Take a poke at my atmosphere

Last night, Jonny and I went to England Swings IV at First Ave. We don't get out to shows very often (we generally get pickled at home and watch reality TV), but Jonny's cool band, Landing Gear, was one of the featured bands on the lengthy roster.

I didn't bother to dress up for the show like I usually do. I was having one of days in which I swathe myself in the fabric of our lives and allow myself to bloat accordingly. (Not such a good idea at an event primarily attended by natty Anglophiles in Ben Sherman togs.) We were hanging out stageside before the Gear's set, and this beautiful girl sauntered past sporting an immaculate assymetrical bob, minidress and riding boots.

I elbowed my husband gently and said, "I'm sorry I didn't dress like that hot mod chick."

Jonny said, "Dude, that's a man." Indeed, it was.

The moral? Never measure your sartorial sense against that of a boy in drag. Those bitches always look perfect.

Jon looked yum onstage, BTW. He normally plays keyboards, so seeing him play guitar was squee-licious. My jeans are going to need at least three wash cycles. Unfortunately, two strings broke on his borrowed axe during their Oasis cover. Jon soldiered on admirably. He's used to snapping G-strings until their tensile strength fails, though such behavior usually gets him thrown out of Deja Vu.

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I missed the Project Runway finale last night because of said (entirely worthy) gig. DO NOT SPOIL IT FOR ME, YOU TERRORISTS. I'm going to wager that Wendy Pepper didn't win, because of friend of mine e-mailed me and said the finale was "awesome." It's a logical syllogism: if that hack dressmaker Wendy Pepper won, then clearly the finale could not be awesome.

What on earth will those stuffy cunts at Banana Republic do with my darling Jay?