Month: October 2007

I’ve stockpiled food for winter. I expect this tub of cookie dough to be finished by spring thaw…if it ever gets cold.

I’m hoping Thora will help me.

There is a whole conglomeration of people who have finally made the “dog park” come to fruition in D.C. That is, in a legal, Department of Public Works approved manner.

Let me state my case now. Sammy and Thora hate the dog park. They have no interest in the dog park. I only go there to chit chat with my friends before submitting to a walk around the neighborhood because those little shits won’t shit at the park. This is very annoying. But that said, I don’t care if there are dog parks or not.

The anti-dog people KILL me. They are so funny. They will take something simple like a dog park and turn it into some argument about how dog owners hate children (yes, because having a dog and a child are mutually exclusive – no one on earth has both!) and that dog owners are unruly yuppies. (Well, okay, some are I suppose.) No one ever remembers the fact that dog owners are out in the neighborhoods often and are the eyes and ears of the crime, in some cases, helping the police when they couldn’t find their perp inside that jelly donut they were investigating, or that having a dog virtually drops your chances of being robbed down to 1%. There have been none of the daytime home break-ins to homes with dogs. But I digress.

Now, there’s always someone who decides to just rant about being anti-dog for some stupid reason or another. Bah. Like this article in the Examiner. (Examiner circulation: 11.) Read the comments though. Well not all of them. It gets pretty boring and follows the same themes. This is yet again a black vs. white issue and a kids vs. non-kids issue. Jesus christ on a stick can we please, PLEASE have something in this city not become a racial issue? I am so sick of it. The first few comments on this article, some of which I believe were deleted said things like, “Go back to your side of the Anacostia,” and “What do you want next, for us to free the slaves?” Jesus. Like I used to say when I lived in Atlanta, “The war is over people!”

Anyway, this writer is supposed to be a journalist. I don’t really care what she endorses and what she opposes, but my friends care and I like my friends. I’m all in favor of backing them up to get this dog park approved so my dogs can sit around miserably while I gossip with the best of them. I can’t hate her for her opinion. But I CAN make fun of her poorly written Examiner article “For the record: I dont hate dogs. Someone is making such a declaration right now. But get that out of your mind.” Who writes like that? “But get that out of your mind?” Did she just change from third person to first person, then second person – the ‘you’ being implied, all in stream of three related sentences? CHRIST! Where was the editor when she turned that in – in the potty? I decided to take a look at the writer’s website for a minute.

I went to her “about” page. The first sentence tells us she has 20 years experience in journalism and was rated one of the top 50 journalists in D.C. by Washingtonian Mag. Ok. From the 2nd to last paragraph in her bio: “She is a highly sought speaker who has given talks throughout the United States–state correctional facilities in Pennsylvania, the University of Wisconsin, Maryland University, Duke University, The Arizona Fatherhood Conference, and the National Fatherhood Summit 2000 and in Paris, France.”

Um…if I spoke at all those places, I would list them in order of prestige. I wouldn’t put the correctional facilities first. Just saying.

Anyway, back to the comments and the article. If you read them all, they are a true testament to everything that is wrong in this city. People who oppose anything decide to bitch about their tax dollars having to pay for a dog park they won’t use, but neglect to mention all the money the people with no children pay in taxes as well for schools and playgrounds, and then, hold on, because it won’t be long before it turns quickly into black vs. white; natives vs. new in town; non-gentrified neighborhoods vs. gentrified. Fight fight fight. That’s all that goes on here.

This goes back to my original impression of D.C. People here need lives. We have plenty of other things to worry about (lackluster police force, high crime, racial tensions, traffic, terrorism) besides spending $1200 on a few dog parks in the city.

You are lucky you are married…

I thought about posting something similar this weekend, but he beat me to it!

This one is pulled from the files of “Don’t Ya Hate it When Karma Bites You in Your FAT ASS!”

All of this is hypothetical. Of course. Of course! I always write hypothetically-speaking right?

