CHICK fIL-A FASHION WEEK

There's been rioting in the streets of Manhattan, darling. Of the most sorrid sort. You'll be astounded, I'm sure, to know that even on the east coast of America people seem to want everything fried at anytime they damn well please, day or night, as if they feel titled.

I witnessed this myself darling, on the very eve of Fashion Week.

I looked stunning I might add in white blouse by Dior and suede cowboy-like chaps(double-sided)and trimmed in fringe by Ralph Lauren with gorgeous boots of Ostrich in orange(looking very chic American, you know). I had no more than stepped out on my way to David Zwirner's Gallery to see Philip-Lorca diCorcia's photographs, when I was stopped like a girl thrown from her mount when I saw the fat riot.

It's too true, darling, but they're demanding their "Jesus Chicken". Seems there's a franchise of sort called Chick fil-A that won't fry or serve dead hens on Sunday. Of all things to protest, truly! I suppose next I'll see Sean Penn saving them in a documentary.

It's certainly not on the unescapable level of protesting with the Egyptians for freedom, but it does serve a certain person a notion of being part of a movement, I suppose.

Not to worry, darling, I received a cablegram from Andrea this very morning along with arrangements for my travel across the ocean. I'll be home before the next frost. I haven't the oversized charcter to withstand more of the same on this shore.

Oh, and the show at Zwiner's Gallery I found dull, as having just seen people in the street dressed as chickens in wraps had left me in no mood to strut round the hen yard and have everyone gawk at my fashionable attire as if there were nothing more to chirp about than ME, though there truly wasn't. Oh, it was just awful, truly, as the photographs were wall after wall of hen houses shot in piles of chicken shit during the dust bowl and depression done in varying shades of brown; yes, nothing but brown upon brown!

I took it all in with my casual sort of charm and an eye toward the exit with a vodka in each hand. The alternative to getting looped was lassoed into clucking like the hens who were watching the crowd on the street demanding they have their Chick-fil-A's on Sundays; no matter that the proprietor finds it sacred and wants one day of seven for rest. These PEOPLE seem so crass, don't you think? If it were up to me, which of course it most certainly is not, well I'd shop for six days and rest one of seven.

And this little protest- on Fashion Week fergawsdsakes!

I'm taking to my pillow, feather downed.

-best

Jacqueline