Did they tell you, Andrew Cooper'd been in town?

They didn't tell us, I can tell you. I'm not prepared to say that the city could stand it, even by way of photoshop. I'd certainly have warned against it. I don't know that it's wise to place a menswear performer at the intersection of Divisadero and Vallejo, and simply hope for the best - much less, with his hands jammed into his pockets, and grimacing to the south in that appalling mode of selling clothes with a scowl. 
Don't we tire of this? Whit and I've been driven to ignore the announcements that pile up, for this little Sexton trunk show or that Brioni cocktail thing: squadrons of princelings, scowling as if no one would feed them.

Who inclines to go walking, in this air of all settings, with the disposition of being stuck inside of Mobile, with the Memphis blues again? It won't move; it can't be done. As you see, you have to staple a guy to the pavement, for this misprision of place and time to work its way into his feat-ures, and stamp a fatuous grievance. Oh, don't come to San Francisco and try this!
They have to be taut to do it, for it works such violence on their nature, as Oliver Cheshire was confiding only the other day. Here, he's flogging jeans that might survive one dry cleaning, internalising the hideous rip-off they represent. Don't try that in the home of the 501.

Now, poor Oliver, another runway of angst behind him, exchanges the junk he's hired to hawk for the soothings of consol-ing terry. And why not? But you know, and I know (I've kept it from Whit), tomorrow he'll be held up before some harridan in Milan, who'll Prad him to be furious, lest she re-veal sublimity in a stone that isn't hers, against a setting that is.

Yet we cannot allow you to suppose, we would settle for some gratification of badinage on the sartorial grimace in lieu of satisfying at least one of two higher motives - the elimination of the one, or of the other. And you may certainly come to us for that.