In Winter

In winter, I dress like a political lesbian. Now, I'm a believer in uniforms. I think it's chic and dignified to know oneself sartorially and eschew "costumes" or anything else that reeks of effort (hunger, delusion). And certainly androgyny becomes more pervasive in culture by the minute, allowing me to wear my dad's old clothes to death (which is exactly what I've been doing). But I was seated beside Jared Kushner (pictured here with Ivanka Trump on his shoulders) and several good-looking, besuited others on a banquette in an intimate (something like six tables) dining room this afternoon, and well . . . I just wish I'd been in heels and a pencil skirt.

It's all well and good to wear smocks and shabby pants and oversize cashmere sweaters with gaping holes all of the time as an artist/librarian/experimental musician/blogger/Britney Spears-poet-laureate, but if I'm looking to make some paper (please, Lord--Able was not born to be a Bohemian past her 25th birthday) and break out of my tragic hipster-loser-bartender-ladyman dating cycle I must get me to a TAILOR. And though I tend to wear feminine sundresses in the warmer months (decidedly less butch), these only stand as testimony to my severe hippie-dom/teaheadedness (more politics). Everyday I distance myself further from the "straight world"--how, for one, will I ever reintroduce myself to underwear?!

Perhaps this is some grass-greener syndrome. Perhaps if I actually got hold of one of these shiny finance types I'd be bored and confused . . . can I really deny my fetish for confederate soldiers or that Ana Mendieta (above) is my utter pants idol? Here's the facts: I will always be a hippie. I was borned that way. But I can be a hippie with untattered, flattering clothes and commercial aspirations and a crew-cut of a boyfriend. Anything is possible. This is AMERICA (and in my heart of hearts I will always be bourgeois . . . I was borned that way too, you know, in America).