Monday, September 26, 2011

Where should we turn but to Paris

Ciné and
Ernst Lubitsch

To the city that gave us radium,
pasteurisation, and the first
honest map of the human immune
deficiency virus, to say
nothing of the little black
dress, the largest holdings
in Greece's bonded debt, and
the boulevard, itself:

with awe we turn again
to the house of Dior,
for the adjustable rate
waistband, with no taint
of elastic to offend the
ethos of le smoking as we
know it: tailored with a
witty secondary pouch,
coct for convenient resort 
without deformation in the
global credit system.

Who can doubt, then, that
fashion's final frontier -
the homologation of the
snapping turtle - is just
around the corner?

I think it must be fair
to say, very few of us
have not known the pain
of leaving our snapper
behind. Now that we can
see, that the well-
rounded man has the at-
tention of Dior, what
room is there for fear?

i-ii Nikolas Sachs


  1. I'm dudin' up my shirt front,
    Puttin' in the shirt studs,
    Polishin' my nails,
    I'm steppin' out, my dear,
    To breathe an atmosphere
    That simply reeks with class;
    And I trust that you'll excuse my dust
    When I step on the gas,
    For I'll be there,
    Puttin' down my top hat,
    Mussin' up my white tie,
    Dancin' in my tails.

  2. I am exceedingly glad to hear that, PGT, especially on the occasion - not frequent enough, I confess - of a reference here to Dior. And one of the best songs knowable for making the occasion what it needs to be, dare one say. And I hope you noticed, the relaxation of the local prohibition against reference to Habit X, given the ingenuity of Dior's breakthrough design. It's only a pity that le smoking could not have emerged around a cult for celery, don't you suppose, instead of this unfortunate herb. But there we are, a great House making the best of the world as it finds it.

  3. One has to wonder whether Dior itself will embrace the snapper?

  4. Dink! Your consultations in the matter have been most urgently missed, throughout the drafting of this finding. Anticipating your view as best one could, we have made allowance for the snapper to be pressed, as if a duckling, with its residual flesh and entrails (are you with us still, dear fellow) settling through a slow simmer in a cast iron pot, with a gurgling mirepoix to filter and fine the broth, thence to be drawn from the pot on a skewer fashioned from a fennel bulb poached in clarified butter, for a lad to knit through his waistband, à la minute - or earlier, dare one say, should the evening hold promise of being long. What do you think?