Yesterday I was in NY at some boring dinner that Anna was hosting. Is it possible for a more boring guest list? There were all these 50ish women who thought they were 30 and dressed like they were 20. They all look the same. Blond hair, tight face, lips painted a ghastly shade of red; wears a dress with too many frills by some dullard who saw a couture show and said to himself "right, couture=frills". They talk like they're perpetually happy in this stilted manner. "Hello! Karl. How, are, you?".
Really- a comma is too long for their pauses between words, it needs to be a half-comma. But each word is pushed out with a kind of forced happiness which is dreadful to watch.
So I was at a table with all these women, and their husbands (who aren't even worth mentioning. They all seemed to be named "Henry" or "John". I'm not even sure if they were real. Maybe they're cardboard cutouts). And I'm fuming behind my glasses, so I decide to play games.
"Heheheh", I think to myself.
"What was that?" says one of the blond women. Anna calls them socialites. I call them the living dead.
Anyway, it seems I said that outloud and the blond women looked rather mortified like I'd just committed some great faux pas or something.
"Heheheh" I say again. It's a sort of sinister chuckle. I do it when viewing the new bags at Chanel. It produces good results.
"Oh...erm" says the Living Dead Woman..."do you like my shoes?"
"They're delicious. I could eat them up with my bare hands, rip them apart with my tounge and have Martin Margiela re-assemble them into something else." I say.
"Te-he-he-hee" titters Living Dead Woman. Like she knows something's happening but she doesn't know what it is.
"Could I see your shoes closer, hmmm?"
And she actually takes off her foot with the shoe on it, and gives it to me.
She takes off her foot.
"Oh, detachable feet. They're all the rage here in NY. A different set of feet for every different pair of shoes. One for the Jimmy's....one for the Prada's....you know" says she.
"So what do you think of the shoes?"