There’s no use pretending the story of the day is anything but Buzz Bissinger. Sorry, homosexuals, even your landmark Supreme Court arguments can’t steal the spotlight from this:
I own eighty-one leather jackets, seventy-five pairs of boots, forty-one pairs of leather pants, thirty-two pairs of haute couture jeans, ten evening jackets, and 115 pairs of leather gloves. Those who conclude from this that I have a leather fetish, an extreme leather fetish, get a grand prize of zero. And those who are familiar with my choices will sign affidavits attesting to the fact that I wear leather every day. The self-expression feels glorious, an indispensable part of me. As a stranger said after admiring my look in a Gucci burgundy jacquard velvet jacket and a Burberry black patent leather trench, “You don’t give a fuck.”
I don’t. I finally don’t.
But this meltdown-masquerading-as-an-essay is more than 6,000 words long, and that’s just 100 words and change. There’ so much more, including but not limited to sex, marital, kinky and pathetic; money, vast and unthinkable; magnums of champagne; Tom Ford cosmetics (used by the author) and so much, much more. Long story short: Buzz Bissinger, author of “Friday Night Lights,” has been going insane for the last few years, and has spent nearly $600,000 on high-end clothing, most of it from Gucci, lending the piece its ridiculous, wan headline, “My Gucci Addiction.” It’s like calling a deep dive into the culture of high-school football “High School Football.”
Don’t drop out, no matter how embarrassed you are, before you get to the sex part. Because that’s really the icing on this cake of tawdriness.
If you think I’m maybe getting too much glee from another’s public confession, be advised BB has been something of a jerk of late. Now we know he was being an even bigger jerk on the websites of the world’s high-end retailers.
I’ve known some shopaholics before; some of them had untreated mental illness, usually bipolar. My next-door neighbor in Fort Wayne was a house cleaner, and told me of trying to organize the closet of one of these souls — unsuccessfully, as it turned out, as she just went out and refilled the closet floor with a million more bags. You get a hole inside, you look for a way to fill it.
Speaking of filling holes, and change, and going a little nuts, here’s a story to bum out all your journalists: A 17-year-old just earned more than you will in your lifetime by inventing an app that boils your lovingly crafted story down to 400 characters. Yes, not words, but characters — that’s the new currency.
I guess we can talk about the homosexuals after all. I’ll go out on a limb and say Prop 8 will go down 6-3, with Alito and Sca-mos on the other side. Anyone want to float a different idea?