Have you ever had something happen and someone who was “supposed” to be your friend decided to jump on the “anti-you” bandwagon and malign your name along with some other medicated tri-polar delusional “my life is so wonderful” hermit? And all the while these things are happening, legitimately happening, this “supposed friend” is possibly egging them on? So the issue gets swept under the mat, everyone goes their separate ways and no one hears a peep from the other side for a long time. But then, the “supposed friend” just happens to pop out of the woodwork and publicly malign your name again, for no reason, calling you many many names most of which really just apply to his or herself?

You, being of sound mind and better judgment than a year ago, a month ago, even a day ago, just laugh, and shake your head, and wonder, “Gee, what could still be bothering this person after all this time has gone by? Have they nothing else in their life?”

Then, during this new round of public maligning, the “supposed friend” has some sort of awakening and emails you. You – who they have said nothing but bad things about as recently as yesterday. What if you got this email and had to read skim an entire dissertation on how the “now ex-supposed friend” was in danger and “since the same thing had happened to you could you please help me even though I didn’t believe you and now I realize I should have and even though I just said a bunch of nasty things about you yesterday and the day before and the day before that, I have no where else to turn and I’m so sorry I was such a bitch and so so so wish it could have played out differently especially because I think you are the only one who can helllllllp me!!!”

Silly, pathetic little loser. She should have added, “there’s not enough medication in the world to fix my crazy and I’m just an anorexic psycho who has no real friends.”

To say that you would laugh hysterically at this letter and say, “Thank you, since I don’t believe in God or whatever, thank you to whatever fates aligned to make this person’s life a miserable piece of shit,” would be an understatement. Really! It couldn’t have happened to a nicer, more deserving person!

Every dog gets their day in court.

There is a French Film Festival in town. In case anyone cares. Actually, I care, that’s why I bring you this news. The festival goes through November 1, so get your ass out there!

Sunday, I went with an old friend who I wish would blog again to the National Gallery to see a collection of shorts. I love the short. LOVE it. I think that it takes an incredible amount of genius to pour a story into a 10 or 20 minute clip. Increasingly used by aspiring filmmakers, the short is a way to showcase talents in a manner that may actually be viewed by financial backers.

We saw nine movies over the course of two hours. Three were really good from an artistic standpoint (Be Quiet, Les Volets & Ming d’or.) Two were really funny (The Danse Lesson & Premier Voyage.) One went over my head (Waiting for Yesterday.) One was so cute and such a feel good movie (Ousmane.) One was totally boring (Bonsoir Monsieur Chu.) And one was really really disturbing. That would be “Even If She Had Been a Criminal.” Silent and in black and white, several French women are publicly humiliated and have their head shaved for partaking in extracurriculars with German Soldiers.

The shorts are gone, but there are still several days left to view other full length feature films in town. Check Cest Chic! for more info.

(Look, you have to admit…the French Film Festival news is way better than “there’s a rat loose in CVS or “the Greeks want their marbles back,” right?)

Location: 17th and P.

So…one Sixes and Sevens and I just meandered into CVS after lunch. We were immediately confronted with this:

The candy aisle is closed in the week preceeding Halloween? Really? We asked the cashier what was going on and she got “that look.” You know, the one where their mouth is saying they don’t know but their eyes and face are telling another story, like, “RUN!”

Someone didn’t spellcheck before printing the sign that says, “Sorry we can’t sale these itemes.”

We moved through the store, hearing the cashier tell someone that no food and beverage was allowed to be sold according to the manager. At the prescription desk, we asked them if they knew what was going on. They too got “the look,” and said with a smirk on their face, “Oh, I don’t know. No, really, I don’t know.”

Then, we spotted this:

In case you never had a rodent (hamster, gerbil, mouse) like myself, and in case you never had mice invade your house in the Great Mice vs. Velvet and Velvet’s brother debacle of 1997, you may not recognize the above pellets as rodent poop.

More specifically: rats.

So the rat, or rats, tore through CVS last night or this morning eating their way through the cheese puffs. AWESOME! Check out the nibble bites!

Anyway, other than it being hilarious that the CVS is basically incapacitated, rats amuse me. The other night, Thora and Sammy and I were walking down the street and a rat jumped out, ran right in front of us and took off into the bushes. None of us even flinched. Thankfully, I don’t scream bloody murder like the people from the ‘burbs do when they come here and a rat jumps out in their path.

