The Loneliest Runway

Quicksilver,

Chain is away for a few weeks so we can think about what happened, which is no bad thing. He's gone to the UK to meet up with a few recently discharged heroes and pick up some fabric from a beautiful warehouse in Suffolk sells transparent velvet for when you want the hat but have really great hair. I'm glad he's gone cause I get to think about my next move. I've been stooped over this dazzling precipice for so long I can barely hear my centrevoice. I want to reach down and hand the reins to a starving genius, one with the kind of heat I had back in 2001. I'm going travelling.

I have decided I need to turn inward over multiple timezones. I make my first stop at Brazil, then to Bermuda, Bahrain and Britain, to see if we have anything left to fight for. I'll be tan, too. I had my guider, Mantel, look through my itinerary to maybe bless it cause I've a refund due after she incorrectly invoiced me for a late-night chat that dragged on for super ages, when she called me! I told her she'd better level the playing field or she'll be guiding her ass straight back to Persia. So she's blessing my path. She's come back saying I'm engaging in Me-centric Diversia cause I picked all places beginning with B. She reads me like I'm head to toe in slogans.

Taking this shit on the road.

Bx

Mean Green

present, correct and in lovvvvvve with the madness, BG just heard it on his personal grapevine, the stylish one, that the conomy (and I mean CON, kwimkwimkwimmy!) has been doing what the Chain's little starfish has been doin since junior fucken high. That's right. Its collapsing.

I don't know, is it twirling inside this sparkly dust bowl we call fashion that keeps the talent from peering out its window? CAUSE THAT'S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE. But I ask you, how is BG going to render himself in a million shades of amazin if he's looking out on the mornin rain. If it keeps Aretha down, you can imagine what it does to liloleme.

So in summary, then - BG is tightening his belt. A wonda-look parchment belt made of a million little soldiers of wardrobe. The cows. Moo, guys. Mooooo.

Piece xx

the class of....like, hi

Matriarchs.

Last Christmas I gave you my heart, and last Tuesday I attended a school reunion down in Scrota Lodge, CA, where a bunch of people I went to school with gathered to talk about it. I was so not going to go, cause why look back, the past will keep you in chains, and not the McQueen luggage tags we all went wild for in 04, I mean nasty, straight lacin armor. But my better half was like, look its kind of unfair if you don't show.

Ok, so my entrance. Nancy with the legs came leaping by and that hot bully who would always trip her over just smiled and let her past, like we were in another dimension, guys. Fashion. I've followed a path and the righteousness I bring with me to this kind of event helps others see me for what they are.

I'm going to weave in a college strand to the new line, like still trilbys and totally your own style, ripped stuff and buttons and just whatever makes you feel hot but also lacrosse sweaters and in the top pocket, pages folded up like you just read them.

School's Out, dreamers
Piece x

RIP Freedom.

Give me time
To realise my crime
Let me love and steal
I have danced inside your eyes
How can I be real

Do you really want to hurt me
Do you really want to make me cry

Precious kisses
Words that burn me
Lovers never ask you why
In my heart the fires burning
Choose my colour
Find a star
Precious people always tell me
Thats a step
A step too far

Do you really want to hurt me
Do you really want to make me cry
Do you really want to hurt me
Do you really want to make me cry

Words are few
I have spoken
I could waste a thousand years
Wrapped in sorrow words are token
Come inside and catch my tears
Youve been talking but believe me
If its true you do not know
This boy loves without a reason
Im prepared to let you go
If its love you want from me
Then take it away
Everything is not what you see
Its over today

Chateau Noir

Guys, gals, blacks, whites, fags, breeders, hags, feeders. I give you, Senator Obama. Quelle histoire.

Wow. What a day. We get a new president, and he's seriously HOT! Now, Ballgown might not be colour blind (nasty!) but to me the new prez is so much more than just a colour, he's the first black president of the united states. This isn't about who his folks were or where he came from, its about being hot, black and president all at the same time. No-one thought it was possible. I have taken it upon myself to dress for the occasion in a faux-turn-of-the-century pioneersuit, like the one the hot black guy wears in that Mel Brooks movie. And Ballgown-and-chain are gonna ride our horses straight into town where our closest friends will be waitng dressed as simple folk, and we'll drink Frontier Daiquiris (with bisongrass (kwim!)) and kneel before the heads of state til justice is done!

Have one on me. See you on the Lawn, homeslice!

Over and OUT.

Piecex

Cashin checks an breakin necks!

Realtors

K, so called upon by the powers that be in the cash giving community to step up to the plate in my Stilletto-Soles, Ballgown has been contacted via this here internet to host a benefit for the poor. I am of the mindset that although we all like to give it away (kwim!) it helps if you've got some hot rods to hang a glimpse at so with this in mind I give you - Lock n' Load - A Breakin Benefit! All the poor will get the cash whilst the sexually bankrupt receive a no-strings hand-out AKA we get to watch those guys twist it like its aces til we can't take no more. I plan to be the last Gown standing. Move bitch - GET OUT THE WAY!

Deets? - WTS (watch this space)

Piece x

From Hem Line to Front Line

Superfreaks

Ballgown here with only one word to the wise: Ballgown is LIVE!

Sooo, crazy days right now as I prepare with breath so baited I could rope me the whole cast of South Pacific before you had time to say Jean Paul Gaultier! Respect to Jean Paul, though. Great times!!

So the world of fashion has once more taken a ham fist to the jaw with the Hudson crash yesterday in my beloved New York Cita-a-a-a-y. And just as we did last time the skies fell dark, so the stylish and great took a humble backseat, poured a cup of joe or espresso or what have you and listened as everyday citizens told us how it happened, what the story was, how fashion could help and offered kudos re the new line, as dreams make tragedy beautiful. Civilians spoke to me as if I was one of them and for a moment, I was.

Runnin' pretty, New York City girl, twenty-five, thirty-five
Hello, baby, New York City girl.

AMEN.X

It makes me wonder, if terrorists were born with the privileges most of us take for granted, such as fashion, would they be terrorising? New York is jam packed with folks who haven't been raised with an inherent sense of fabric-cohesion, texture-math and multi-tonal layering ARE THEY TERRORISING?

Piece x