Saturday, July 09, 2005

As the Garotte Sidles Up to the Noose...

Time draws nigh. We've still much work to do. Extraordinary breakthroughs, but only so many hours in the day for dining. Can't hit all the restaurants and haute couture accessory shops in a single fifteen day stretch. By Christ, we've tried...

Oh yeah, the album. Well, it's coming along, responding to our whispers of encouragement, limping slowly behind the phalanx we've arrayed to advance our mango blitzkrieg.

A stellar achievement, this circumnavigation of flavors.

(Hope we get the record wrapped by Monday...)

TS



(The view from Union Square West, 7 July 05.)

Staring Down Morrissey's Hatchet Man

New friend C, a booker at W*********, one of the galaxy's premier modelling agencies, hooked me up today with an overhaul at John Barrett. It was a goddamned trip. I'm unaccustomed to such luxe levels of obsequy, but I could quickly learn to love being fawned over. As a grounded (and wonderfully wizened) gent, I found myself laughing at the rarified vibe of the salon while registering unambiguous admiration for the siege/hive mind groove.

Harry, a pleasant, non-android stylist recently imported from London, gave me a pretty groovy cut. He'd previously been in charge of parsing Morrissey's image from Mancunian basalts. (Yesterday, he apparently shared an elevator with Bowie and Iman.) Mala, my Spanish shampoo artiste, has been signed to Troubleman's leisure products division. Her debut conditioner drops in the spring.

Nine Russian girls were employed there; the majority of them spoke in their native tongue. While being worked over in the basin by Mala, I instinctively glanced at them. (Can't help it. Got a thing for the lingo.) I received the usual upturned nose salon treatment until I dropped a few по-русски cluster grenades. Then, the hot towels and iced coffees began to flow. Multilingualism has its benefits...

I'm passing out from follicle loss, but I promise not to continue this later.

Like a Million Dollars,

TS