somebody needed to step up to the plate,

that’s who did, and I have an immense amount of

loyalty, respect, and love for her.

And if she’s going to prison for eight years

—that’s what she’s sentenced for

—I’ll go there,

and I’ll go there every week,

for eight years.

That’s the type of person I am.

A Tale for the Mid-Winter Season after the Mural by Carl Larrson

On the shortest day I wake before our maids from the surrounding farms have converged on Sundborn. Greta lives with us so she will be asleep in that deep slumber only girls of her age seem to own. Her tiny room has barely more than a bed and a chest for her clothes. There is my first painting of her on the wall, little more a sketch, but she was entranced, at seeing herself so. To the household she is a maid who looks after me and my studio,  though she is a literate, intelligent girl, city-bred from Gamla Stan but from a poor home, a widowed mother, her late father a drunkard.  These were my roots, my beginning, exactly. But her eyes already see a world beyond Sundborn. She covets postcards from my distant friends: in Paris, London, Jean in South America, and will arrange them on my writing desk, sometimes take them to her room at night to dream in the candlelight. I think this summer I shall paint her, at my desk, reading my cards, or perhaps writing her own. The window will be open and a morning breeze will make the flowers on the desk tremble.

Karin sleeps too, a desperate sleep born of too much work and thought and interruption. These days before Christmas put a strain on her usually calm disposition. The responsibilities of our home, our life, the constant visitors, they weigh upon her, and dispel her private time. Time in her studio seems impossible. I often catch her poised to disappear from a family coming-together. She is here, and then gone, as if by magic. With the older children home from their distant schools, and Suzanne arrived from England just yesterday morning, they all cannot do without lengthy conferences. They know better than disturb me. Why do you think there is a window set into my studio door? So, if I am at my easel there should be no knock to disturb. There is another reason, but that is between Karin and I.

This was once a summer-only house, but over the years we have made it our whole-year home. There was much attention given to making it snug and warm. My architect replaced all the windows and all the doors and there is this straw insulation between the walls. Now, as I open the curtains around my bed, I can see my breath float out into the cool air. When, later, I descend to my studio, the stove, damped down against the night, when opened and raddled will soon warm the space. I shall draw back the heavy drapes and open the wooden shutters onto the dark land outside. Only then I will stand before my current painting: *Brita and the Sleigh.

Current!? I have been working on this painting intermittently for five years, and Brita is no longer the Brita of this picture, though I remember her then as yesterday. It is a picture of a winter journey for a six-year-old, only that journey is just across the yard to the washhouse. Snow, frost, birds gathered in the leafless trees, a sun dog in the sky, Brita pushing her empty sledge, wearing fur boots, Lisbeth’s old coat, and that black knitted hat made by old Anna. It is the nearest I have come to suggesting the outer landscape of this place. I bring it out every year at this time so I can check the light and the shadows against what I see now, not what I remember seeing then. But there will be a more pressing concern for me today, this shortest day.

Since my first thoughts for the final mural in my cycle for the Nationalmuseum I have always put this day aside, whatever I might be doing, wherever I may be. I pull out my first sketches, that book of imaginary tableaux filled in a day and a night in my tiny garden studio in Grez, thinking of home, of snow, the mid-winter, feeling the extraordinary power and shake of Adam of Bremen’s description of 10th C pre-Christian Uppsala, written to describe how barbaric and immoral were the practices and religion of the pagans, to defend the fragile position of the Christian church in Sweden at the time. But as I gaze at these rough beginnings made during those strange winter days in my rooms at the Hotel Chevilon, I feel myself that twenty-five year old discovering my artistic vision, abandoning oils for the flow and smudge of watercolour, and then, of course, Karin. We were part of the Swedish colony at Grez-sur-Loing. Karin lived with the ladies in Pension Laurent, but was every minute beside me until we found our own place, to be alone and be together, in a cupboard of a house by the river, in Marlotte.

Everyone who painted en-plein-air, writers, composers, they all flocked to Grez just south of Fontainebleau, to visit, sometimes to stay. I recall Strindberg writing to Karin after his first visit: It was as if there were no pronounced shadows, no hard lines, the air with its violet complexion is almost always misty; and I painting constantly, and against the style and medium of the time. How the French scoffed at my watercolours, but my work sold immediately in Stockholm. . . and Karin, tall, slim, Karin, my muse, my lover, my model, her boy-like figure lying naked (but for a hat) in the long grass outside my studio. We learned each other there, the technique of bodies in intimate closeness, the way of no words, the sharing of silent thoughts, together on those soft, damp winter days when our thoughts were of home, of Karin’s childhood home at Sundborn. I had no childhood thoughts I wanted to return to, but Karin, yes. That is why we are here now.

In Grez-sur-Loing, on a sullen December day, mist lying on the river, our garden dead to winter, we received a visitor, a Swedish writer and journalist travelling with a very young Italian, Mariano Fortuny, a painter living in Paris, and his mentor the Spaniard Egusquiza. There was a woman too who Karin took away, a Parisienne seamstress I think, Fortuny’s lover. Bayreuth and Wagner, Wagner, Wagner was all they could talk about. Of course Sweden has its own Nordic Mythology I ventured. But where is it? What is it? they cried, and there was laughter and more mulled wine, and then talk again of Wagner.

When the party left I realized there was something deep in my soul that had been woken by talk of the grandeur and scale of Wagner’s cocktail of German and Scandinavian myths and folk tales. For a day and night I sketched relentlessly, ransacking my memory for those old tales, drawing strong men and stalwart, flaxen-haired women in Nordic dress and ornament. But as a new day presented itself I closed my sketch book and let the matter drop until, years later, in a Stockholm bookshop I chanced upon a volume in Latin by Adam of Bremen, his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum, the most famous source to pagan ritual practice in Sweden. That cold winter afternoon in Grez returned to me and I felt, as I had then, something stir within me, something missing from my comfortable world of images of home and farm, family and the country life.

Back in Sundborn this little volume printed in the 18th C lay on my desk like a question mark without a sentence. My Latin was only sufficient to get a gist, but the gist was enough. Here was the story of the palace of Uppsala, the great centre of the pre-Christian pagan cults that brought us Odin and Freyr. I sought out our village priest Dag Sandahl, a good Lutheran but who regularly tagged Latin in his sermons. Yes, he knew the book, and from his study bookshelf brought down an even earlier copy than my own. And there and then we sat down together and read. After an hour I was impatient to be back in my studio and draw, draw these extraordinary images this text brought to life unbidden in my imagination. But I did not leave until I had persuaded Pastor Sandahl to agree to translate the Uppsala section of the Adam of Bremen’s book, and just before Christmas that year, on the day before the Shortest Day, he delivered his translation to my studio. He would not stay, but said I should read the passages about King Domalde and his sacrifice at the Winter Solstice. And so, on the day of the Winter Solstice, I did.

This people have a widely renowned sanctuary called Uppsala.

By this temple is a very large tree with extending branches. It is always green, both in winter and in summer. No one knows what kind of tree this is. There is also a spring there, where the heathens usually perform their sacrificial rites. They throw a live human being into the spring. If he does not resurface, the wishes of the people will come true.

The Temple is girdled by a chain of gold that hangs above the roof of the building and shines from afar, so that people may see it from a distance when they approach there. The sanctuary itself is situated on a plain, surrounded by mountains, so that the form a theatre.

It is not far from the town of Sigtuna. This sanctuary is completely covered with golden ornaments. There, people worship the carved idols of three gods: Thor, the most powerful of them, has his throne in the middle of the hall, on either side of him, Odin and Freyr have their seats. They have these functions: “Thor,” they say, “rules the air, he rules thunder and lightning, wind and rain, good weather and harvests. The other, Odin, he who rages, he rules the war and give courage to people in their battle against enemies. The third is Freyr, he offers to mortals lust and peace and happiness.” And his image they make with a very large phallus. Odin they present armed, the way we usually present Mars, while Thor with the scepter seems to resemble Jupiter. As gods they also worship some that have earlier been human. They give them immortality for the sake of their great deeds, as we may read in Vita sancti Ansgarii that they did with King Eirik.

For all these gods have particular persons who are to bring forward the sacrificial gifts of the people. If plague and famine threatens, they offer to the image of Thor, if the matter is about war, they offer to Odin, but if a wedding is to be celebrated, they offer to Freyr. And every ninth year in Uppsala a great religious ceremony is held that is common to people from all parts of Sweden.”
Snorri also relates how human sacrifice began in Uppsala, with the sacrifice of a king.

Domalde took the heritage after his father Visbur, and ruled over the land. As in his time there was great famine and distress, the Swedes made great offerings of sacrifice at Upsal. The first autumn they sacrificed oxen, but the succeeding season was not improved thereby. The following autumn they sacrificed men, but the succeeding year was rather worse. The third autumn, when the offer of sacrifices should begin, a great multitude of Swedes came to Upsal; and now the chiefs held consultations with each other, and all agreed that the times of scarcity were on account of their king Domalde, and they resolved to offer him for good seasons, and to assault and **** him, and sprinkle the stall of the gods with his blood. And they did so.

There it was, at the end of Adam of Bremen’s description of Uppsala, this description of King Domalde upon which my mural would be based. It is not difficult to imagine, or rather the event itself can be richly embroidered, as I have over the years made my painting so. Karin and I have the books of William Morris on our shelves and I see little difference between his fixation on the legends of the Arthur and the Grail. We are on the cusp here between the pagan and the Christian.  What was Christ’s Crucifixion but a self sacrifice: as God in man he could have saved himself but chose to die for Redemption’s sake. His blood was not scattered to the fields as was Domalde’s, but his body and blood remains a continuing symbol in our right of Communion.

I unroll the latest watercolour cartoon of my mural. It is almost the length of this studio. Later I will ask Greta to collect the other easels we have in the house and barn and then I shall view it properly. But for now, as it unrolls, my drama of the Winter Solstice comes alive. It begins on from the right with body of warriors, bronze shields and helmets, long shafted spears, all set against the side of Uppsala Temple and more distant frost-hoared trees. Then we see the King himself, standing on a sled hauled by temple slaves. He is naked as he removes the furs in which he has travelled, a circuit of the temple to display himself to his starving people. In the centre, back to the viewer, a priest-like figure in a red cloak, a dagger held for us to see behind his back. Facing him, in druidic white, a high priest holds above his head a gold pagan monstrance. To his left there are white cloaked players of long, straight horns, blue cloaked players of the curled horns, and guiding the shaft of the sled a grizzled shaman dressed in the skins and furs of animals. The final quarter of my one- day-to-be-a-mural unfolds to show the women of temple and palace writhing in gestures of grief and hysteria whilst their queen kneels prostate on the ground, her head to the earth, her ladies ***** behind her. Above them all stands the forever-green tree whose origin no one knows.

Greta has entered the studio in her practiced, silent way carrying coffee and rolls from the kitchen. She has seen Midvinterblot many times, but I sense her gaze of fascination, yet again, at the figure of the naked king. She remembers the model, the sailor who came to stay at Kartbacken three summers ago. He was like the harpooner Queequeg in Moby ****. A tattooed man who was to be seen swimming in Toftan Lake and walking bare-chested in our woods. A tall, well-muscled, almost silent man, whom I patiently courted to be my model for King Dolmade. I have a book of sketches of him striding purposefully through the trees, the tattooed lines on his shoulders and chest like deep cuts into his body. This striding figure I hid from the children for some time, but from Greta that was impossible. She whispered to me once that when she could not have my substantial chest against her she would imagine the sailor’s, imagine touching and following his tattooed lines. This way, she said, helped her have respite from those stirrings she would so often feel for me. My painting, she knew, had stirred her fellow maids Clara and Solveig. Surely you know this, she had said, in her resolute and direct city manner. I have to remember she is the age of my eldest, who too must hold such thoughts and feelings. Karin dislikes my sailor king and wishes I would not hide the face of his distraught queen.