Psst. Hey you! Rat! Everyone learned on Supermarket Sweep that you go for the high dollar items first! Step away from the cheese puffs!

Thank you, and thank you to you too.

And of course, now I know how the Post found my last, err, post.

Well, I’m going through an “I should be involved in more things” breakthrough, so I’m trying to actually leave Dupont Circle. It doesn’t happen often, but today, I ventured out. Um. To the Greek Embassy.

They were having a lecture and unveiling of the new Acropolis museum. Since I was just in Athens and the museum was closed – even though I breathed really hard on the glass doors and whined, “But I paid and it says on my ticket that the museum is included,” I decided to check it out. Truth be told, I’d much rather walk the 7 or so blocks to the Embassy than fly 10 hours back to Athens.

I mistakenly and naively thought I would be one of three people there. I was wrong. Holy Baklava Batman, it was standing room only, seriously. I told my parents earlier in the day that I was going over there and they were like, “DRESS NICE!” which translates into, “MAYBE YOU’LL FIND A GREEK HUSBAND.” I, of course, was late, and ended up taking a seat close to the back. From where I was sitting, it was less an exhibit on the Acropolis (which I couldn’t see quite well) and more an exhibit on really bad fashion (which I could see…all too well.) I also wanted to pose a question to the group: Am I the only one here who has washed my hair today? Just curious! I later discovered that it was because I was sitting near the archeological student contingent from the nearby universities. Whoo. Thank goodness they weren’t Greeks or I would have been running my own exhibit next week at the Embassy on personal grooming.

Anyway, the undercurrent of the evening was not that that this beautiful museum is now open in Athens, but that they are holding spaces open in the exhibit areas for the marbles that the Brits stole. In the very early 1800’s, Lord Elgin made it his business to dismantle parts of the Parthenon and take them back to London, where they now sit in the British Museum. (Someone even drew an interpretation of a guy climbing the Parthenon and chipping away at the stone.)

The Brits refuse to return them, stating stupid reasons like, “They belong here where all the world can enjoy them.” Part of the exhibit showed how they have half of the frescoes, and need the other halves which are, again, in FUCKING LONDON! God damned Brits! Give us back our MARBLES!!! (That was the cry of the evening and I quickly jumped on that bandwagon.) How would the Brits like it if we stole some of their non-rotten teeth and took them off to Athens? Huh? Oh, wait, maybe teeth was a bad example. Brits don’t have those.

Anyway, I joined their bandwagon. There’s nothing I love more than Greeks who hold a grudge.

Many of you got the little email from WaPo, right? Asking us to “join their blogroll,” right? I actually didn’t answer it. Something just didn’t pass the sniff test. A week and two days later, I finally replied with a polite “no.” Why are they doing this NOW? Blogging has clearly jumped the shark. It makes no sense to be on the tail end of a phenomenon so mediocre. Of course, we’re speaking of the Post though. They aren’t really a “forefront of the operation” kind of media. I looked at the website. I quickly got discouraged with the in-your-face popups and the inability to scroll beyond the first page in any category. Hello? Tech support? You don’t make a site live until the code and links work. Duh.

It should have occurred to me that theirs wasn’t a gesture of goodwill and creating a community, but rather, a plight for their own interests.

Click here and read this.

What? You don’t want to? Why? Because you remember that time I had you click a link and it brought you to a sex site? Sorry about that. Okay, here’s an excerpt in case you still haven’t forgiven me:

Once upon a time, newspapers wanted nothing to do with bloggers, those amateurs who opined on anything that caught their fancy, whether it was interesting, or accurate, or not. That was then. Now newspaper websites, desperate for readers and revenue, are increasingly in cahoots with bloggers, posting and plugging them and even sharing advertising revenue.

Purists may sniff at these online liaisons but, as the print newspaper industry shrinks, they may be inevitable.

This year, the Washington Post added a sponsored blog roll to its website, a directory of links to blogs that specialize in travel, technology, health and more. If the Post sells an ad on the blog roll’s main page, the bloggers split the money with the newspaper. So far, about 100 bloggers have signed up.

