And Now There Are Two.

It is pretty safe to say that PBS will never be getting a single dime out of me. Not after the gussied up snuff film they might like to pass off as Season 3, Episode 4 of Downton Abbey. It was a bloodbath. Tears. I won't spoil it if you haven't seen it, but you'd be just as well to look out for motorcrashes on the freeway with a particular eye toward head trauma. A disaster.
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Back to beauty, and something approaching a $5,000 shoe. Foster and Son. Oldest established shoemaker in London apparently. I hadn't read about it in any of the countless "menswear" blogs out there, and had to read about it in a common - print- magazine - that - arrives - in - the - post. I'm sure it's just another hapless oversight on their part, but it does make me feel like my subscriptions aren't just being thrown out the window. Some use comes of them.

Lost To Indecision.

Pretty amazing that Free City has their own scent now. I was in the supershop when they were testing some a couple years ago, and they had an elaborate set up with three decanters, and each one had a different scent. They let me smell each and asked me which one I preferred.

"Any of them." I chirped, and flitted away with my purchases. I mean half the pleasure of a brand new Free City anything is the smell. I don't know what they wash it in, but my buddy and I agree. We try to go as long as we can before washing our new hoodies just to avoid the sadness of losing that scent.

I don't think these replicate the scent from the hoodies sadly, but with a name like Matchuli you just know it has to be as crunchy bobo hippie chic as all get out. Like that new Saint Laurent Paris shit. See it, kiss it, love it, the future.

The scent has been out for ages, but at just north of a Bennie it seems a substantial investment, but I guess that's just what scent costs these days. The Dowager Duchess and I will just have to move past it, and sell some stock.

This scent comes in a similar .34 oz roll on bottle, is from Blackbird, and I'm simply not going to say anything more about it. All too easy.

All These Undirected Points.

It would appear that the sublime and pastoral days of gang rape sex and unemployment may regrettably be coming to a halt. Of course God knows why or how, but apparently emailings were done, phone calls were made, but in no particular order, and with no apparent sense of urgency or enthusiasm.

Oh, would you like to speak to me? Well it is 1:30 in the afternoon, and I am quite obviously in the bathtub so, no. Then there's an absolute festival of Cocteau Twins going on in the iPod for the hour I spend getting all pretty for the PS3 where the phone just kind of hangs out under some Bernard Wilhelm top I tried on the day before just to see if it still fit. Dreadful colour, but great price, and it still does fit thankfully.

A few hours later you might ask? Sadly, but nonetheless unavoidably we're actually tied up buying marijuana, and the dispensary is a no cell phone zone, so I'm afraid it's going to be again with the no.

All of this, coupled with the time we spend underground flitting from point this to point that actually getting legitimate things done we end up rather not the easiest person to get a hold of.

But someone did, and now we are a little bit more tied up than we've become used to, but we will probably have a lot more to comment on in the coming days. Just so you know.

And Now There's One In Venice.

We decided to go to Intelligentsia. The one in Pasadena, not Silverlake. There was mercifully no line stretching down the block peopled with flannel wearing bearded guys staring mindlessly into their smartphones while talking really loudly about what "projects" they are working on with people with names like "Bruce" and "Kyle".

No, it was just us. Lucky us. It was my fault really since I decided I needed to use the facilities. The delightful one in the antique store I would use a couple hours hence would just not do so we popped into this joint where we were immediately confronted with a woman behind the counter who seemed to be in a trance, hypnotized by the motion of the stirring water as she stirred it with a long spoon. Another lady down the counter was similarly undone by a kettle of warm water. Presumably dazed by all the bubbles that were in there.

They finally noticed we were standing there, and they cooly informed us that there was a menu. Which there was with a total of seven options for coffee each one even more unpronounceable than the first and each boasting origins from countries which I don't think technically exist.

We managed to get our orders in, and I managed to get directions to the the loo which was only two flights down. It was nice, which you would expect for a cup of coffee which costs $6.45 and takes 12 minutes to make. I returned from the loo, and waited with my party for the coffee which eventually came and which tasted, unremarkably, like coffee. I was too wearied by the experience to complain that they only had animal milk on offer, but looking back I sorta wish I made a fuss about it. Just to keep it real yo.

Really. Just Like That.

"Fussy is finished!"

This is a line that has always served me well, and I think it sums up pretty well this little boiled egg on toast number.

Although if this were the final round of Jeopardy the smart money might be on "What costs $12 at The Standard?"