Today the sunrise is at 9.0, just a half hour away, and it will set before 3.0pm. So, after this coffee I will put on my boots and fur coat, be well scarfed and hatted (as my son Pontus would say) and walk out onto my estate. I will walk east across the fields towards Spardasvvägen. The sky is already waiting for the sun, but waits without colour, hardly even a tinge of red one might expect.

I have given Greta her orders to collect every easel she can find so we can take Midvinterblot off the floor and see it in all its vivid colour and form. In February I shall begin again to persuade the Nationalmuseum to accept this work. We have a moratorium just now. I will not accept their reasoning that there is no historical premise for such a subject, that such a scene has no place in a public gallery. A suggestion has been made that the Historiska museet might house it. But I shall not think of this today.

Karin is here, her face at the studio window beckons entry. My Darling, yes, it is midwinter’s day and I am dressing to greet the solstice. I will dress, she says, to see Edgar who will be here in half an hour to discuss my designs for this new furniture. We will be lunching at noon. Know you are welcome. Suzanne is talking constantly of England, England, and of course Oxford, this place of dreaming spires and good looking boys. We touch hands and kiss. I sense the perfume of sleep, of her bed.

Outside I must walk quickly to be quite alone, quite apart from the house, in the fields, alone. It is on its way: this light that will bathe the snowed-over land and will be my promise of the year’s turn towards new life.

As I walk the drama of Midvinterblot unfolds in a confusion of noise, the weeping of women, the physical exertions of the temple slaves, the priests’ incantations, the riot of horns, and then suddenly, as I stand in this frozen field, there is silence. The sun rises. It stagge

Shortly after 3pm on September 29, 31-year-old Olivier Rousteing strode through the shimmering, fleshy backstage area at Balmain's Spring 2017 Paris Fashion Week show. Along the marble hallway of a hôtel particulier in the 8th arrondissement, long-limbed clusters of supermodels were gamely tolerating final applications of leg-moisturiser, make-up touch-ups and minutely precise hair interventions from squads of specialists as fast and accurate as any Formula 1 pit-stop team. The crowd parted as Rousteing swept through.

Wearing a belted, black silk tuxedo and a focused expression that accentuated his razor-sharp cheekbones, Rousteing resembled a sensuous hit man. Target identified, he led us to the board upon which photographs of every outfit were tacked.

We asked him to tell us about the collection (for that's what fashion editors always ask). "There is no theme," said Rou­steing in his fast, French-accented lilt. "No inspiration from travel or time. The inspiration is what I feel, and what I feel now is peace, light and serenity. I feel like in my six years here before this, I have tried to fight so many battles. Because there is no point anymore in fighting about boundaries and limits in fashion. Balmain has its place in fashion."

And the clothes? "There is a lot of fluidity. A lot of knitwear, lightness, ponchos. No body-con dresses. But whatever I do, even if I cover up my girls, it is like people can say I am ******. So this is what it is. I think there is nothing ******. I think it is really chic. I think it is really French. It is how I see Paris. And I have had too many haters during the last three years to defend myself again. So, this is Balmain." And then the show began.

Star endorsements

Under Rousteing, Balmain has become the most controversial fashion house in Paris. Rousteing has attracted (but not bought, as other, far bigger houses do) patronage from contemporary culture's most significant influencers. Rihanna, all the Kardashians, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, Beyoncé, Justin Bieber – a royal flush of modern celebrity aristocracy – all champion him.

Immediately after this show, in that backstage hubbub, Kim Kardashian told me: "I thought it was very powerful…I loved the sequins, and I loved all the big chain mail belts – that was probably my favourite."

Yet for every famous fan there is a member of the fashion establishment who will sniff over coffee in Le Castiglione that Rousteing's crowd is declassé and his aesthetic best described by that V-word. The New York Times' fashion critic Vanessa Friedman reckoned this collection appropriate for "dressing for the captain's dinners on a cruise ship to Fantasy Island". At least she did not use the V-word. When I once deployed it – as a compliment – in a 2015 Vogue menswear review that declared "Rousteing is confidently negotiating a fine line between extravagance and vulgarity", I was told that Rous­teing was aggrieved.

The fashion world's ambivalence towards Rousteing is a measure of its conflicted feelings towards much in contemporary culture. Last year Robin Givhan of the Washington Post wrote of Balmain: "The French fashion house is always ostentatious and sometimes ******. It feeds a voracious appetite for attention. It is anti-intellectual. Antagonistic. Emotional. It is shocking. It is perfect for this era of social media, which means it is powerfully, undeniably relevant."

Since joining Instagram four years ago Rousteing has posted 4000 images and won 4 million followers. The combined reach of his audience members and models at this Balmain show was greater than the population of Britain and France combined. Balmain was the first French fashion house to gain more than 1 million followers, and currently has 5.5 million of them.

Loving his haters

As digital technology disrupts fashion, Balmain's seemingly effortless mastery of the medium galls some. Last year, the designer posted an image of a comment from a ****** follower to his feed. It read: "Olivier Rousteing spends more times taking selfies for Instagram than designing clothes for Balmain." Underneath, in block capitals, he commented "i love my haters".

Rousteing can be funny and flip – doing a video interview after the show, I opened by asking, tritely, how he felt. He replied: "Now I feel like some Chicken McNuggets with barbecue sauce, and then some M&M;'s ice cream."

When at work, however, that flipness flips to entirely unflip. The previous evening, at a final fitting for the collection, Rousteing had paced his studio, his face a scowl of concentration, applying final edits to the outfits to be worn by models Doutzen Kroes and Alessandra Ambrosio. The 30-strong team of couturiers working in the adjoining atelier delivered a steady stream of altered dresses.

"We are ready," he said from behind a glass desk in a rare moment of downtime. "This a big show – 80 looks – and I want a collection that is full of both the commercial and couture. But it's smooth too. All of the girls are excited about the after-party and interested in the music. And eating pizza." In the corridor outside Gigi Hadid – this season's apex supermodel – was indeed eating pizza, with gusto.

The fitting went on until far beyond midnight; Rousteing, fiercely focused, demonstrated the work ethic for which he is famous. When he was studio manager for Christophe Decarnin, his predecessor at Balmain, the young then-unknown was always the first in and last out of the studio. Emmanuel Diemoz, who joined Balmain as finance controller in 2001 and became chief executive in 2011, says that his hard graft was one of the reasons he was chosen to succeed Decarnin.

"For sure it was quite a gamble," says Diemoz. "But we could see the talent of Olivier. Plus he understood the work of Christophe – who had helped the brand recover – so he represented continuity. He was a hard worker, clearly a leader, with a lot of creativity. Plus the size of the turnover at that time was not so huge. So we were able to take the risk."

Clear leader

Which is why, aged 24, Rousteing became the creative director of one of Paris's best known – but indubitably faded – fashion houses. In 2004 it had been close to bankruptcy. In 2012, Rousteing's first full year in charge, Balmain's sales were €30.4 million and its profit €3.1 million. In 2015, sales were €121.5 million and its profit €33 million. Vulgarity is subjective; numbers are not.

Rousteing, who is of mixed race, was adopted at five months by white parents and enjoyed an affluent and loving upbringing in Bordeaux. "My mum is an optician and my dad was running the port. They are both really scientific – not artistic. So I had that kind of life. Bordeaux is really bourgeois and really conservative, I have to say."

After an ill-starred three-month stint at law school – "I was doing international law. And I was like, 'oh my God, that is so boring'" – he did a fashion course that he managed to tolerate for five months.

"I found that really boring as well. I just don't like actually people who are trying to **** your dream. And I felt that is what my teachers were trying to do."

Obsessed with Gucci

Following a three-month internship in Rome – "also boring" – Rousteing became fascinated with Tom Ford's work at Gucci. "I was obsessed, obsessed, obsessed. Sometimes the press did not get it but I thought 'this is like genius, the new **** chic'. Obsessed, full stop."

He wanted to work there – "that was my dream" – but applied to every fashion house he could, and found an opportunity to intern at Roberto Cavalli. "They took me in from the beginning. I met Peter Dundas [then womenswear designer at the brand] and he said you are going to be my right hand – and start in four days."

Rousteing counts his five years in Italy as formative both creatively and commercially, but when the opportunity came to return to France in 2009 he leapt at it. "Christophe said he liked my work and that he needed someone to manage the studio. So two weeks later I was here. I loved Balmain at the time, when Christophe was in charge. It was all about rock 'n' roll chic, ****, Parisian. And he was appealing to a younger generation. You can see when brands become old but Balmain was touching this new audience. I always say Christophe's Balmain was Kate Moss but mine is Rihanna."

When Decarnin left and Rousteing replaced him, the response was a resounding "who?". His youth prompted some to anticipate failure.

"It was not easy at all. Every season I had the same questions." Furthermore, Rousteing (who has said he thinks of himself as neither black nor white) was the only non-white chief designer at a Parisian couture house. In a nation in which very few people of colour hold senior positions, his race may have contributed both to the establishment's suspicion of him and to his powerful sense of being an outsider.

'Beautiful spirit'

As he began to build a personal vernacular of close-fitted, heavily jewelled, gleefully grandiose menswear – fantastical uniform for a Rousteing-imagined gilded age – for both women and men, that V-word loomed.

"They asked, 'But is it luxury? Is it chic? Is it modern?' All those kinds of words. But you know there is no one definition [of fashion] even if people in Paris think there is. And, I'm sorry, but I think the crowd in fashion are those who understand the least what is avant-garde today."

In 2013 Rihanna visited the studio, met Rousteing, and reported all with multiple Instagram posts. "You are the most beautiful spirit, so down to earth and kind! @olivier_rousteing I think I'm in love!!! #Balmain." :')"

Rousteing met Kim Kardashian at a party in New York – they were drawn together, he recalls, because they were both shy – and was promptly invited to lunch with her family in Los Angeles.

An outsider in the firmament of old-guard Paris fashion, Rousteing was earning insider status within a new, and much more influential, supranational elite. He points out that Valentino, Saint Laurent and Pierre Balmain himself "were close to the jet set of their time. What I have on my front row is the people who inspire my generation".

From them, he learned a new way of doing business. "I think it was Rihanna and the music industry that first understood how Instagram can be part of the business world as well as the personal. But in fashion? When we started it was 'why do you post selfies? Why do we need to know your life, see you waking up, see you working? Why don't you keep it private'. And I was like 'you will see'."

Rousteing cheerfully declares his love for Facetune – "I don't have Botox but I do have digital Botox!" – an app that helps him airbrush his selfies and tweak those ski-***** cheekbones.

Reaching new population

From his office around the corner from Rousteing's, Diemoz adds: "When Olivier first proposed Balmain use social media, our investment in traditional media was costing a lot. Here was an alternative costing less but bringing huge visibility. It has been successful, quite rapidly…we decided to be less Parisian in a way but to speak to a new population. A brand has to be built around its heritage but we are proposing a new form of communication dedicated to a wider group of customers."

