Blank Doll

For a non-science geek like me, Charles Stross' Accelerado is one smashing hard science fiction hit. I love the idea of Economics 2.0, the Rapture of Nerds where everyone is uploaded into space and the Matroishka Brain where the solar system is reduced to a pulsating cloud of nanocomputers. It's breathtaking and scary but so exciting at the same time since about everyone who know me for more than 4 minutes know that I love the idea of one day having a high bandwidth interface implanted right into our brains so we can do away with the clumsy artifice of computers.

That's a lot of technological gushing from a non-science geek but it only goes to prove how much of a geek I still am.

Drinks with Jessie after dinner. She's hallucinating about seeing a certain somebody. I hate to say this but I think I'm going through the whole I'm losing a friend shit which I thought I'd been thankfully saved from during my JC years. Sucker!

My orange cheesecake tarts look mighty swell and I've, on a whim, emailed David Lebovitz about pastry dough but I doubt he'll reply. Meanwhile I'm still grappling with the thin red line that separates 20s soignee from 60s sleek and it's just not happening. Obviously one is vulgar and the other isn't but that's seeing it from the perspective of a 21st century kid. I can't see the shock factor in the marcel wave, I can't see the vulgarity inherent in a tortoiseshell smoking pipe. I can't see anything but the slow death of Victorian superiority in the Quantian parade of miniskirts, Zoot suits and plastic dresses. I want to connect Chanel with St Laurent, I want to jet the whole thing into the future without it coming out overimaged and repackaged for our jaded eye. I want the hearts to still trill when the model walks out in her gamine dress of bias cut tea green silk with the conched koi in thread of gold and scarlet bakelite. I want the slinky black cardigan of cashmere and the layered top with embossed python skin to melt the frigid hippocampuses of the front row mavens. I want luxury to explode from every pore, from every tent in Bryant Park, from every pulpit in Milan, from every chateaux in Paris and I want luxury to replace the monolith of accessible designer chic.

I want to weave threads of suede into a gown and cut it on the bias so it clings to your skin the way silk does except it isn't silk. I want-

too much.

C'est tout.