Sunday Scribblings: Style
Let's pay a little homage to Brent Easton Ellis:
A Sense of Style
Baxter and I were at O’Malley’s drinking car bombs – Guinness with a shot each of Baileys and Jameson – waiting for Carson to get there so we could go to dinner (10 p.m. reservations I secured at the new Somaliland place) then out to Ultra for drinks.
Baxter’s dressed in what looks to be the entire fall collection of Burberry Prorsum, heavy on the wool. I’m in Bruno Pieters, mostly blues and grays.
And in walks Carson.
In faded, peg-legged Levi 501s, black, eight-hole Doc Marten boots, a black Gap T-shirt, nondescript gray zippered hoodie and a black motorcycle jacket he either got out of a dumpster or at a yard sale in Jersey. He’s got a red bandana sticking out the back pocket of his jeans.
Carson pulls out a chair, turns it around to lean on the back (he knows it bothers Baxter) gets Maggie’s attention, circles the table with his index finger, hoists three fingers and deals his platinum VISA like an opening hand of Texas Hold ‘Em.
“Bitches,” Carson says.
“Slumming it tonight?”
“Jealousy is a really ugly trait Bax.”
Maggie brings the round of car bombs and as we pound the half-pint glasses on the tabletop, in walks Christa Samuelson, Sara Drapier and Keiko Imura. Baxter has been in love with Keiko since she made junior partner and I’d been trying to puncture Christa’s defensive posture for months.
Carson gets Maggie’s attention, circles the girls with his index finger, points at his chest, the silver VISA on the table.
“Carson, hey, thanks,” Sara says from the bar, and the girls raise a trio of lemon drops. “C’mere a minute, say hi.”
As he rises to leave, he flips us off, both hands, held closely to his chest.
Baxter looks at me and I shrug.
Carson’s back in five.
“Any way to grow that reservation from three to six?”
“They want to come along?” Baxter says, nearly panting.
“They want to hang, all night,” Carson says.
“OK, how did you do it?” I say.
“Look boys, anyone can buy off the runway to look like Heath Ledger’s Joker – which, by the way you both do – but honestly, smart women don’t see the suit. They see the man.”
A Sense of Style
Baxter and I were at O’Malley’s drinking car bombs – Guinness with a shot each of Baileys and Jameson – waiting for Carson to get there so we could go to dinner (10 p.m. reservations I secured at the new Somaliland place) then out to Ultra for drinks.
Baxter’s dressed in what looks to be the entire fall collection of Burberry Prorsum, heavy on the wool. I’m in Bruno Pieters, mostly blues and grays.
And in walks Carson.
In faded, peg-legged Levi 501s, black, eight-hole Doc Marten boots, a black Gap T-shirt, nondescript gray zippered hoodie and a black motorcycle jacket he either got out of a dumpster or at a yard sale in Jersey. He’s got a red bandana sticking out the back pocket of his jeans.
Carson pulls out a chair, turns it around to lean on the back (he knows it bothers Baxter) gets Maggie’s attention, circles the table with his index finger, hoists three fingers and deals his platinum VISA like an opening hand of Texas Hold ‘Em.
“Bitches,” Carson says.
“Slumming it tonight?”
“Jealousy is a really ugly trait Bax.”
Maggie brings the round of car bombs and as we pound the half-pint glasses on the tabletop, in walks Christa Samuelson, Sara Drapier and Keiko Imura. Baxter has been in love with Keiko since she made junior partner and I’d been trying to puncture Christa’s defensive posture for months.
Carson gets Maggie’s attention, circles the girls with his index finger, points at his chest, the silver VISA on the table.
“Carson, hey, thanks,” Sara says from the bar, and the girls raise a trio of lemon drops. “C’mere a minute, say hi.”
As he rises to leave, he flips us off, both hands, held closely to his chest.
Baxter looks at me and I shrug.
Carson’s back in five.
“Any way to grow that reservation from three to six?”
“They want to come along?” Baxter says, nearly panting.
“They want to hang, all night,” Carson says.
“OK, how did you do it?” I say.
“Look boys, anyone can buy off the runway to look like Heath Ledger’s Joker – which, by the way you both do – but honestly, smart women don’t see the suit. They see the man.”
Comments
About the bitches and what they really saw, my bet’s on the platinum.
What I meant to say was that I don't know how I missed this posting over the weekend...that I musta been hanging out in the decompression chamber with my hoodie wearing man.