The impact of that strategy became apparent in 2015, when Rousteing and Balmain were invited to design a collection for the Swedish fast-fashion retailer H&M.; Within minutes of going on sale – and this is not hyperbole – the collection, available at vastly cheaper prices than Balmain-proper, had completely sold out. In London, customers fought on the pavement outside H&M;'s Regent Street branch. "Balmainia!" blared the headlines.

You have to move fast to get backstage after a Balmain show. I was out of my seat and trotting with purpose even before the string-heavy orchestra at the end of the catwalk had quite stopped playing Adele.

Rousteing had taken his bow merely seconds before. Still, too slow: I ended up in a clot of Rousteing well-wishers stuck in a corridor blocked by security guards. A Middle Eastern woman against whom I was indelicately jammed looked at me, laughed, shook her head, then said: "We pay millions for a fashion house – and then this happens!"

In June, Balmain was bought for a reported €485 million by Mayhoola, a Qatar-based wealth fund said to be controlled by the nation's ruling family. As so often with Rousteing-related revelations, some declared themselves nonplussed. "Why Would Mayhoola Pay Such a High Price for Balmain?", one headline asked. Yet Mayhoola, which acquired Valentino four years previously for $US858 million, might have scored a bargain.

Clothes key to revenue

Despite its huge, Instagram-enhanc­ed footprint, Balmain is a small, lean and relatively undeveloped business. Most luxury fashion houses today – Chanel, Burberry, Dior, et al – will emphasise their catwalk collections for marketing purposes but make most of their money from the sale of accessories, fragrances and small leather goods like handbags and shoes. One of the big fashion companies makes a mere 5 per cent from its catwalk clothes.

At Balmain, by contrast, clothes bring in almost all the revenues. If Balmain had the same clothes-to-accessories ratio as its competitors, its overall annual income could be more than €1 billion ($1.4 billion).

The company is moving in that direction. New accessory lines are in the pipeline. "Now we have to transform that desire into business activity," said Diemoz. "Sunglasses, belts, fragrances, the kind of products that can be more affordable."

The first bags should be available in January, as will a wider range of shoes, and then more, more, more.

Six days after his show, on the last day of Paris Fashion Week, I returned to the Balmain atelier. Apart from two assistants, Rousteing was the only person there – everybody else had gone on holiday to recover from the frenzy of preparing the show, or was busy selling the collection at the showroom around the corner.

Rousteing sat behind his desk in the empty room, wearing slingback leopard-print slippers, sweatpants and shades. "I am not even tired! I am excited. Because there are so many things happening – and I can't wait."Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

It was the summer of 1954. David Ito was from the only Japanese family we had in our town. I was glad he was my best friend. Actually, he was my only friend. His father moved his family to our small town of Prichard, Illinois when David was only eight years old. That was three years ago.

Only two and a half months apart, I was the older one of our daring duo. I even was a couple inches taller than David was, so that settled it. In spite of being an awkward girl, our differences in age and height made me quite superior at times, although David always snickered at that notion. To me, theses differences were huge and monumental, like the distance of the sun from the moon. To David, that was typical girlish nonsense. He thought it was so like a girl, to try to outdo a boy.  And he should have known. He was the only son of five children, and he was the oldest.

At first, David was not interested in being friends with a girl. But I was Josephine Dunn, Josie they called me, and I was not just any girl. Yet, like David, I did not know if I really liked him enough to be his friend. We started off with this one thing in common.

I knew he was smarter than anybody I ever knew, that is except for my father, a self-taught man. The tomboy that I was, I was not so interested in books and maps, and David was almost obsessed with them. Yet, there was a kindred spirit that ignited us to become close, something coming in between two misfits to make a good match. David was obviously so different from the rest. He came from an entirely different culture, looking so out-of-the-ordinary than the typical face of our Anglo-Saxon, Protestant community, and me, never really fitting in with any group of peers in school, I liked him.

David knew he did not fully fit in. I surely did not fit, either. My brother, Carl, made sure very early on in my life that I was to be aware of one thing. And that one thing was that I did not belong in my family, or really anywhere in life. Mostly, this was because I was not of my father’s first family, but I came after my father’s other children and was the baby, the apple of my father’s eye. But that wasn’t the real reason why Carl hated me.

During World War Two, my father enlisted in the army. He already had two small sons and a daughter to look after, and they already had suffered one major blow in their young lives. They had lost their mother to cancer. Louise Dunn was an important figure in their lives. She was well liked in town and very much missed by her family and friends.
  
Why their father wanted to leave his children behind, possibly fatherless, made no sense to other people. But Jim Dunn came from a proud military family and would not listen to anyone telling him not to fight but rather to stay home with his children. His father fought in the First World War, and three of his great grandfathers fought for the Union Army in the Civil War. It was not like my father to back out of a fight, not one with great principles.  My father was no coward.

Not only did my father leave three small children back home, but a new, young wife. Two years before World War Two ended, he made it back home to his lovely, young wife and family. Back in France, my father was wounded in his right leg. The result of the wound caused my father to forever walk with a limp and the assistance of a cane. It was actually a blessing in disguise what would transpire. He could have easily came home in a pine box. He was thankful, though, that he came away with his life. After recovering for a few months in a French hospital, my father was eager to go home to his family. At least he was able to walk, and to walk away alive.

This lovely, young woman who was waiting for him at home was twenty-year-old Flora Laurent, now Flora Dunn, my mother, and she was eleven years younger than my father. All soldiers were certainly eager to get home to their loved ones. My father was one of thousands who was thrilled to be back on American soil, but his thrill was about to dampen. Once my father laid eyes on his wife again, there was no hiding her highly expanding belly and the overall weight gain showed in her lovely, plump face. She had no excuses for her husband, or any made-up stories to tell him, and there really nothing for her to say to explain why she was in this condition. Simply put, she was lonely.

Most men would have left such a situation, would have gone as far away from it as they possibly could have. Being too ashamed and resentful to stay, they would have washed their hands of her in a heartbeat. Having a cheating wife and an unwanted child on their hands to raise would be too much to bear. Any man, in his right mind, would say that was asking for way too much trouble.  Most men would have divorced someone like my mother, kicked her out, and especially they would hate the child she would be soon be giving birth to, but not my father. He always stood against the grain.

Not only did Jim Dunn forgive his young wife, he took me under his wing like I was his very own. Once I knew he was not my true father, I could never fully fathom why he was not ready to pack me off to an orphanage or dump me off somewhere far away. Why he was so forgiving and accepting made him more than a war hero. It made him my hero. That was why I loved him so much, especially because, soon after I was born, my mother was out of our lives. Perhaps, such a young woman should not be raising three step children and a newborn baby.

My father never mentioned any of the details of my conception, but he simply did his best to love me. He was a tall, very slim and a quiet man by nature. With light brown hair, grey eyes, and a kind face, he looked every bit of the hero I saw him as. He was willing to help anyone in a pinch, and most people who knew him respected him. Nobody in town ever talked about this situation to my father. To begin with, my father was not a talker, and he probably thought if he did talk about it, the pain and shame of it would not go away.

One of my brothers, Nathan, and my sister, Ann, seemed to treat me like a regular sister. Yet, Carl, the oldest child, hated me from the start. As a girl who was six years younger, I never understood why. He was the golden boy, with keen blue eyes and golden, wavy hair, as were Nathan and Ann.  I had long, dark brown hair, which I kept in two braids, with plenty of unsightly brown freckles, and very dark, brown eyes.  Compared to my sister, who was five years older, I never felt like I was a great beauty.

I was pretty young when Carl blurted out to me in anger, “Your mother is a *****!”  I cried a bit, wiped away the tears with my small hands and yelled back, “No, she isn’t!” Of course, I was too young to know what that word meant. When my brother followed that statement up with, “and you are a *******”, I ran straight to my father. I was almost seven years old.

My father scolded Carl pretty badly that day. Carl would not speak to me for months, and that was fine with me. That evening my father sat me upon my knee. “Daddy, what is a *****?” I asked him.

My father gently put his fingers up to my lips to shush me up. He then went into his wallet and showed me a weathered black-and-white photo he had of himself with his arms around my mother. It was in that wallet for some time, and he pulled out the wrinkled thing and placed it in front of me.

My father must have handled that picture a thousand times. Even with all the bad quality, with the wrinkles, I could see a lovely, young lady, with light eyes and dark hair, smiling as she was in the arms of her protector. My father looked proud in the photograph.

He said to me, his expression serious, “whatever Carl or anybody says about your mother, she will always be your mother and I love her for that”. I looked earnestly in his somber, grey eyes. “Why did she go away?” I asked him.

My father thought long and hard about how to answer me. He replied, “I don’t know. She was young and had more dreams in her than this town could hold for her”. He smiled awkwardly and added, “But at least she left me the best gift I could have—you.”  

I would never forget the warmth I felt with my father during that conversation. Certainly, I would never forget Carl’s cruel words, or sometimes the odd glances on the faces of townswomen, like they were studying me, comparing me to how I looked next to my father, or their whispers as the whole family would be out in town for an occasion. It did not happen every day, but this would happen whenever and wherever, when a couple of busybodies would pass me and my father walking down Main Street, or when we went into the ice cream parlor, or when I went with my father to the dime store, and it always made me feel very strange and vaguely sad, like I had no real reason to be sad but was anyway.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


That summer of 1954, I was a bit older, maybe a bit wiser than when Carl first insulted my estranged mother. I was eleven years old, and David was my equal, my sidekick. Feeling less like a kid, I tried not to boss him too much, and he tried not to be too smart in front of me. I held my own, though, had my own intelligence, but my smarts were more like street smarts. After all, I had Carl to deal with.

David seemed destined for something better in life. My life seemed like it would always be the same, like my feet were planted in heavy mud. David and I would talk about the places we would loved go to, but David would mark them on a map and track them out like his plans would really come to fruition. I never liked to dream that big. Sure, I would love to go somewhere exciting, somewhere where I’d never have to see Carl again, or some of the kids at school, but I knew why I had a reason to stay. I respected my father. That is why I did not wish to leave. And David respected his father. That is why he knew he had to leave.

David Ito’s father was a tailor. David’s parents came from Japan, and they hoped for a good life in their new country. Little did they know what would be in store for them. After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, their lives, with many other Japanese Americans, were soon turned upside down. David was born in an internment camp designed to isolate Japanese people from the nation once Americans declared war on Germany and their allies. David and I were both born in 1943, and since the war ended two years later, David had no memories of the internment camp experience. Even so, David was impacted by it, because the memories haunted his parents.

There was no getting around it. David and I, as different as we were, liked each other. Still, neither he nor I felt any silly kind of puppy love attraction. David had still thought of girls as mushy and silly, and that is why he liked me. I was not mushy or silly, and I could shoot a sling shot better than he did. David loved the sling shot his parents bought him for his last birthday. They allowed him to have it just as long as he never shot it at anyone.

David Ito, being the oldest child in his family, and the only son, allowed him to feel quite special, a very prized boy for just that reason. Mr. Ito worked two jobs to support his family, and Mrs. Ito took in laundry and cooked for the locals who could not cook their own meals. Mrs. Ito was an excellent cook. Whatever they had to give their children, David was first in line to receive it.

The majority of those in my town of Prichard respected Mr. Ito, at least those who did business with him. He was not only able to get good tailoring business in town, but some of the neighboring towns gave him a bit of work, too. When he was not working in the textile factory, Mr. Ito was busy with his measuring tape and sewing machine.  

