Check out the full text link of the story here. For those of you who weren’t treated to seeing me wearing these skinny jeans puppies in the flesh, here’s some photos taken by my friend and colleague at The College of Saint Rose, Rob O’Neill, during the Frisbee toss segment of the story.
This was originally slated to run on The Daily Beast, but it didn’t fit in during the Summer of Celebrity Deaths. My guess it was passed on when I turned in a piece that was less a straight-on Styles section piece, but bit darker than I expected, what with me talking about how fricking fat I felt wearing them. Like it’s the jeans’ fault and not my thyroid’s or whatever. Whatever. I wore skinny jeans in the East Village and felt like a smacked ass. That’s art, people.
So L Magazine picked it up, and that makes me very happy. I answered one of their Online Questionnaire for Writer Types, which should run in the coming weeks.
My friend who accompanied me, Deep Image Poet Christopher Connelly, said I didn’t look half bad wearing them. Maybe that’s because he’s still the effete New Yorker, and I am now a wahoo suburbanite.