It’s an official tradition*; every year at this time, I have to post The Story of the Lesbian Stick. If it doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, then you know nothing of lesbians or the Spirit of Christmas.
Love and Blessings, SW
*p.s. This is for Ann xoxo
Louise Wilson, the course director of the M.A. program at Central Saint Martins, voices a complaint in an interview with Cathy Horyn.
I think the problem is that fashion has become too fashionable. For years, fashion wasn’t fashionable. Today fashion is so fashionable that it’s almost embarrassing to say you’re part of fashion. All the parodies of it. All the dreadful magazines. That has destroyed it as well, because everybody thinks fashion is attainable.
Did you follow that? I’m not sure if I did, but if she’s saying that fashion is now available to the masses and as such it has reached a saturation point where everyone is decked out in the same “It Items.” then I totally agree.
For fall, it’s shaggy fur coats and vests, pseudo biker crap, lots of leather, sky-high heels, pre-shredded jeans and t-shirts, multiple chains, more leather leggings. We’ll all look like high-priced prostitutes and leftovers from Dallas with big padded shoulders and gaudy bling.
I’m already sick of it! It’s so tired and trite. Why even bother?
I propose three strong new looks for autumn/winter: The Saint, The Nun, and the Lady Mobster.
Christian Lacroix knows what he’s doing. This dress should inspire us to make our own saint regalia with old tablecloths and fabric flowers. For headgear, maybe some old flamenco hair combs with lace veils.
Michelle’s gorgeous veil by Moschino surely put that Pope in his place by outdoing him in drama. Haha, Pope Ratty, now what? Her look reminds me of how beautiful women can add a new dimension of sexuality to Nun garb. If the black lace is too solemn for you, here’s a different take on Nunwear by Lust Designs. Penny, the designer, is a doll.
Finally, there’s the Lady Mobster. Janet Jackson epitomized this look at her brother’s memorial. I have never seen her look more beautiful or commanding. She was perfection, dressed and styled by Versace.
Elegant, ladylike, tough, sexy, a look that says Don’t Fuck With Me.
There you have it, Sister Wolf’s three looks for the modern woman who’s ready to move beyond Boho fringe, rompers and Faux Rocker Chick dishevelment.
Once, Sister Wolf had a great job. She sat on her ass and wrote stuff and got paid a very nice salary.
Then, oh no, the fucking economy! Her job was cruelly taken away. Poor Sister Wolf!
Having no income can be a real bummer. While Sister Wolf scrambles to find gainful employment, she will be accepting patronage, as per that big black box on the right hand column.
Try to forgive Sister Wolf. She means well, mostly. Non-patrons can just say a little prayer to Saint Cajetan, the patron saint of the unemployed.
~this is a reprint from 2006, and a true story.~
Tonight, when I told my older son that I’d found a good Baby Jesus to steal, he reminded me of the Lesbian Stick.
A long time ago, in a galaxy right next door, my neighbors moved away to live near their grandchildren, and sold their house to a Lesbian Couple. The husband Lesbian was Nancy Something, a gray-haired hatchet-faced woman who wore severe eyeglasses and identified herself as a “Pain Therapist”. Her wife was a younger, softer Latina named Concha. Nancy’s opening gambit as a new neighbor was to announce her plan to build an 8 foot wooden fence between our houses, for “privacy.”
We objected to the fence project, and asked the Lesbians to reconsider. Phonecalls were exchanged. Tempers were riled, and property lines were debated. Concha called and told us that her husband would no longer speak to us: she needed time to Heal. We named her Doctor Pain
Doctor Pain hired a pair of weathered Lesbian Workmen to erect the fence. One had a crewcut and the other spoke in an awful Scandinavian accent. I befriended the Workmen, since they liked Laurie Anderson, but engaged in bitter combat with Dr. Pain. The fence went up, blocking the light and lending the effect of a prison compound.
Time passed and I tried not to look at Dr. Pain when I saw her outside. Her voice was piercing and nasal, her teeth looked like they wanted to bite you. We smelled incense coming from her backyard, and wondered if she was burning human sacrifices. I turned my anger toward the big gnarled stick on her front porch…..a “staff” of some kind, around seven feet long, perhaps a trophy from a hike somewhere.
I ranted about the stick to everyone. I hatched bizarre plots involving the stick, and asked friends for advice. Someone suggested that I burn the stick, and send little charred pieces of it to Dr. Pain. Someone else told me to kidnap it, and demand a ransom if they ever wanted to see it alive again. Finally, I ran next door and moved the stick from the left side of the porch to the right side. I was dizzy with adrenaline. In the morning, the stick was back on the left.
At Christmas, my son wondered what to get for me. I asked him to get me the stick. When he brought it up to our door, he held it aloft, and I tried to sing the theme from “Rocky.” It was a joyous, shining moment; he is the best son a mother could ask for!
More time passed and it was Christmas again. I was desperate for a piece of typing paper and since Dr. Pain’s car was gone, I went next door to ask Concha for a piece of paper. She led me into the house, which was filled with vintage images of saints. Shit!!!!! I told her that I also collect old Catholic Icons, and we bonded under the gaze of St. Theresa. “Come over to my house some time, and see my stuff,” I gushed. On Christmas Eve, Concha appeared at my door with her parents, who were visiting for the holiday. I invited her in warmly, forgetting until that instant that her stick was on display in my bedroom. My life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I mumbled that the bedroom was messy, and managed to hide the Lesbian Stick under my bed just before she walked in to see my Saints.
Dr. Pain split up with Concha, who stayed on alone for a while before they sold the house. Before she left, Concha and I hugged. I’m sure she found a better looking Lesbian to share her life with. And the stick is leaning in a corner of my bedroom, along with the smaller sticks that Dr. Pain put out on her porch, in a futile effort to replace the original one.
Merry Christmas!