Even though Mr. Ito gained the respect of the townspeople, he still was not one of us. I am sure he knew it, too. Yet Mr. Ito lived in America most of his life. He was only nine-years-old when his parents came here with their children. Like David, Mr. Ito certainly knew he was Japanese. The mirror told him that every day. But he also knew felt an internal tug-of war that America was his country more than Japan was, even when he was proud of his roots, even though he was once locked up in that camp, and even when some people felt that he did not belong here.

If David was called an unkind name, I felt it insulted, too, for our friendship meant that much to me. How many times I got in trouble for fighting at school! My father would be called into the principal’s office, and I was asked by Mr. Murray to explain why I would act in such an undignified way. “They called David a ***** ***”, I exclaimed. “David is my friend!”

Because David and I were best buddies, we heard lots of jeering remarks. “Josie loves a ***! Josie loves a ***!” some of the children taunted. And Carl, with his meanness, loved to be head of the line to pick on us. He once said to me, “It figures that the only friend you can get is a scrawny ***!”

In spite of my troubles at school, Father greatly admired David and his father, and he thought that David and I were good for each other’s company. Mr. Ito greatly respected my father, in return, not only for his business but because my dad could fix any car with just about any problem. Jim Dunn was not only a brilliant man, in my eyes, but the best mechanic in town. When Mr. Ito needed work done on his car, my father was right there for him. It was an even exchange of paid work and admiration.

Both my father and David’s father felt our relationship was harmless. After all, everyone in David’s family knew and expected that he would marry a nice Japanese girl. There was no question about it. Where he would find one was not too important for a boy of his age. Neither of us experienced puberty yet and, under the watchful eye of my father, we would just be the best of buddies.

David pretended like the remarks said about him never bothered him, but I knew differently. I knew he hated Carl, and we avoided him as much as possible. David was nothing like me in this respect—he was not a fighter. Truly, he did not have a fighting bone in his body, not one that picked up a sword to stab it in the heart of someone else. It was not that David was not brave, for he was, but he knew the ugliness of war without ever even having to go to battle. Nevertheless, he used his intellect to fight off any of the racist remarks made about him or his family. He had to face it—the war had only ended nine years prior and a few of the war veterans in town fought in the Pacific.      

Because of the taunts David had experienced in school, I was not surprised what David’s father had in store for his beloved son.  Mr. Ito could barely afford to send one child to private school, but he was about to send one. David was about to be that child. When David told me that when school resumed he would be going to a boy’s school in Chicago, my heart sank. Why? Why did he have to go? I would never see him again!

“You will see me in the summer”, he reassured me. He looked at me as I tried to appear brave. I sat cross-legged on the grass and stared straight ahead like I never even heard him. I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, and my lips felt like they were quivering.

We were both using old pop bottles for target practice. They sat in a row on an old tree stump shining in the evening sun. David was shooting at them with his prized slingshot. I had a makeshift one that I created out of a tree branch and a rubber band.

“You won’t even remember me”, I complained.

“I will to”, he insisted. “I remember everything.”

“Oh, sure you will”, I said sarcastically. “You’ll be super duper smart and I will just be a dummy”. In anger, I rose up my slingshot, and I hit all three bottles, one by one, then I threw the slingshot to the ground. David missed all the shots he took earlier.

David threw his slingshot down, too. “For being a girl, you are pretty smart!” he shouted. “You are too smart for your own good! The reason I like you is because you are better than anyone I ever met in my entire life. Well…not better than my parents, but you are the neatest girl I ever knew in my life!”

For a while, we didn’t talk. We just sat there and let the warm, summer breeze do our talking for us. I pulle

.
                                     D
                             e     e l       e
                           l        i  c         l
                         c         ou           c
                        o           s             o
                        u        D  e           u
                         s       l      i          s
                          D      c    o      ­  D
                            e      u s         e
                              l      ~        l
               ­                       i
                                      c

Fashion show finales follow a familiar rhythm: after the models march along the catwalk for a last hurrah, the designer comes out to take a bow. Their demeanour is often telling, an indicator of their attitude to the collection they've shown – are they a bag of nerves, or grinning from ear to ear?

Also noteworthy is the look they choose to take their bow in. Are they even wearing their own work? One of the most celebrated designers of our time never wears his own designs. Karl Lagerfeld may create the occasional menswear look at Chanel and he designs a whole men's collection for his eponymous label but he has long been a customer elsewhere: Dior Homme.

Lagerfeld started wearing Dior Homme when he was in his late 60s, shedding 41 kilograms to fit into the skinny styles of the label's then designer, Hedi Slimane. Lagerfeld has stayed loyal to the brand ever since, even after Slimane, now creative director of Saint Laurent, quit in 2006. And although the label is known for its emphasis on youth, Lagerfeld, now in his 80s, remains one of Dior Homme's most visible clients.

Raf Simons, meanwhile, Dior's creative director of womenswear, is partial to Prada: his presence in the documentary film Dior & I (2014) is most clearly announced via his distinctive studded Prada sneakers and he often takes his catwalk bow in a head-to-toe Prada look. For his first Christian Dior ready-to-wear show he wore a vintage denim jacket with red stripes by Austrian designer Helmut Lang.

And yet many designers do wear their own work, especially if the brand carries their surname. Editors scan the wardrobe of Miuccia Prada for clues to her latest collection: is she feeling utilitarian, elegant or purposefully off-kilter? When Donatella Versace takes her bow, she often wears a look from the collection she's just shown – for autumn/winter 2015, it was a pinstriped, flared pantsuit. And even Simons has worn pieces from his own label collaboration with Sterling Ruby.

So if the name is on the label, does it mean the clothes will always be on the designer's back? Not necessarily. "I've never been into wearing clothing with my own brand name inside," says Jonathan Anderson, designer behind JW Anderson and now creative director of Loewe. "I find it odd and arrogant."

UNIFORM DRESSING

Anderson's own wardrobe is a familiar uniform: crewneck sweater, faded blue jeans, Nike sneakers. It's entirely opposite to the menswear looks he creates for his own label's catwalk presentations, which have included bandeau tops and frilled shorts. He seems to favour a clean-palette approach: keeping himself neutral so as to not deflect from his experimentation elsewhere.

This kind of wardrobe is common among fashion designers. Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez of Proenza Schouler appear to have no desire to create menswear for themselves or others, dressing instead in a similar style to Anderson: crewnecks, polo shirts or button-downs, usually with jeans and sneakers.

Mary Katrantzou, meanwhile, recent winner of the 2015 BFC/Vogue Designer Fashion Fund, may have built her business on print and embellishment but she is usually found in a black knit dress by Azzedine Alaïa. Alaïa himself has perhaps the ultimate clean-palette wardrobe: for decades he has worn black cotton Chinese pyjamas, fastened by simple floral buttoning.

Each of these designers has a successful business with its own clear signature. So maybe it doesn't matter if they don't wear their own clothes. And yet when designers do, it can be so seductive. Men buy Tom Ford because they want to be like Tom Ford. Women buy Céline because they want to look like Phoebe Philo. Stefano Pilati, creative director of Ermenegildo Zegna Couture, is often said to be his own best model; Rick Owens, in his long draped vests and baggy shorts, is the perfect ambassador for his own alternate universe of otherness.

The style of Roksanda Ilincic is synonymous with her own brand. "I create pieces that embrace the female form," she says of her bold colour palette and silhouette. "Being a woman means I'm able to feel and test those things on a personal level … I tend to favour long hemlines and nipped-in waists, with interesting shades and textures, pared down with simple basics and outerwear." Does she ever wear anyone else? "Of course! Black polo necks from Wolford are an absolute staple and in winter I am rarely without my favourite black cashmere coat by Prada, which is on permanent loan from my husband."

It seems like an industry divided between designers who wear their own work and those who don't. But sometimes things change. Backstage at Loewe earlier this season, Anderson said: "With Loewe, I have a detachment. I wear a lot of it. Now I'm more, 'Does this work?' I've got a bit of a love back for fashion."

Two months on, his interest in wearing his own designs has grown still further. He is the cover star of the new issue of menswear biannual magazine Fantastic Man, posing in a slash-fronted sweater and leather tie trousers. The pieces are both his work from current season Loewe. Womenswear. In for a penny, in for a pound.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

If there was an award for the oddest pairing in fashion, it would go to Jonathan Anderson and Spanish house Loewe. More than a few eyebrows were raised when the designer, who is better known for his conceptual unisex collections and dressing men in cropped tops, was handed the reins to the heritage brand that is all about "luxe" (in other words: conservative) leather goods.

In person, Anderson looks more like an extra from a Saint Laurent runway show than creative director of one of Spain's most treasured possessions. He's dressed in a typical model uniform of white tee and jeans, complete with dark sunglasses and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. A mop of tousled, highlighted blond hair adds to his boyish charm, although he is quick to assert that looks can be deceiving.

"Fashion ultimately imitates life and in life things don't always look good together from the outset," he says. "I know a certain style is good when I feel uncomfortable with it - those looks turn out to be the best. You have to challenge yourself with things you don't like or don't know."

Taking on a brand reinvention is probably one of the biggest challenges the 30-year-old Irish designer has faced in his short but successful career. A former Prada window dresser, he studied menswear at London College of Fashion and launched his eponymous line in 2008 to critical acclaim. He's been nominated for many awards and even collaborated with the likes of Versus.

In 2013 everything changed when LVMH took a minority stake in his label and offered him the role of creative director at Loewe in the hope that he could transform the dormant house into a modern success story along the lines of Givenchy and Céline. The Loewe gig wasn't originally part of the deal but that changed quickly following a covert visit to the Loewe factory.

"Truth is I just fell in love with the people," he says. "I met the master modeller and leather developer, and I thought this brand can be huge. Loewe was never on my radar, but when I went there I could not understand why it had never been articulated in a way that it wasn't global. I questioned if I wanted to do this, but once I started creating a book of ideas, I couldn't stop."

Although Loewe has a network of stores around the world, it was not a brand that many people took notice of (a fact not helped by its unpronounceable name, which for the record is pronounced Lo-Wev-Eh).

So Anderson decided to adopt a more controversial approach to the rebranding. Much like Hedi Slimane at Saint Laurent, he unveiled a fresh new identity, including a sleek new logo designed by graphic duo M/M (Paris) and an eye-catching campaign featuring a selection of vintage Steven Meisel images.

"I did a year of research before I started and realised we had to remove the date and city location from the logo. One of my skills is that I am very marketing directed," he says.

While many creative directors use runway shows as a platform to showcase their vision, Anderson focused first on the fundamentals of the brand and what it does best: leather goods. Soon Loewe's iconic buttery soft leather was transformed into covetable designs such as the best-selling Puzzle Bag, the Colourblock Flamenco Crossbody and a range of minimalist clutches and totes embossed with the discreet new logo.

"There are not many brands in the world that are built up in that way. We have such incredible leather knowledge in hand at Loewe and I had to use that," he says.

Next on his list was adding a more personal element to the brand in the form of culture. Along came various projects, including working with renowned Japanese ceramicist Tomoo Hamada on two exclusive pieces for the Tokyo store, inspired by the brand's DNA. His most recent project, which was unveiled in Hong Kong last week, features prints by British textile artist John Allen, which have appeared on a range of summer essentials, from bags to towels.

"When I was looking at what other brands were offering, none of them really dealt with this culture idea," Anderson says.