To Caroline Little, the chief executive of Washingtonpost Newsweek Interactive, the ad network is good business. Most ad buyers don’t want to take the time to buy space on dozens of different blogs, she said, and the staff-driven side of the website often doesn’t have enough stories about technology, business or health for advertisers looking to place ads near that content. With the blog roll, the Post can grab ad revenue that might have gone elsewhere.

“It’s about figuring out how to monetize other people’s content,” Little said.

Of course it is, you silly whore. Why bother being creative when you appealed to a whole group of people who want exposure? It’s a convenient arrangement, isn’t it? Though you don’t tell these people that your readership has been down and this will do nothing for individual blogger exposure.

So, is it that the WaPo writers are not good enough to attract visitors? Or are they too stupid to, oh, I dunno, hire a real ad agency and come up with an aggressive marketing plan? (Hmm…maybe…how about the Great URL Expiration of ’04, anyone?)

Using us for lost ad dollars? WaPo just elevated their position on my list of D.C.’s most self-serving, and we have a lot of politicians here with whom to compete! Try working for your ad dollars WaPo. Velvet in Dupont subsidizes only those who subsidize her back. And right now, that list is empty.*

*Okay, maybe I got a little toll money from my daddy a couple weeks ago when I went to visit. I protested, but he wanted me to have that $20 and with the George Washington Bridge costing a bank-breaking $6 these days, and that fucking Jersey Turnpike is outrageous too, and shit, you have to pay tolls to get into and out of Delaware and god damned it, the state is only 10 miles long!!! I took the money. Then I hung my head in shame, and drove off in my overpriced Speedracer that breaks a lot. It makes no sense. I admit this. In the spirit of total honesty and full disclosure, I admit this.

A tiny bit of my soul was sucked out of me when I realized I may have become the person I never thought I would. Because I just totally, like ohmygod, gag me with a spoon, betrayed the 13 year old in me. You know, the one who I promised I would never become “one of them.”

I remain vehemently opposed to things like myspace. I just don’t get it. I’m sorry. I can’t understand its purpose beyond a ridiculous time-vortex. I maintain a basic profile for the sole purpose of chatting with (read: keeping tabs on) my best friend’s teenage girls. Very specifically, one of them. My friend told me one night on the phone that they had recent pictures on their myspace, so I logged on, created a quickie profile and they added me as a friend. We exchanged comments and I (again! Where does this come from? Sometimes I make myself sick!) told them things like “Get the best grades you can.” They respond that they are trying but…blah blah…boys…blah blah and I’m like, “Trust me, get the best grades you can. Plenty of people will want to tell you that ‘You can’t.’ Don’t let them have another reason to weed you out of whatever it is you want. Get good grades!” I check up on them every now and again to make sure they are behaving. The girls are ridiculously beautiful for 12 and 13. Seriously. I’m not just saying that. Like people say how cute their own babies are. No. No. No. These girls are fucking mega hot.

So, one of them is not behaving. She is not even close to behaving. She is 13 going on 24 with full makeup and dressing like Christina Aguilera in that brief but horrifying time between the innocent “Genie in a Bottle” and the classy “Ain’t No Other Man.” For someone whose theme song is “Girls Girls Girls,” the half naked female doesn’t shock me. But when the half naked female is my friend’s daughter? Oh. Oh. Not good.

Here’s the email I sent:

Dear Friend,

Hey. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but “13 year old’s” myspace profile seems to include pictures of her in a bra and undies. Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? You will need to log in to see because she blocks non friends. Here’s my id and password. Call me if you need me to walk you through it.

She replied with: “FUCK! I’m having A LOT of problems with her.”

I replied with, “Oh my god I’m a tattletale.”

Within minutes the entire myspace profile came down. What have I become? I know I did the right thing. I know I did. But that 13 year old inside of me who is spinning the Cutting Crew’s “I Just Died In Your Arms” on a 45 record, passing time until Friday night so she can drool over Don Johnson in Miami Vice is pissed off. Real pissed off. And I don’t know if she will ever forgive me.

In my attempt to get my mind off Thora, who goes to a specialist tomorrow, how about something light hearted. Clearly this post is just for the girls.

