Nowhere Man

In my last post, I was telling you about the place I live when I'm in New York. I like to think of myself as a musician that records in the studio when he is in New York- call it the "New York Sessions", but what he records is silence. Loyal Readers will be aware that I made a record of silence last year, but what I'm attempting above is what is sometimes called a metaphor. Apart from I'm not quite sure if it is a metaphor, as I really do have a studio in the apartment where I live. With a recording booth and everything. Metaphor is very childish anyway, like satire. Who's interested in satire these days? Nobody! For instance, if I said that I went down the street today and it rained hard, and then Martin Margiela smoked my sunglasses, and punched my pencil; I really mean that. That did happen today, in fact. This man who was dressed like a lonesome hobo just came up to me and smoked my sunglasses. They melted off my eyes, down my nose, until it looked like Miles Davis shot at them with his trumpet during his Jazz-Fusion period. In retort, I glared at him until the hobo-clothes returned to That Horrible Prada Woman's closet, and he was rather stark naked. Let me tell you- it was not City in the Sex.
After that he made a futile punch at the pencil, which ended up injuring his hand (which, by the way, is made out of different parts of different hands. Which leads onto my next point:)

Martin Margiela is a sick, sick man. What sort of man cuts off the body parts of other people and attaches it to themselves? I imagine Mr. Margiela in his little white-clad lab, surrounded by a dozen or so adoring assistants who only speak in the dialogue of Antwerp: "Reuse! Reuse! Ann D! Reuse!" (in fact, I love Antwerp. Or rather, I like it better than the other so-called "fashion schools". I'm occasionally asked to judge at their shows- the outfits generally end up as one of those "forwarded" emails sent around the Chanel offices to laugh at. The little old seamstresses are particularly fond of them. Anyway, I will see you there, Julie Anne. And your scarf.)
Where was I.....oh yes, I imagine Mr. Margiela dissecting different bodies who he has dug up from various graveyards..perhaps found vagabonds on the streets. And he attaches the new pieces to his own body; sewing them on in a Dr. Frankenstein-fashion. Robotic parts are so much better. What I heard- I was talking to my children's book agent- was that Renzo Rosso, the new Margiela owner got a bit freaked out by Margiela's, ah, body-cutting experiments; hence why Mr. Margiala isn't around the offices anymore (and hence why a Margiela collection isn't perverted anymore. A real shame, hm? If a collection's not perverted or chic, what's the point? I've always prided my collections on having a sense of perversion, with the occasional sense of chic.)

Anyway, I remembered that my house has a bathroom today when a model visited. We ventured into it together. I forgot that I never bothered to have anything installed in there: it's just a blank space. Told the model to do her "business" somewhere else. Went back into the recording studio and recorded nothing.