That's not to say that ready-to-wear takes a back seat at Loewe. This is an area where Anderson has been most prolific, producing both ready-to-wear and pre-collections for men and women which are shown in Paris.

"Marc Jacobs fundamentally opened up the idea that clothing was needed to articulate leather goods. It came from a moment in the 1990s where he changed our thinking on old houses. I've learned through my lifetime that you need a character to tell a story - a bag cannot be isolated. People need something tangible to hold onto and ready-to-wear creates newness," he says.

There's no doubt that his clothing brings a fresh perspective to the brand. His menswear collections feature everything from slouchy raw-silk tunic and turned-up jeans to knitted palazzo pants, each imbued with his signature androgynous touches. His woman is powerful and dressed boldly in blouson blouses made from patchwork leather and wide-legged trousers.

While many critics have embraced the new Loewe look wholeheartedly, others have not been complimentary, saying that Anderson's work is derivative. Not that Anderson is letting it get to him.

"I had to stop reading what people write. I have to be me. I want the brand to be big, and will do everything to make it happen, but I don't want to change who I fundamentally am. You either like what I say or don't," he says.

"I am bored of the days where we are obsessed with the idea that certain designers owned things. You own nothing. Fashion is not about that. It's about reappropriating things, it's how you edit it."

Like most 21st century designers, Anderson is obsessed with the future and creating a brand that is truly of the moment: he has lofty goals to bring Loewe to the next generation of consumers.

"The idea of relevance is the idea that you can be rejected tomorrow. We live in a culture that moves very fast, so that relevance is short-lived. My biggest goal in the next five years is to get to the point where we will do a show and, the day after, the collection is in store. It means we are designing for the moment that it is going out. That's my dream."Read more here:marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

Hey, another week whispers love to win "W" That womanly wonder I need to take a step back to "V"  just need to vent out.
I'm here not over there? Medieval times "Roman Festival" of love
I have to catch up to get to V- Valentine things are the sublime wake up take a bite the "Viennese Whirls" biscuit "The Cats Meow"
The Siamese to suit me just fine. The Valentine recruit her day of pursuit. Her lower V back to her higher love loot plays up to her **** and boots.

A victory versus the villain Mama Mia striking gold but I am a face to red like grapes. The Italian Villa making love in her red hot chinchilla. But somewhere over her sheer rainbow, he got sidetracked all the way she looks divine in her "Rosy" slingback chair. Read my lips go smack CD track "V-Valiant" multiplying like ants. She flaunts herself such a venom demonstration. The biblical (V)-sword wins her love sentimental. What aims the bow and arrow a heart is her V village daring. Quite shocking and alarming the poems red silk ties her love force the light shines romantically warm red. V Virtual reality Strawbery Sponge cake.

Her V-Valentine the first day she met him. Where she came from will we ever know? What's in the card do we win or lose to know what in store for you?

You will get to know me 
The sweets got her set
The bittersweets only yet
Plays the different drum
The Valiant V venture
Hum all *** about him
The ricochet "Russian *****"

This is not the end of the alphabet
zoomed in like the Zebra
You got me V for Visa
But Y where did the
( L)_ go we are losing some??
Alphabets 
More victories firelight sunset

Lionhearted heroic I bet
Did you throw me into Lion's den?
Refresh my L- love ******
"O" only roses pink/red sonic
Zippety do day happier
V Day the wine glasses
L-O-V- E Ecstacy

I suppose another tempting
Dose V vitamins
"Valiant Rose" Face
Such velocity
I feel pretty dancing
high castles
   "Valentine"

 Herbivore love me messy
Victorian sleeping beauty
Rose Kiss Hibiscus
Vampire rosebuds
Cherubs ****** red
Red Mercedes
Hubs of love
husbands

For the "Valiant Smart ladies"
High society noses
Pluto-Venus Starwars
V Valentino and their singles
Cappuccino in Italy Portofino
Chic centerfold V candles
Damask Rose pretentious pose

She's the V Voluptuous
Red devil ventriloquist
Pink/Wink Strawberry mousse
The Bulgarian with her cute
Pomeranian and spouse
Elephant Tusk smells
of musk E-love

"Marilyn Monroe" baguettes
Yves The Saint Laurent
So Valiant bond deep
Cut thorns of Reds
Bergdorf Blondes and
Brunettes
Valentine duet V-shape
Headset  vivacious escapes
So mindset
Never forget the one day

February 14 your
Valentine ring
heartedly set
Salute to the cadet

Daisy Lowe‘s body positivity and refusal to bow to fashion industry pressures have cemented her place as one of Britain’s hottest exports.

From international catwalks to Pirelli calendars, the 27-year-old’s career in front of the camera has gone from strength to strength - all because she’s unapologetically herself.

To celebrate her latest endeavour - a partnership with lingerie brand Triumph UK - the model sat down with The Huffington Post UK to let us in on her secrets.

What does having a positive body image mean to you?

Being comfortable in your own skin, embracing all your flaws and accepting that you are who you are.

Being individual is a beautiful thing.

Where does your confidence come from?

It’s definitely something any person living in today’s society has to learn and grow up to achieve. I’m still working on it on a daily basis.

Everything that I put into my body makes a difference. How much I work out makes a difference. Surrounding myself with people I can laugh a lot with and around whom I can be 100% myself.

What advice would you give to those struggling with self-image?

Love the parts of you that you don’t enjoy so much and be kind to yourself - that’s something that I have to constantly remind myself to do. Go and do something that inspires you or makes you happy.

How do you banish self doubt on bad days?

Meditation and mindfulness helps. Having a check-in with yourself and trying really hard to be present.

We can look outside ourselves and think about what other people are doing, -especially with social media - but if you can try your best in the exact moment that’s all that matters, because that’s all that really exists.

What would you like to see change in the fashion industry?

There’s a lot more room for variation as far as models go - we should be promoting that all shapes, sizes and ethnicities are beautiful.

It would be lovely for plus size models not to be called ‘plus size’ - they’re being used for the same jobs. We’re all just models - wearing beautiful clothes that make people feel good about themselves and helping designers to sell their creations. I’d love to see more ‘in-between’ size models too.

How do you decide what to wear in the morning?

The darker and greyer the world is outside, the more I wear bright colours - as long as you’re sunny in yourself! I’m such a creature of comfort – I’m a huge fan of pulling on a pair of stretchy comfy jeans (Lowe swears by high-waisted styles by Paige, Frame and J Brand) and I love a bit of cashmere.

Jewellery wise, I always wear Crystal necklaces or chains by Loquet. I’m also a fan of a cute tea dress and ballet shoes. I love that Brigitte Bardot/Jane Birkin 60s/70s vibe mixed up with a bit of 90s grunge.

What are your favourite shopping spots?

Lark Vintage in Somerset is amazing, and in London I love Mairead Lewin Vintage. Those are top secret - I never usually tell anyone those.

Brand wise, I love James Perse, Cocoa Cashmere, Erdem, Simone Rocha and Ganni - I have a leather jacket from there I haven’t taken off for a year. I also have a troubling Saint Laurent addiction.

Talk me through your daily skincare routine.

I love the P50 W Lotion by Biologique Recherche, it’s done absolute wonders for my skin and makes it much more clear.

I also swear by the Crème de la Mer Genaissance de la Mer serum, moisturising soft cream and eye concentrate.

For my body, I use Aesop A Rose By Any Other Name cleanser and Balance Me for their luxurious moisturisers and body oils made with natural ingredients.

What are your makeup bag staples?

Tom Ford is a go-to. I use the Traceless Perfecting Foundation, which has SPF, and the concealing pen around my nose and eyes.

I like to keep my makeup really simple, so I’ll use the Laura Mercier Paint Wash liquid lip colour in petal pink on both my lips and cheeks.

For eyes, I swear by Tom Ford Waterproof Extreme Mascara and Kevin Aucoin eyelash curlers.

What’s the best tip you’ve picked up from a makeup artist?

My makeup artist would **** me if I ever slept in my makeup. Another great tip is to make sure you conceal around your nose. If your nose is red it makes your whole complexion look uneven.

Also, always apply lipstick all the way into the corners of your mouth to continue the line.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in the name of beauty?

When I was younger I used to make these weird DIY face masks with my friends. We made one with mashed banana, avocado, honey and peanut butter. Peanut butter on active teenage skin was not the best idea.

Any other beauty secrets you can let us in on?

My facialist Arezoo Kaviani is amazing. She’s a real healer at heart. She does a deep cleansing ****** with extraction and LED light therapy.

I also tried a collagen wave ****** recently, which was great.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

Laurent, I want to thank you for
Breaking my heart before
'Cause now I know that love --
Is not being able to say 'you're mine'
But being able to say the perfect rhyme

The day you learned to play with my heart
Is the day I learned to play with words
Watch as I turn my pain into written art
While I watch your eyes run dry after the rain has poured

Please
Don't spray
Your cheap **** all around
Like it's air freshener
I actually wear perfume
Classics: Yves Saint Laurent, Coco Chanel, Oscar de la Renta
I pay good money to stand out
So don't make me smell like you
And your cheap *** perfume

Fashion rarely looks to the Brit awards for style inspiration but somehow fashion finds its way, in dribs and drabs, to its red carpet. These awards are the unwanted stepchild of the red carpet and generally, this means it’s a bric-a-brac of high-end and high street looks. For every Rihanna in couture you have a Little Mix in Asos.

Such is life, though, and there were legitimate trends, aside from the James Bay/Kylie double hatter. First, in the spirit of Angelina Jolie’s 2012 viral, there was a Right Leg – as flashed by model Lily Donaldson and singer Lana Del Rey. Nightwear came in a rather lavish Miss Havisham-esque form via Florence Welch (cream slip, eiderdown wrap, bed-hair) and Rihanna (a lilac slipdress covered with seashell patterns), and which unexpectedly preceded Alexander McQueen’s autumn/winter 2016 collection. Finally, there was a definite nod to The Wizard of Oz’s Emerald City via Jess Glynn’s sparkling green jacquard suit, Kylie’s backless heels and Jack Garratt’s toned down double-breasted suit.

There were the half-successes, too: Adele’s cascading liver-red dress and matching lipstick was grownup, but compared to her memorable 2013 Valentino hit at the Grammy’s, it felt par-cooked. Singer Charli XCX has been a frow regular at this year’s London fashion week, so she went predictably designer in pale green Vivienne Westwood. But she was let down with her slicked-back hair, a styling addendum that somehow overegged the overall effect. She also looked stiff and uneasy, probably because, at 23, she was too young to pull it off.

The menswear was far more experimental. To wit: Labrinth in a blue and pink orchid-print suit which, unaccessorised, had just enough humour to work (it looked like a box of Cadburys Roses). Mark Ronson did his usual trick of pepping a cleanly cut suit with the odd flourish. This time it was a monochrome dogstooth suit covered with a static print. Even JLS’s Marvin Humes, in a Yves Saint Laurent bomber jacket, epitomised the modern man. And what Carl Barât lacked in pizzazz he made up for by wearing a Hedi Slimane suit (although less said about the James Bay hat, the better).