Dear Lucky Magazine,

The only reason I have had a subscription to you since the very beginning of your life is because I love a magazine about clothes and makeup without any articles about how to get your man in bed or how to check yourself for breast cancer every 4 minutes. That said, uh, what the fuck is up with your November issue? I have two problems: Paris Hilton and everything else. Yes. That’s correct.

Paris Hilton. A four page spread (pun intended) with her ugly face hawking yet another perfume? Four pages? Are you so desperate for ad money that you have to give her four pages? And didn’t you notice that she looks dead or just very mannequin like in the picture? I’m sorry, but the last time I checked, you sell media to advertisers who cater to your demographic. I just don’t see the woman reading Lucky as the same woman who wants to smell like Paris Hilton. But, then perhaps my next complaint explains this issue.

The First Annual Shopping Awards. When you are polling your readers to ask them about their favorites, try not to poll people in unfashionable parts of the country, okay? Because, I promise you, promise promise promise, that there is indeed a better beauty counter than Macy’s. Macy’s? Really? How about Nordstrom? Bergdorfs? Bloomingdales? (It’s like no other store in the world!) I also bet you that the best selection of Emerging Designers is definitely not contained inside Nordstrom. Again, I am partial to Bergdorf’s but what can I say? I’m a New Yorker at heart.

I had to hold my breath for the next round of crap – Chain Stores.

Best Shoes – Nine West. (Someone kill me. Please. Stab me with a stiletto. I worked for Nine West. These shoes are horribly made.)

Best Lingerie – Victoria’s Secret. (You know, earlier today I was wearing Victoria’s Secret underwear, but then they disintregated right off my body and now I’m going commando.)

Best Denim – The Gap. (I just threw up in my mouth, on the floor and on the guy next to me. Sorry dude. Then I passed out when I realized that Lucky’s fashion editor said, “Express has brilliant jeans.” Am I the only one here? What is going on here? Am I in some twisted episode of The Twilight Zone?)

Best Party Clothes – Forever 21. (Well, here we go. Here’s the contingency of voters who also want to smell like Paris Hilton.)

Best denim website – The Gap. (Oh. My. God. Do they not have anything other than the motherfucking Gap online? Are you people the same assholes who picked “c” for every question you didn’t know on your SAT’s?)

Everyone has a bad couple days Lucky. Okay? But you shouldn’t go to press when you do. I want to hear what YOU fashion-whores think are the best stores – not what the rest of the country thinks. The only peep I want to hear from readers in other places are about their local boutiques that might be great places to shop. And yes, I AM sitting here in Lucky Jean Brand Sweatpant shorts and a wifebeater that says LUCKY as I type – not to be confused with your Lucky. Now, about my attire. So?

Love,

Velvet
a.k.a. No longer in Fashion, but still the Fashion Police!

Sometimes I just don’t believe the shit that happens.

My precious Thora turns 8 years old in one month. I’ve had her since she was 3 months old. My then-boyfriend found her running around Savannah looking for someone to play with. He was working on a movie, The Gift, in which Thora appears in the opening credits. My ex called me and asked me to come from Atlanta, where we were living, to Savannah to get our new dog who had disrupted the filming schedule one too many times with her barking.

Thora didn’t have a name for the first couple of weeks. But “thoro” means “gift” in Greek. Since she was our gift, and also in “The Gift,” there you go. Having only had hamsters and a chinchilla, I never felt connected to a pet in my life. That first night I got to Savannah in February of 2000, Thora lay in bed with me in some horrifying fleabag motel while my ex was filming overnight. She rolled over on her back and slept with all four legs spread out like a starfish. I thought, “Holy shit. She spreads her legs like me!” No, wait. That’s not what I thought. I thought, “I’m actually someone’s quasi-mom now. WHAT HAVE I DONE?”

Other than the time when she ate an inkjet cartridge on Christmas morning, other than the time when she grabbed the fabric skirt on the couch and went running across the room tearing it with her as she went, other than the time when she tried to dig out of our apartment and pulled up the rug and padding down to the concrete, other than the time she jumped out of the car on Buford Highway in Atlanta to chase a squirrel, other than the time she rolled in a septic field and smelled like shit for weeks, other than the time she killed my ex’s mom’s chickens (OMG don’t ask, please don’t ask,) I have loved this dog.

