I spent the weekend with two of my best and dearest friends in Richmond, Virginia, a town of hospitality and a genteel nature, a town of warm greetings and warm winds, warm suns, a town where cooking is never scant on the good things in this transient mortal world: butter, pork belly, bourbon. As I traveled back north yesterday afternoon, to lands above the Mason Dixon, I was welcomed by what have become near daily fixtures: dark and looming clouds, bitter skies. The Rapture, so it seems, has come and gone, leaving a smear of comedic refuge in the realm of public consciousness, but on days like this, I feel an overwhelming sense of ominous treachery and would love nothing more than to cover my body in jewels and soft furs. Naturally, even in this state of agony, burdened with sisyphean toils, the sun unrelenting in its coy nature, to be calmed only by sensual pleasures of soft fur, cold and hard jewels, I would love my hair to be so expertly coiffed and manicured.
(image taken from The Impossible Cool)