The misses, of course, were plentiful. The mullet dress is the trend that refuses to die (see Cheryl Fernandez-Versini and half of Little Mix in various synthetic horrors). Alexa Chung rarely puts a brogue wrong, but here in a velvet bustier dress, was fairly forgettable (lesson: don’t step out of your style lane). Then, of course, there was Keith Lemon, who pillaged the misses of awards seasons gone (the Pharrell hat, the pseudo-Gucci blazer … everything really). What did you expect from Keith Lemon? The Brits then: a series of blind taste tests on the red carpet, none of which gets full marks.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

boy may move

make moves

the coast sways blue

ghostly grey quaaludes

gasp and gather and get gone

see gulls

see “get out of dodge” a la roget

sunburnt skin Rośe

aloe

vera ****

saint white

more saint than yves laurent

freighter; only witness

speak now

or hold your peace

see “forever” a la webster

it was more than a week ago
when he burned my hand
and i called you up drunk.

she pulled the phone from my hand
and told me i was making a mistake.
i told her i was calling my mom
and she gave it back to me.

we were on the bus
when i called her
and i smiled at him and i felt dizzy.
she took my phone from my hand
and talked to her.

you didn't pick up so i called again.
ring.
   ring.
     ring.

i whispered in her ear
careful and afraid,
( i n t o x i c a t e d )
"don't tell her what i told you earlier."
she turned to me with an eye roll and said,
"i would never."
he watched us.

hands shaking as i texted you
as steady as i possibly could.
it might have been the third time i told you i love you that month.
you told me to stop texting.

she handed the phone back to me and got off the bus.
i told him to come over here.
he said no.
i sighed and sat next to him.
she was giggling in my ear.

i felt sad.
so i started to smoke.
she took my phone away.
my voice was hoarse from all the cigarettes
and my hands were frozen.
inside, someone turned on all the lights.

i handed him the phone.
he asked if you were my sister.

she gave me back my phone.
i messaged you again.
you said you were bowling.
i said i didn't care.

i hung up the phone and asked him where he was going.
we were alone.
he said orleans, what about you?
i said st laurent.
i told him my sister lives there.

you wouldn't call.
your phone was broken.
it went straight to voicemail.
you said i was drunk.
i said i wasn't.
i said he burned my hands and i made lots of friends.
you said congratulations.

i got off the bus before him.

i said i love you.
you said, "you're drunk."

i said i was scared
and that i was alone.
no one would answer my calls.
i got off the bus at my sisters.
i listened to the strokes.
someone behind me called my name.
i played with the cigarette pack in my pocket.
it was my sister's boyfriend.
he lead me up to their apartment.
they gave me beer.
and ****.

you said i should be talking to her.
i said i'd rather be talking to you.

i met a drug dealer
and tried to roll a joint.
they told me to keep drinking so i did.
it wasn't enough.

you said you were done.
i asked you why but i think i already knew the answer.

"i want to wake up with a hangover."
"keep drinking."

you went to bed.
i told you i love you.
you didn't answer.

i woke up at one in the afternoon
and told her we needed to talk.
i wasn't hungover.
i went out to my friends house.
i played with the cigarettes in my pocket.

i got home and asked you out.
you said yes.

i felt
complete.

strange
isn’t it

how
memories
pique our moods like
mountains

bursting
through the
stratosphere
only to be sent
plummeting to the
depths of an

abyss
darker
and
deeper
than Marianas Trench
at the flip of a

switch

subtle triggers
found in the way
someone laughs
or when a co-worker
grins
out of the corner of
his or her
mouth

i see you
in the characters of the
literature and
films we used to critique
over coffee
hiding in the vestiges
of Daenerys Targaryen
or
Mélanie Laurent

you are France
an entire country
unto yourself

the smell of the sea
clings to your skin cells
in ways i
only wish
i could

you are in every
solitary
letter of Helvetica
whispering
softly
of things that
were
of things that
are
and of some things that
have not yet come to pass

you float
in the carcinogenic smoke
of cigarettes
a silhouette
corporeal particles
i exorcise
with equal parts
relief
and
regret

every night that i
paint the town
in neon colors
of vibrant life
i write your name
when i
vandalize
and fantasize
that you are
somehow with me
maybe floating happily
in the molecules
of aerosol
spreading across the
concrete

you’re in every song
by Brand New
like the residue of
dew drying on
the leaves
in the
mid-morning
light
lingering
even as
the sun calls you

home
the way i lingered
on your doorstep
to make sure that
you made it safely
back inside your
home

i’ve come to find that
i am equal parts
melancholy
and
blithe
and
i think that i
can finally say
i’m getting better

but
to borrow
a page
from Vonnegut
i’d be lying if
i said i didn’t still
catch
myself feeling
sorry
about the things that
no longer
matter

If life was a bed of roses, then
My neighbour would fit the bill,
He’d built him a twelve room mansion
Next to me, on top of the hill,
It made my cottage look down at heel
Til I grew a hawthorn hedge,
So nobody could look down on me
Though he did, from up on a ledge.

His name was Jeremy Harmon, and
His wife was Amanda Cale,
I’d played with him in the schoolyard, though
He’d won him a place at Yale,
He’d spent his life in America
Though he’d come back home to wed,
And stole the only woman I loved
From our own pre-bridal bed.

She’d fallen hard for his Ivy League
And his Yves St. Laurent suits,
His rented Aston Martin, and
His R.M. Williams boots.
He’d made a pile and he flaunted it
Before heading back to the States,
Taking Amanda Cale with him,
I got her note too late.

‘I’m sorry John, and I know it’s wrong
But he swept me off my feet,
We’re going to live in Chicago, where
He said that life’s a treat.
We’ll live in a condominium
And he promised me a maid,
Oh don’t be sad, for I’m rather glad,
Just think of the love we made.’

And that was the last I heard of them
For almost twenty years,
The name of Jeremy Harmon passed
My lips, as a sort of curse,
I just got on with my life, but brought
No woman to my bed,
My head was full of Amanda Cale
And her betrayal, instead.

They turned up totally unexpected,
Rang my front doorbell,
‘We’re going to be your neighbour, Hey!
It’s good to see you, pal.’
He seemed to be totally unaware
Of the grief he’d caused, back when,
I held my tongue and I kept my peace,
‘Okay, I’ll see you then.’

A year went by and the house went up
And I grew my hawthorn hedge,
Amanda worked in the garden planting
Seeds and lawn and sedge,
I did my best to avoid her, though
She tried to keep things light,
But chuckled things like, ‘Remember when…’
And I’d say, ‘That’s not right!’

‘You made your bed when you left with him,
There are no memories,
I saw you last in his Aston Martin
Waving through the trees.’
‘That was a mistake, I know,’ she said,
‘But things could turn out right,
He goes away on his business trips
And I’m all alone at night.’

I’m sure I said that it wasn’t on,
I’m sure I told her to go,
But she was given to plots and schemes
About things I didn’t know.
She asked me once for a bag of lime
To use on her roses bed,
And like a fool, I gave her the tool
To let her back in my bed.

Jeremy went on a business trip
And didn’t come home at all,
She said he’d gone to America,
Their marriage had gone to the wall.
She came to cry on my shoulder then
Each day, for almost a year,
And in the end, I had given in,
She seemed in a deep despair.

Her garden then was magnificent
For her roses were in bloom,
‘I’ve never seen such a great display,’
I said, one afternoon.
‘You can thank my husband, Jeremy,
He’s been working, all this time,
You’re tied to me for eternity
For you supplied the lime!’

David Lewis Paget

Recession, what recession, I couldn't care a jot
You should check out all the money that I've got.
I don't need to work as my Dad's a merchant banker
And he's a fat cat too, what a greedy ******.

I look out my window to see the peasants grovel
In the dirt, starving in a filthy Council hovel;
I just sit and smile and sip at my Laurent-Perrier.
Long live capitalism, I just couldn't be any merrier.

For the past five seasons, the New York-based designer Rachel Comey has forgone a traditional runway show in favour of a more intimate dinner and presentation at the Pioneer Works Center for Art and Innovation in Red Hook, Brooklyn. This season, she is taking her show on the road, stepping off the New York calendar altogether. Instead, she plans to present her Autumn/Winter 2016 collection in Los Angeles in late March to support the launch of her first retail store on the West Coast, scheduled to open in April.

Located at 8432 Melrose Place, the store is the second physical retail presence in Comey’s portfolio; the first opened in June 2014 on Crosby Street in Manhattan, New York. Editors and buyers who wish to see the collection during New York Fashion Week will still be able to schedule private appointments and the designer also plans on releasing a look book of images prior to the show.

Comey is the latest of several brands — including Burberry,Tom Ford and Louis Vuitton — to stage activations in Southern California in the past year. (While Ford and Burberry did shows in Los Angeles-proper, Vuitton took to nearby Palm Springs.) On February 10, the Hollywood Palladium will host what might be Hedi Slimane's last men’s show for Saint Laurent. Indeed, Los Angeles’ emergence as a legitimate cultural capital and growing fashion hub has been well documented.

The exact date and location of Comey’s Los Angeles event has yet to be decided. But the designer said it would be similar in format and concept to the dinner theatre-style shows she has preferred as of late, with a live performance and a guest list filled with creative class types who reflect the brand’s point of view. (Notable Spring 2016 attendees included NPR reporter Jacki Lyden, actress Parker Posey, writer Zadie Smith and artist Cindy Sherman.) “I’ve been showing for a long time, but how many shows did Cathy Horyn come to before we started doing dinners. Maybe two over 13 years?” Comey said during a recent studio visit. “I get it. Shows are ten minutes and really what are you learning about the brand? The collaborative effort between the environment and the music and models and the chef feels very honest for us and what we are trying to do. It's something we really believe in."

There will be one significant change to Comey's unconventional presentation formula besides the location. Instead of simply showing pieces from Autumn/Winter 2016, the designer plans to incorporate current-season pieces into the line-up, which will be available to purchase the next day. The idea is to boost interest in the opening of the Los Angeles store, which will sit alongside The Row, Chloé, Isabel Marant, APC and several other high-fashion retailers on Melrose Place. “We want to use the show as a way to introduce ourselves and connect with people,” said Comey.

Architect Elizabeth Roberts and interior designer Charles de Lisle, both of whom worked on Comey’s New York store, are collaborating on the interiors of the 2,600-square foot space. Additionally, Los Angeles-based architect Linda Taalman has been brought onto the team to consult on the design.

Both the Los Angeles event and store opening reflect the quiet transformation of the Rachel Comey brand over the past three years, as the designer's intellectual, arts-and-crafts aesthetic has grown more popular with a broader audience in the United States and beyond. (Comey’s dropped-hem “Legion” jean, for instance, has driven denim trends for several seasons.) Her decision to shift her presentation format from a traditional runway show to a seated dinner elevated Comey’s cachet on the fashion week calendar, while the success of her New York store has helped to drive a significant evolution of the business. Direct retail — both the physical store and e-commerce — now makes up 27 percent of the company's nearly $10 million in annual sales. Roughly half the brand's sales are still generated by domestic wholesale partners, while the other quarter comes from Comey’s growing presence at international stockists.

“The [New York store] was such a game changer for us because of the connection to the customer,” she said. “I think people didn’t realise the breadth of the collection. When you’re a wholesaler, people cherry pick it however they want. Which is nice, I like that in a way. But it’s also nice to have our own store, our own space and do things the way we want to do it.”

Indeed, Comey, who has been designing womenswear under her namesake label since 2004, has found that her greatest successes have come out of staying true to her vision. “I now have the faith and confidence that if you do things that are meaningful to you — rather than stick to the industry standard — [things] will probably work out,” said the designer, who is also working on a revamp of her e-commerce site.