When she ran away from my ex’s house, I went on an all out rampage to get her back. I was living in Maryland at the time. I made a spreadsheet called Thora Come Home. I sat at work and made phone calls all day and placed ads in newspapers. The 3rd day the ad dropped, someone called to say “I think my neighbor has your dog.” I drove all night with my friend to go get her. No one was going to stop me.

When we pulled up in front of the lesbian’s house (look, that’s who rescued her, ok? and yesssss they have lesbians in red states) Thora walked outside, looked at me as if to say “Where have you been, bitch” jumped in the original Velvet, crawled in the backseat and went to sleep. I had brought all sorts of pictures to prove Thora was mine and I wasn’t just some lunatic driving from Maryland to Macon, Georgia to get a dog. But when they saw that they said, “Thas yer dog a’ight.”

So, present day. Thora has been having trouble walking all of a sudden. I took her to the vet for x-rays. I expected a torn ligament. I expected arthritis. I did not expect this.

“Did you know your dog has been shot?”

I actually said to the doctor, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“Yes, quite a few times.”

I saw the x-ray. I saw 11 bullets. I brought the King of the Dog Park. He also saw the 11 bullets. We were stunned. I swear, I felt like fainting. Like everything just changed. In an instant. Who the fuck would shoot a dog? I called my ex, and we reconstructed a timeline of the last 8 years, and we have no idea. How does your dog get 11 wounds and you don’t notice blood? So did it happen before we got her? And if so, why didn’t she ever show any signs of injury before now? Did she get it in that time she was on the run, when she ended up at the lesbian’s house? I don’t know. I’ll never know. I’m just honestly – stunned. For years, I have wondered what Sammy and Thora’s lives were like before they came into mine. But in my wildest dreams, I never imagined they were abused or, worse, shot.

So now, my dear sweet Thora, I get it. I get why thunder scares you. I get why the slamming of the UPS truck door makes you jump. I get why the popping of the bubble wrap petrifies you so much you hide under the bed. Now it all makes sense. I often wish my dogs could talk. There’s so much I want to know that only they can tell me. Though, thoughts of gunshots and bullets…maybe I don’t want to know it all.

Loves you Thora Bean. You’ll always be my first baby. I’ll spend all my money and jack up my credit cards to make sure you get well.

I have a confession to make. I used to be one of those chicks in fashion. Ha. That still makes me laugh. Anyone who has seen me in my ulta-fave sweatpant shorts and witnessed the still-in-progress unpainted fingernail marathon of 2006-7 is probably laughing as well. Yes, I had a subscription to Women’s Wear Daily. I had the newest and latest stuff all the time. I sat in runway shows and worked in the business. For five years.

My first job after college was working at a corporate office of a retail company everyone knows – Nine West. Essentially, I was a buyer. But it was wholesale buying – so you are not making a selection. You are taking what needs to be produced and scheduling it on lines and making sure it gets done.

Nine West entered into a license agreement to make Calvin Klein shoes for the now defunct cK brand of footwear. I commuted my ass to Seventh Avenue in New York City and quickly learned that the sun never rises in the Garment District. Something about crossing Sixth Avenue, and everything went dark.

License agreements are screwy at best. Calvin Klein, the man and the company, are masters at licensing the name and slapping it all over everything. Technically, nothing except the Calvin Klein Women’s Collection is actually done in house anymore. I learned that anything with the Calvin Klein name on it was made by some company who specialized in that particular product line. The prestige of wearing Calvin Klein underwear dissipates quickly when you learn that Vanity Fair or Fruit of the Loom were really the ones making it. If you wonder why sometimes things look so similar among designers, that’s a major reason. If you work for Fruit of the Loom and in addition to making your own boxers you have to do Calvin’s – what do you think happens? You slap that puppy on the same production line with your own and there is very little difference in product quality or appearance. It is always more cost effective to run the same styles on the same lines.

I remember the day I rode the elevator with Calvin Klein and Christy Turlington. I was not as awe struck as my co-worker, who was practically in tears at sharing the same 4 by 6 space with them. Bah. I was more excited to tear into my Eggplant Parm.

