LOVE:

Chanel’s Spring/Summer 2016 Fashion Show:

Karl Lagerfeld is a complete genius. I have tried so many times to meet that man. I have stalked Chanel boutiques around the world. I have lingered far too long in his bookstore on the Left Bank in Paris. I have strutted up and down the Rue Saint-Honoré. I banged on the windows of the first Chanel shop on Rue Cambon in a failed attempt to become a reality star. When I was in Paris last year, I missed the start of the Fall/Winter 2015 show at the Grand Palais. What a fool I felt, but I still went. I lingered outside that glorious structure in the pouring down rain just to get a moment’s glance at his ponytail or sunglasses or gloved hand. I would have literally dropped dead. Then Karl would have become intrigued and turned me into the star of one of his shows… None of that happened, sadly. I simply hid myself inside of an giant stone doorframe and chased after Jared Leto. I have had a strange life… After the fashion show was over, I watched a crew disassemble to runway. I should have been arrested for trespassing, but I think they knew just how important it was for me to be near to such a spiritual place. Now, every time I see a Chanel runway show, I die a little inside. They are, gorgeous, intricate, and the guest list is divine. I am always saving pictures of the runway show that was done to look like a supermarket.

GENIUS! Karl would never go into a supermarket. Imagine Karl Lagerfeld with a basket in Monoprix. It’s laughable and just as likely as me eating a hot dog slathered with mustard at a professional football game. It will not be happening! Chanel’s Spring/Summer show was today, and it was perfection. The floor of the Grand Palais was turned into an airport. AN AIRPORT! Airports are some of my favorite places! The models were passengers, and strutted around to different check-in booths or lining up to board a plane at Terminal No. 5. I SCREAMED. The audience was assembled on the floor in those oddly comfortable seats that cover most airports. The entire thing was stunning. And Karl’s color palate for this season was truly inspired. The man is a wizard. I adore and worship him.

My Next Novel:

Late this spring, before I jetted off to Europe for a month, I put the finishing touches on the first draft of my next novel, On A Desert Wind. It’s a prequel to the novella I published years ago, Haskell & Eudora. (Only $1.99 on Amazon and perfect for this time of the year.) Oh, how I love that story and the characters. It is honestly a delight for me to write and even for me to read back. I have never felt quite like that in the past. When I wrote Terrible Miss Margo, I had a lot of trouble. The book I’m writing now is starting to feel like a chore. But when I write about those immortal siblings, words flow from me with preternatural ease. It’s bizarre how these characters live inside my mind, constantly weaving new plots and stories while I’m busy living my life. There’s a dozen books waiting for me to get to them. Maybe I’ll put this one I’m working on now to the side when I finish editing the draft of On A Desert Wind. I think that’d be good for me. Anyway, each day, I try to do a bit of editing, and I really enjoy correcting the plot holes and grammatical errors. This book is fun. I can’t wait to finish editing it and order a bound copy. There’s no better feeling in the world than a completed novel. I will try again to get it published, but if it fails, as it inevitably does — why must it be so difficult? — I will put an ebook version on Amazon again. They barely sell, I have earned enough for a meal at Olive Garden from the royalties of the last one, but I feel accomplished. I’m on Amazon. Are you on Amazon? I should have this draft edited by Thanksgiving. I’m thrilled.

Baptiste Giabiconi’s Blonde Hair:

I can’t recall when my longing for platinum blonde hair began. I think it might have something to do with an obsession in high school over No Doubt. I wanted Gwen Stefani’s hair, and I wanted to to cause a ruckus at a homecoming game, and I longed to call shit bananas. Never did do that, though. I had my hair dyed blonde at one point, and after toning it it had a decent look to it. Everybody hated it. I loved it. Haters gonna hate. Years later, I realize that I should have gone about it differently, and I certainly should have taken care of my hair better. Oh well. I have learned. And I want to dye it again. Not now, not while it’s luxuriously long and gorgeously brown, but when I tire of these locks. When that day passes and I chop it all off, I’ll get it dyed blonde again, and then purple, and then mint, and then who knows what? I love dyed hair, especially when it is done well. So, imagine my total joy and delight (sincere this time, mind you) when I saw that my foe — long story — Baptiste Giabiconi had the most beautiful blonde hair. I looked at all of his pictures and double-tapped all over his Instagram.

I have no shame. It looks good. I want hair like that. Maybe if I did, Karl would have chosen me to be his muse. There’s still time! I just need to get perfect hair and stope eating pizza for every other meal. I used to take much better care of myself…

HATE:

Declining Sunset Hours:

https://instagram.com/p/8g7yqwg2_H/?taken-by=bdphillips

I know that I already complained about the arrival of autumn last week, but this is my website, so I can do whatever the hell I want. I’m going to bitch some more about the changing seasons. I AM NOT A FAN. I should have listened to Sylvia Browne back in 2009 and moved to Hollywood when she told me to. I should have packed up and been a page at Paramount. I should have been a barista at the Grove. I should have been a waiter in Beverly Hills. I should have been and done a lot of things. It’s cold here in Iowa now and the sun is setting earlier each evening. It’s pissing me off. Can’t you tell by my amped up usage of vulgarity? I used to be able to enjoy my life, getting schoolwork done, getting housework done, and then leisurely taking an evening stroll. Those were the glorious golden days of summer. HOW I MISS THEM. Now, if I don’t immediately go for a walk the hour I get home, I know that I will have to get on the treadmill and there are few things on this planet that agitate me more. I HATE TREADMILLS. I HATE EXERCISE. But, if I don’t move a bit, my Apple Watch turns into a snide little bitch and talks about how sad it is that I didn’t meet my goals. WHATEVER. Then, when the sun is gone, it’s dark at seven, and I feel it’s already time to go to bed. ENOUGH! I want to move to the equator. No, I want to move to Luxor, Egypt. That is one of the places with the most hours of sunlight every day of the year. Wouldn’t it be fabulous to wake up, put on your robe, and sip coffee whilst looking at the glittering Nile? I can’t wait to retire. COME BACK, SUMMER!

Astronomy Class:

I have no interest in leaving Earth. It might be fun to go on holiday to the moon someday, but if that never happens…oh well. It’s not as if there’s a Hilton there or an outlet mall. What do I care for dust and craters? The mysteries of outer space and the expanding universe don’t leave me breathless. I quite like it on this planet. There’s plenty to do. So why did I ever decide to take an astronomy course? I thought it would be fun to know a bit more about the planets and maybe have a bit of information stored away about comets. I have always been mildly interested in how the universe works, but I didn’t realize how little I actually cared star luminosity until I began this idiotic course. I shouldn’t complain about astronomy itself, I’m sure that’s delightful, I am mainly concerned with the instructor and his idiotic method of “teaching.” It consists of: generic slideshows, a History Channel documentary, digital labs built in the early 2000s, and a chapter reading. Once this is completed, you are given assignments that have literally nothing at all to do with what you’ve gone over. Last night I had to take a quiz over a chapter that I was not supposed to read until the end of November. How does that make sense? There is no warning about what the content of these quizzes might be. Is it a joke? Is he an idiot? Is the world conspiring to drive me insane? Probably a bit of each. I won’t ever take a class from him again. I’d quite like to keep my hair.