“We’ve never been championed by a celebrity or a powerful editor. It’s really always been by word of mouth, loyal customers and just keeping on.” Now, it’s time to test out that philosophy on the West Coast. As Comey put it, “California is the promise land.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

i.

(DedPoet-aka-Ernesto L. Gonzales)
May god bless thee mine friend, man of honor, Heavensent;
Thy soul, may it be in peace, God's love cover's thee west to east.

ii.

(NvrMnd)
A poet of otherworldly mind, poetic of new aged times;
Dont let thy depression over cometh thy soul, be unbound, whole.

iii.

(Laurent)
a dear writer of inspiration, let thy writing be navigation; spread thine hope to foreign places, with love friend.

iv.

(Tropica)
Poetess of aficionado tenderness, splendidness guideth thee;
A poet of human qualities, an artist for love's recipe in all form.

v.

(Darlene Chavez)
Let thy darkness turneth into light, let the night turn to day;
Be not shackled to Misery's way's,, but knoweth God's with thee.

vi.

(Sara Murray)
A fan of the strange, a taste that hast meaning, caring and giving;
Reality mixed with dreaming, word's golden, gleaming to aloft.

vii.

(Sally A Bayan)
From the terra firma of mine queen, the most thoughtful, delightful being, an aura that screameth of all holiness aisle's.

viii.

(naǧí)
A native light, of old day's flame's, a bright tunnel beyond the pain's, a pathway to other places where faces art spiritual.

ix.

(damsel in distress)
A woman of talented word's, like Herb's, elixered and pictured;
Snapshot's art taken from thine view, with all sight in old truth.

x.

(Dreams of Sepia)
Writing of mysterious writing's. Though honest, inviting;
Exciting in thy new day's pages, anger love and saved for us all.

xi.

(SoulSurvivor)
A woman like an auntie to me, a woman of generation's who helpeth the blind to none god seeith, as thou art a friend!!!!

xii.

(SE Reimer)
Man of many technique's, giving hope and beauties when we art weak, thy word's speaketh of medicinal purposes for all to seek.

xiii.

(PoetryJournal)
Writing short lines. Beyond mankind; thine artwork is fine;
Making other's look again, rewind, thine design's art heaven.

xiv.

(Melissa S)
A mother from the place of alabama, with southern charm;
Writing southern song's, of southern scar's,, as well as smile's.

xv.

(Poetic Thoughts)
Thou lover of books, a enthusiastic being of singing;
Keepeth on with thy work's, let the earth shake on thy poetry.

xvi.

(Eddie Starr Poetry)
Let Christ continueth to work in thine life, showeth love as he taught, and forgiveness; thou shalt soon findeth thy wife!!!

xvii.

(Paul Gaffney)
A gentleman who liketh simple poetry, that hit's thee best;
A way of relieving stress is writing down daily thought's, great!!

xviii.

(Rosalind Heather Alexander)
Overcometh those whom leaveth thee due to thy faith;
There missing out on truth and God's grace, continueth in love!!!

xix.

(IvyB **)
A woman who knoweth pain, keepeth faith in trial rain's;
Keepeth held high, the mist is only a short period, as angel's wait.

**.

(NV)
Creature of sadness, in a world of madness, making sense of living; let lighting seraph's be thy giving, look aloft to hope.

xxi.

(Joseph Paris)
A man of many duo's, Chicago street walker, rebel era, man of many poetic mirror's, let thy beautiful reflection dance the city.

xxii.

(ThePoet)
Thy word's of hurt and screaming, of hope and dreaming;
Is Alive in all ourn spirit's, trust thy creator, let the light near it.

xxiii.

(PoetessLiz)
Poetry is thy vital force, poetry is thy life porch;
Thou art not so lonely as thou doth thinkest friend, we all careth.

xxiv.

(SG Holter)
A man of blossoming stanza's, lines of manna;
Holy old detail's, word's of holy grail highness.

xxv.

(susan)
Digging through the deepest thought's creating poetry;
Spread thy gospel, plant thy seed's, and let them spread around.

xxvi.

(Dawn S)
Also new to this site, welcome; spread thy foregone scripture's;
Like ancient Picasso picture's, thine painting's art priceless.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Dedication poem \part 2 new one...

Everyday in English class, she'd walk in, sit down and open a book. The Teacher in silent understanding allowed her to.
He handed her the work wordlessly and within a few minutes she returned the fully completed work back to him. These A*'s meant nothing to her.
I sighed in contempt, this enigma of a girl, what was she? I see her around school a lot more, I noticed that she was the most popular girl but one would not associate her with that, for her persona was not that of one. Everyone fought to talk to her but she just looked at them with empty eyes, seen as full, but I saw through her guise. Her eyes....nothing was in them.
She intrigued me, I couldn't help it, and worst of all, now I can't let her go.
Everyday I am a soldier, constantly fighting for eye contact, yet those bottomless pits of icy brown avoided my searching eyes like the plague.

As usual, she walked into class and opened her book, her precious book was coming apart at the seams, almost a few seconds away from crumbling into pieces for she had used the book as a lifeline.
I cautiously made my way over to her desk that was nestled in the back, she stiffened at my looming presence,sigh.
I stared at her, waiting, with the patience of a saint, a devilish saint.
She failed to look up once, 10 minutes had passed...it was like she was frozen...had winter come early?
was she even breathing?
you see, I had bought a book for her, but this game was tiring and I couldn't abandon my responsibilities for my new-found muse.
I set the book down on her desk and walked away after what felt like eternity crossed with purgatory.
This book was from my personal library at home, I secretly hoped in mock amusement that we shared the same taste in literature although I had an inkling that my assumption would naturally be correct.

From the corner of my eye I gleaned that she was taken aback and that her curiosity was about to override her passive responses. I watched her pick up the book like a predator sets his gaze upon his prey.
My heart felt like it was beating at the speed of light when her elegant fingers caressed the spine and brushed the pages that moaned at her touch.
My breath hitched as her lips parted in thought, ****, she looked up.
God, the realization hit me that she was my own book that I read every English lesson.

The years went by, two years and four days, to be exact, since I first gave her my book. Nothing changed, every week she'd return my book to me after she'd read it, expression, unchanged.
It has been 740 days, 17,760 hours, 1,065,600 minutes since the day she became my muse, and not once did she ever escape my mind.

She started coming into class with punctuality out of sight and much to my  shock, empty handed. Her book was not in sight, my mind was reeling. To compensate she completed her work then stared, enthralled at her desk for the duration of the lesson.
Reminiscent of the first time that I approached her, I took the plunge again, opened my mouth and firmly asked "is everything okay?"
I hoped that the deep baritones of my voice would not get her shook but little did I know how familiar they were to  her, instead she shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. I sighed, walking away, I felt nothing, this was completely expected. crazy.
**** it, I craved to hear her voice, directed at me and me only, something a little less casual then yes or no or even answering for the register.

I knew the that the next time she was to walk in, something will have changed within her.
Correct, I win, hah.
but it wasn't so funny when I noticed the red around her eyes or the lilac blush of feint bruising underneath her eyes or that she kept sniffing or that she couldn't sit still or that she grinded her teeth.
Welcome to coke 101.

That ******* phone of hers that she was glued to all of a sudden just made the anger within me rise further up.
Who was getting her this excited, she was jittery and oddly enough her face looked brighter and less torn...did she almost look happy?

All my questions were answered when class ended and I walked behind her glancing at the screen of her phone to discover that a girl who was my property was engaged in a conversation with a 'J <3'
I saw red, I don't share my property unless I condone it
who was this devil who changed my little mystery?

scanning...scanning...scanning...who was she running to...ah
a group that resembled something fresh off the saint Laurent runway
and within that group, with his tight grip on her shoulder, I assumed was J.
They all wore ripped jeans, shirts that appeared as a second skin and overly large jackets...typical
but they seemed to be teetering on the edge of life, like they lived for adrenaline rushes to make them feel whole. perhaps they'd lost their way and found it again in an instant.
she fit in well and I cherished the smile on her face.

Months went on, the same thing happened every lesson, she'd stumble in after doing a few lines, struggle to breathe or even stay awake. this was all just a waiting game for her.
the day she walked in, stained with blood was the day my being snapped in two. The whole class sat shell shocked as they looked upon a fallen angel adorned with crimson.

2 weeks passed without her, left on edge until my craving to see her was satiated.
Monday came and she walked in, holding a note that she dropped upon my desk.
She stood waiting for me to read it, i did, but in a state of elated confusion.
scrawled in her elegant yet spidery identity "I miss you and I miss your books, I miss the way you gave them to me and I missed the anticipation that came alongside it"

Exterior I was authoritative and powerful, interior i was a ******* mess. I silently handed her a novel with an oxblood colored cover. I looked up and for a split second I could swear that our eyes met.

A week later on Friday, she came to me, with the book in her hands and set it aside.
She looked up at me, directly at me, biting her lip
this devil was not innocent or so God help me.

She guided my hands to rest on her unnaturally thin waist  and just stared at me. Engaged in an internal battle, I could see, she was choosing what to say
but she just whispered my name and left.
I overdosed on the way she said my name, left in euphoria over what could have been.
I grabbed the book in an attempt to make sense of all that has occurred and saw that in the front cover where I had written my name, her name had been placed next to mine.
Just a waiting game...a really ******* long waiting game.

Good things come to those who wait
Well I’m done waiting.
I’ve waited before.
I’ve been heartbroken,
I’ve recovered,
I’ve looked and looked and been around,
I gave up,
threw in the towel.
And then I was found.
By You
you who are so far away that distance includes a time difference

Limbo.
is not a state of mind!
It is a heart breaker, Chest beater There are not enough words in the world Minutes in the day
To express my frustration
With You
The universe
My weak weak resolve
To wait for you

I’ve waited before.
But I thought I had found you!
Been found.
Brought back to the place I had been before
I    was    like    Eve,!
in the Garden of Eden (pause)
Love is like……
Being high
But you still get the paranoia  It’s just not as intense

I’ve been heartbroken before
They say:
Distance makes the heart grow fonder?
But no one ever said what it did to the mind
Sleeping patterns, social skills and drinking habits?
I could have loved you.!
(But for that I needed time)
You could have been the love of my life
(Feelings grow)
The one ( a concept we trivialised)
Our relationship was facilitated
By my own temporary living situation

PAUSE

This limbo is never-ending
You drive me ******* crazy…
Crazy to ****
In blue Yves-St Laurent.
On top of covers,
Never under.


I guess the issue is
LETTING GO.
I don’t want to
It’s not fair
I just found someone who cares
About music, and books, haircuts
Me.
My needs
My pleasures
You chased ME
Right into my own mind Heart Body and soul
You got me
All of me;
My virginity

You said you didn’t do goodbyes.
I’ve never had to say goodbye;
But I think that we should have
Instead of this awful purgatory
That I’m wallowing in
Doubt, pity and swallowing
.My feelings.
Because this was meant to be easier (plea)
For you at least.
I
I just wish I was a vampire
So I could turn my feelings off
And recover

And I can’t fully address the heartache,
The recovery
The looking looking, getting around
Giving up, throwing in the towel
Because like a child
I am putting my foot down
I don’t want to be found
I already found you!
I will make my way back into your heart.
I will cross oceans.
I will succeed
Doubt and fear
Of my own instabilities
Abilities
Or lack of…

I have never been as uncertain.
I hope you’re happy…
That you make me feel this way…
Not that I regret
The time that WE spent.
I loved being we.
I hope that you would have grown to love me.

