|I heard a rumor: the dress in Betsy Johnson's window this spring was red. I didn't actually see this myself. I thought Betsy Johnson only made black gowns. As soon as I had this thought, I was surprised to find a green one in W.  So I was proven wrong. Perhaps somewhere a graduate student in the social sciences is researching the noise level of a red dress.|innuendo7.html|_self
|Our model in the red tutu holds her ears to protect sensitive eardrums. Note that the Gianni Versace drowns out conversation and jack hammers: 180 dBs; prohibited in hospital zones. The real menace to public health, however, is the 150 dB red velvet gown. Onlookers sustain greater prolonged hearing loss through the gradual erosion of realistic beauty standards. Which explains equilibrium problems, dropped scotch glasses and odd, unpredictable peaks in Miata sales.|innuendo7.html|_self
|My lover was not good enough for me. That is the opinion of my friends. In fact, I miss him like breath.|innuendo7.html|_self
|Recently, two of my friends died and everyone went dancing. A break-up and a death among your friends means you may casually pursue high risk activities, like making lefts on red and annoying your hairdresser. Two deaths in a row means you dance to whatever's handy. Like Eighties Night. Everyone was so pretty in their funereal best. Everyone drank lurid blue drinks with umbrellas. Everyone did the pony until seams burst and mascara ran. My best friend called the next day. We had stayed out too late demonstrating our devotion to our dead friends. My hangover pounded harder than my heart. Our eyes smarted. Our complexions complained. Although we felt better than we had, we needed friends and lovers we loved less.|innuendo7.html|_self