Monday, December 15, 2008

Recycling Ourselves for Haute Coutere

When you're as handsome and self-assured as I am, you don't need to spend a lot of money on fancy clothes to look good; you look good in anything. That's why I haven't bought any new clothes in, approximately, forever. But with the economy in shambles, and fine clothing lines being hit especially hard, I felt it was time to do my part for the economy and buy some new clothes. Some FANCY new clothes.

"It's been so cold lately I'm thinking of getting a sweater," I told the salesman at the Neiman Marcus downtown, my first-ever visit to the store (nice place, with a real pianist). "This looks like a good sweater. How much?"

"It's marked down 40% to $649," he said. "It's Brunello Cucinelli."

I tried not to act nonplussed, "...oh, I thought it was cashmere..." but really I was in total shock. The sweater really did look like cashmere (which is a fancy name for wool, for my unsophisticated readers) but it turns out that it had been made out of some guy named Brunello Cucinelli.

"How about this one?" I asked, casually fingering a soft, velvety-smooth brown jacket.

"That one is Robert Graham."

Reflexively withdrawing my fingers I went quickly to the suits. "And this?"

"Good choice, sir. That is marked down to under $4000. That's Brioni."

I was starting to feel sick, but my distaste was mixed with a morbid fascination. "Do you really know who every one of these items of clothing come from?"

"Absolutely," he said. "I take clothing very seriously."

I'd heard that some clothing can be very expensive, but before my trip to Neiman Marcus I'd never understood why. It turns out that some people, after they die, are not buried or cremated or do not donate their remains to science. Some people are turned into clothing. Very expensive clothing. It's kind of touching, really.

So I'm changing my post-mortem wishes. Instead of my previous request, which was to have my body used for a realistic stunt in a Hollywood action picture (in the hopes of achieving immortality through celluloid), or, if that didn't work, to have my cremated ashes distributed in pepper shakers all across America, I now have a new wish. I'd like my remains to be turned into a suit, a really expensive suit. I want the salesman to learn my name. And when he sells it to some high-flying CEO who can afford it, and so really deserves it, I want him to say, "that's Brent Noorda you're wearing."

Tuesday, December 9, 2008


After several months of introspection I’m still not sure why I acted the way I did—or, rather, why I failed to act—upon witnessing the following scene a few blocks from my home:

I stood by and watched as four male ducks had their way with one unwilling female. It was a gang rape. A clusterduck.

A fowl scene, indeed.

Why did I do nothing? How do I justify my inaction?

Did I feel outnumbered? Was I scared of a vicious pecking? Did I fail to act because they’re from a different neighborhood, or because they’re from a different socio-economic class (or is that socio-economic phylum)? Was I complacent because they’re migrants (who can pick my vegetables but are otherwise invisible to me)? Did I blame her for being so provocatively dressed, wearing nothing but feathers? Was I afraid of being laughed at if I’d said, “Hey, you, get down from that duck”?

I spoke to my psychiatrist about this, but he didn’t see a problem. He’s a quack.

Next week: Make way for bastard, raised-by-single-mother ducklings.