Thursday, October 20, 2005
[All EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our very own Library, waiting for you. None too patiently.]
It feels almost like Christmas. But, instead of wrapping packages, decking the halls, baking lebkuchen, concocting the usual clove-studded then immersed in cinnamon and nutmeg oranges, and all those other delightful pastimes [of course I do all that, and much, much more], we have, just today:
George the Lesser using the word “opining”!!
Rove turning on Scooter.
Rove and Scooter in a tête-à-tête talking about talking about Valerie.
And, like Christmas, one almost wishes it will never come. Except, in this case, the indictments [maybe tomorrow, as, for some arcane reason, they must come on an M, W or F, and prior to next Friday when the Grand Jury will be dismissed] will serve for the next tawdry chapter.
I do hope our more privileged readers – those who are not currently residing in the States and thus, on some level or other, engaged by this theatre – won’t find all this too, too boring. While the true payoff will be in the outcome [indictments, resignations, scandal, chaos, downfall], the undressing, as in so many arenas, can be equally delicious.
Speaking of which, and we knew I would never let that one slip by, I have been wondering what might have happened to my favorite stateside source for unmentionables: the House of Lounge in New Orleans. One of the most civilized, decadent, delightfully glamorous purveyors of fripperies in the uncivilized world. Their website seems to be down, and I fear the worst.
It’s hard being a girl.
Agent Provocateur, while cute, is, “naughty” in that very English way, which, given local tastes, is horridly off-putting. One can just imagine nasty, pudgy, pasty-faced little gentlemen slinking in, whispering of their search for brollies [and snickering whilst whispering] and such.
As for Wolford, and I do adore fine black tights and bodysuits, still, true to its Teutonic roots, puts one in mind of slightly grungy [yet aspiring to loftier scale, which makes it even more tawdry], suburban S & M clubs.
Thus, given that lingerie reflects its country of origin’s proclivities in matters of the boudoir, I would decree that only France and Italy should be allowed into the guild. I’ve already noted La Perla for us in a previous post, so, in a salute to Gallic seduction, we have Chantelle for our viewing – and, hopefully, wearing and being viewed – pleasure.