After several grueling years, and making it to a buying office, I learned the industry had too many sordid back corners for me to permanently call it home. This is how it works:

A company has designers who spend time in Europe checking out the latest fashions. They come back and “re-interpret” that for America. (Groan. Have you seen the rest of America?) They may show 100 pieces in a collection, but after the Sales Managers come in, a lot of what they don’t think they can sell gets cut. Then after the trade and runway shows, whatever else lacks interest also gets cut. The final collection you take to production is about 30% of what you originally started with. The best pieces always get cut and never make it out to the world. Up against rising production costs and factory workers who weren’t very competent, Nine West moved all their production from the States and Brazil out to China. They didn’t have a choice. As a manufacturer, you just can’t win.

The other side of the business, being a buyer, is really not much better. You are given a set budget and you have only that money to spend for the season. But there are many levels of management above you who determine on what they want you to spend your budget. This is usually due to “exclusive deals” with manufacturers. While this sounds like a fantastic deal, it’s a load of crap. The real reason the seller is offering a discount on volume is because they got a break on price from their factory. They are trying to max their profit out on something that isn’t necessarily what people want, just easy to make. The buyers plan to heavily promote it, because many subscribe to the belief that at the right price, anything will sell. The promise of exclusivity is also not that at all – you will almost always see a very similar piece of merchandise at a competitor. The vendor will contest this though. This is my favorite lie: “Oh, it’s a totally different shoe! It’s one millimeter of one millimeter higher in the heel! That speaks to a completely different woman!”

So this item above “exclusive” probably ate 20% of the buyer’s budget. Then there are “basics” that every buyer has to have, as well as continuing sellers from prior seasons. Finally, there would be about 15% to 20% of the budget left at the end for “fashion” items. These are the things that are more interesting, more outrageous, that not everyone will want. The trick to these is that if you are a buyer and only spending a few dollars on these fashion items, so are the other buyers of the world. This means the seller has to go to production with a very limited run. Changing a shoe mid production is costly. You have to produce a minimum of 5000 pairs just to break even. Your price may go up. Then it busts your budget. See now why everything you buy is made in a country you haven’t heard of?

My days at Calvin Klein yielded one superstar. Several years after the place closed up shop, my old co-worker and one of the only nice people at “cK Shoes and Bags,” John Truex, hit it big with Lambertson Truex. The rest of those assholes are probably still sauntering around Manhattan in head to toe black, coming in at 11:00 for their jobs, eating ice cubes for lunch, snorting coke, and leaving at 9:00, where they promptly hit the party scene. No thanks.

My days at Nine West yielded one casualty, Laura Southwick. You can see from that picture, taken at the latest in 2000, she was a definite fashionista. People didn’t start wearing those glasses until the past couple years. That chick was ON IT. Laura and I worked in the same office and she came with me the day I bought my first car – the original VELVET. After Nine West, I moved to Atlanta and Laura went on to work for Kenneth Cole. As everyone in fashion learned in the late 90’s, the only place for production cheap enough to ensure any profit was China. Laura traveled endlessly. The “glamorous life” she had envisioned wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Just four months after September 11th, she went on what she told friends would be her “last trip to China.” As she wrote in her journal, she realized she no longer wanted to be at the mercy of a company who couldn’t guarantee her personal safety. She wrote her resignation letter on the flight as well, but would never return home to deliver it. And no, no one knows what happened, other than that she died overnight in a rural Chinese hospital and the doctors didn’t even know until the morning when they went in to review her test results with her. Um, no thanks on the travel by the way.

At my grad school graduation, I gave the speech. I spoke about Laura and how we learn, sometimes through the hard lessons of friends, that some things are just too important to sacrifice. A final sidenote about how pathetic the industry is – at Laura’s funeral service, Kenneth Cole, the man, approached her parents and asked her for a leather coat back that he had given their daughter as a present. Can. You. Fucking. Believe. It. Fuck you Kenneth Cole and there’s the reason why I don’t buy any of your shit.

So what brings this up? I received an email from someone who heard I had the buying experience they wanted and blah blah blah. Nope. No way. Ultimately I made the decision to leave the business for good. The hours were long. The pay was low. The politics were heavy. The potential cost…astronomical.