Temp Me!

I lose a lot of shit. I on OCCASSION am a big airhead and/or really stoned. But it seems to me that the only shit I lose is the hottest shit I own.

Be it the pair of Persol sunglasses that I left at Bowery Bar or my vintage "West Virgina" tank-top that I left at Fabricio's place. In both instances, they just seemed to have disappeared. FUCKING STICKY-FINGERED CUNTS. Leave fags with your fashion for one second, and you have a better chance of seeing Mary-Kate at an AA meeting than you do of seeing your threads again.

In this instance, I didn't lose my dress shirt, I just didn't plan on needing one. I left it behind in a Manhattan Mini-Storage near Chelsea.

I came out to CA to go to school, and not work, so I didn't anticipate the obligatory "interview uniform." The conservative suit and tie. (Except that I wear the cutest tight pinstrip pants.)

Why I didn't bring a dress shirt is beyond me. Maybe it was trauma of leaving Manhattan behind in the Spring? Maybe it was Klonopin? Whatever it was, I got a call from a temp agency on Monday asking me to come in on Tuesday afternoon.

Alan J Blair is the temp agency in SF that my ex Rick used right after graduation. They got him a menial but decent paying gig at a large national bank. They're incredibly professional and well-organized which means they're an urban oasis in this city of perpetual pot-induced fog. I love Alan J Blair because their efficiency reminds me of New York.

They got me an interview the next day for a four-month gig working for a student loan instituion. Irony....oh yes. (For those who need reminding, it was a student loan issue that kept me from enrolling at Stanford this Spring. Well it was MY issue with making monthly payments.)

But I of course didn't realize I needed a dress shirt until an hour before the interview. In NYC, I could call up my network of fashion-forward girls and have a pressed clean dress shirt in my hands in 15.
In SF, I have one person. JB. But he was at work in San Mateo. So I called the bartender for help, but to him a shirt with sleeves is dressing up.

So I ran to the nearest thrift store and the FASHION GODS smiled down upon their little latin fag, and directed me towards a vintage Christian Dior shirt for 25 dollars. I of course pulled 10 shirts in 2 minutes and scared the staff of Crossroads with the speed at which I tried shirts on. But I informed them that I've become a seasoned speed-shopper with at least FOUR Barney's Warehouse Sales under my belt. (Btw, the Barneys WS is a complete exercise in S&M combat. Think a bunch of tacky bitches fightng over discounted jeans, suits, and ties. And that's just the guys section. I heard some woman got stabbed last year.)

And what's the difference between vintage and thrift?
Class, style, and taste, and if you have to ask then you have no fucking clue.

The interview with the student loan instituion went well, but it become apparant to me and the people interviewing me that I'm incredibly OVERLY-qualified for the job. That could go two ways; 1) They want the smartest person for the job OR 2) They're afraid to hire me thinking I'll find something better in a month.

Well, I've resolved to a Manhattanite again by Halloween.
That's a long time, but I want to return to NYC with enough money to sublet my own apartment and not be a complete leech on my friends.

So for now I'm in exile with a bunch of stoner freaks. I guess it could be worse. I could be in Oklahoma. But please send me photos/packages of hot fashion, people, and music. SF is a strange Bermuda triangle for anything innovative or cutting-edge. It all seems to get lost.