.
                               Tom
                       Ford Yves St
                     Laurent Bill Bl
                    ***   Tommy  Hil
                     figer  Christian
                     Dior Michael K
                     orsMarc Jacobs
                     Karl   Lagerfeld
                     Oscar de la Ren
                     ta JohnGalliano
                     JeanPaulGaultie
                     r ChristianLoub
                     outin GeoffreyB
                     eeneCalvinKlein
                     R a lph L au ren
      Pierre Cardin         Giorgio Armani
Zac Posen Phillip     Lim Jason Wu Gianni
Versace Prabul          Gurung Emanuel
    Ungero Rick                      O w ens

(Short Story)

The questions burned inside of me
searing through my guts to my core
leaving a trail of ash through this house
treating my blood like gasoline
smoke rising to my head
melting my brain
Down to this;
One question -

Did he do it?

I could hear my heart beating and watched the hairs on my skin shake a little from the rumble of its thunder.

I asked this question to myself over and over. First, in disbelief. Not letting the facts in front of me fully sink in. But as hours passed, the question began to change and I began to see the woman in the mirror staring back at me a little bit differently.

We’ve almost been here. Time and again. This place of such uncertainty and unknown. But never this close. Not here where we are today. I poured a glass of wine and kept the channel 3 tv on mute. Leaned against the cabinets and granite counter top in the kitchen. I put my head down. Starting at the residue of water stains on the glass that I had chosen. These water stains are disrupting my peace, I thought. Just another flaw in this house that nobody else sees. Infidelity allegations, sleepless nights, bedroom fights, and now this?

I put the glass down, found my way slowly in my Saint Laurent Swarovski crystal-embellished satin pumps through the dim, echoing hallway to the den. My place for morning light and his for evening company and cigars. I looked all around, starring at every wall. Flashbacks of us stripping down, him gripping my waist as he thrusted inside of me while I held on to these walls for stability. A house that has seen many things. If these walls could speak I may not believe their stories.

But this story, is difficult to disbelieve. Not revealed from walls, but through the power of the news media crew. Unfolding and developing stories ringing in my ears. Like high frequency waves making me dizzy. The story of Anna. The last breath she took and the last person to see her alive. The man they believe to be her lover. A quiet man, intuitive, logical and a realist. A hard working, loving and devoted family man. My husband, Oliver. Now under the authoritative custody of the Mipson county sheriff department, as a prime suspect for the ****** of Miss Anna B Delaney.

Details of the scene have not yet been released so it is still unclear and most inconceivable to imagine what happened to Anna.

In cyber web paradigms
Reverse engineers
The digital pages without burning
Tree skins /
The doors to red rooms
Price and auctioning
                   bargaining
Yodeling

Between the crevasses

Again gone after
A mind's blown my own
To finally have
Known

Bit /coin
The mountainous wealth
We face booked them

Sure, they gave a billion
To
Their own
Flash
mobs invested
Our empty pockets

Making rich those atop the pyramid

Inventor of a log / a  rhythm / rolling
One's and zero's

Now two / later three

Bytes the Nth
mega giga terra
meta zed
Physics bits
Your name is a coin
In VR

You
Plus infinite
***
Ads for the upper echelon
Another plane
Light'ning catches
Fire
The .com pheromone
The internet was made for
****...

Vendors selling airwaves
To the thirsty
Low on HP
Low T
And A's

Tag them in collars
Type-o
"******" say
"She's Cray Cray"
For you her boo

for French
Vuitton
Yves st. Laurent
Fashion
Bleed
Proud
For bags
"Be Prada"
Butch / queen /
Trans
Phat & devilish...

(Passionate for always shopping)

Hooked
Trending now
The acid rain...

And as a poet
like most addicts,
Not wit
Or swift to seeing
20/20
Foresight

To have not known
Our common logic gone lost
The white blinding
Not a light
Happy to pursue
Joyful is the chase
***** cash
Let's talk waste...

Poor

When it comes to
Fairness
Of all ours
Equal opportunities
Better that we should
Have
Known.

The irony,  its truth...

Possessions
Posing
When they had it all that time

"What's that?"
Nothing dears

It's not important,
it's only air
And water and land
Milk and honey
Money pit sink holes
And solar flares

Your home
Your soul
Su casa

"God did not
no such **** thing
He gave them ****!
They own not us
They own
Nothing!"

Says me maw
and heehaw
In their Caribbean spa....

Who dat in there?

The cyber wars
So long ago tomorrow's
Been won,
Big brother's page
Is chalk lines full
Of all our pictures
And conversations
radio static
Lo a rhythm of old
Dots and
Dashes
Sos

"God help them, mother /he said
If he gets angry so hot
Come from the Apple's
i Cloud
He might...holy
****
Aye caramba!"

The end

Will

Be it thunderous

Frozen still wide
Awoke
Now
That
        we let go  
(Not my humanity)
Instead rather
Of greed / malicious lust /
the listlessness

The hunger
Of mine mind mines
The business of
Heavy
A currency of make believe
The reality
That we slave...

We are forced
Of a kind
(Murderous words and fife)
Now out with "old hat"
A.i. Simon says
Like / share / post
Atomic

Advertise and
Purchase the cool whips
Addictions
IT gurl
“Everyone I’d doing ****”
Juke joints littered with points.
So...
Hip

Hops
As Pops chugs tin

"I think I can
I think I can -- Blogs"

A you tube channel for
All
Joses who can see

Jiggle jangling
Jugs
and tambourines
Shake it out
Walk it off

An de Le

i miss my space,
Something for Reals
Where I can place
The pieces of my life
The art I write
The movie of my reality tv

Lets kik it / lets snap chat

In my spoken word
Get to know
who I be

Hello my name is __

Poetry.
My Non-other
Me.

my hair absorbed the humidity like the mop that dips into the watered down Fabuloso on sunday mornings
slaps on the floor and rubs back and forth on wood
i looked at the ground after stares from the first five grown men i passed
i felt dizzy chasing after meaning
i walked until i pictured myself downtown
peering in at sweet pork spots
and bakery corner shops with the occasional
we buy gold stands and ads for tutoring nearby
feel the cobblestone of the streets beneath my feet
making it hard to walk in an aligned manner
i felt my face flush of coolness
i step to the side holding on to one of the vans
that have fake coach and yves saint laurent in the trunk
look at my hands  
skin translucent veins undeniably apparent
wipe my eye and i’m back
on the ave
on a saturday morning
strolling
formulating my escape

ONCE UPON A TIME, men’s style in Los Angeles was laughable. Think loud, logo-driven and larded-up with more skulls than a pirate cruise. Remember the jeans with back-pocket stitching visible from a block away? What about the faux-vintage concert T-shirts? The flaming eyeball Von Dutch trucker caps? I’m sure Ashton Kutcher wishes he could forget.

But the cheesy L.A. of the mid-aughts—when paparazzi swarmed West Hollywood store Kitson and Mr. Kutcher hosted “Punk'd”—is a thing of the past. Kitson will close its doors forever this week, Mr. Kutcher is now a budding tech mogul and the city’s fashion scene is associated less with Ed Hardy and more with Saint Laurent creative director Hedi Slimane, who maintains his design studio in L.A. instead of at the brand’s Paris headquarters. In fact, Mr. Slimane recently announced he will show his fall 2016 men’s collection (and part of the women’s range) at the Hollywood Palladium on February 10instead of in the French capital.

Is that enough to position Los Angeles as a style capital—strong enough to contend with Paris or London? A confluence of factors has given that idea momentum. Factor one: L.A. is attracting creative talent in design and retail thanks to relatively affordable real estate and low operating costs. Factor two: As high-end menswear has moved away from formality, a “creative casual” wardrobe has become more vital than a suit and tie to the working lives of many men all over the country. Not seeming so far-fetched anymore, is it?

Certainly, a number of stylish and influential guys have embraced the notion. “For a long time, Manhattan was the epicenter of all creative thought, but now I feel like that’s changed,” said Josh Peskowitz, the former men’s fashion director of Bloomingdale’s, who settled on L.A. for his first independent retail venture, a 1,500-square-foot men’s specialty store called Magasin, opening Feb. 20.

Mr. Peskowitz said he’s seen the city evolve beyond a metropolis driven by one or two industries: “Entertainment and music are still important, but now there’s also tech, art, clothing design and all the creative services that go along with Silicon Beach.”

And he’s hoping to outfit a good portion of that population in a refined but casual wardrobe of unstructured seersucker Camoshita suits, garment-dyed polos fromMassimo Alba, cashmere T-shirts from Naadam and handmade slipper-like leather shoes by Feit. “It’s for people who need to look like they are put-together and mean business but don’t want to wear a coat and tie,” he said of his store’s offerings. “It’s clothing that expresses personality but is still business- adjacent. There’s a big market for that.”

Even men who still wear a suit to work every day can benefit in their off-duty hours from the well-executed fare, elevated via fit and fabric, that L.A.-based labels such as Greg Lauren, Apolis, Aether and John Elliott sell in the city, in stores worldwide and on e-commerce sites.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

Like the bankers bunch of wankers buying immunity, taking the community chest and passing go.
Monopoly funny but it's your ******* money they're moving around.
Swimming pools and Eve St Laurent,
the perfume of being right when you're wrong and
just pay the fine,
defraud and
***** the public purse.
The social spike ain't going to jail,too many posh nobs ******* on the pay trail,
feeding on the poor sure is filling,
Negotiate a settlement it doesn't matter that we're bent we're bankers,tossers,selling off our losses,calling in the debts,
millions ,billions,
we'll make a few gazillions and the pillars of society can kiss our ****, we're the ******* barbie dolls,the bearded ******* billy goat trolls,
Investors **** us up,digest and get their dividend,we get,we lend,this gravy train will never end.
No shysters were injured during the making of this poem because they've got a guarantee
'steal the money and stay free'
The social spike will be the death of me and then they can steal my annuity.
*******.

If our worlds do collide
Somewhere deep in the sky
My angel dressed in Saint Laurent
Will you call me
Will you call me

When our inner thoughts collide
Somewhere deep within the night
A fragile girl dressed all in white
Will call your name
And say her vows

There stands our Novel Chamberlain
Xenophobic uber-prat with top dog pretensions
a weak chine coward showing profile unrefined
goggles dark, black shirted.shameless bully craves attentions
parody of a man mired in semblance exuding puerile ignorance fine
insipid pale republican Tonton Macoute compensating his limitations

There stands our novel Chamberlain
a oaf with mildew loaf, the  ubiquitous Brown shirt warrior
he's here, there pontificating absurd prose worthy of disdain
cringing vocabulary, warped voyeuristic styles, he straddles Parlio
emitting odious **** of a mentally deranged finding shelter in de rain
basking in mock praises from acolytes and accounts in his alter-egos

There stands our Nonentity Chamberlain
the charlatan of all poetic sides and raconteur un- magnifique
he's eaten in Laos, slept i Siberia, climbed the Laurent and lion slain
been all over the world, bedded women from China to Mozambique
he is a trialist, finalist, racialist, specialist, a fantasist, all but not plain
as he sits in ***** drawers in a dingy room masking his life oblique

There stands our 'no-mark' Chamberlain
dark shades and black T-shirt a poser fantasizing he is a G-man
look behind the facade and see the under-endowed troll insane
a coward, a nasty, witless, brain addled yob and **** fresh in a can
show me the confident wholesome being who does like this knave
a fake con artist, buffoon, with the pretentious guise so much in frame



,