By Kimberly McDonald


June is quite easily the dopest month of them all, wouldn’t you agree? Such the anticipated season, such glamorous weather – shorter hours, longer siestas, lunchtime snoozing at the base of an old oak, darkest of the dark shades strapped on, sand ‘neath my feet, hot pink pedis, freshly glowing towheaded coifs – one (or 15) shades lighter, flowy hemlines, men gaping too readily; heiresses heading to the clinky, kiddie pornographers extradited all over the damn place; extraordinary renditions, stumping, speechifying and presidential debates. Hmmm… Lovely June, month o’my fantasies, born of longing for outdoors, freedom, escape and smoky bbq skewers; humid, steaming fierce fashion scene on NYC’s real runways and strutways – chickidies owning the sidewalks literally in flames, all sporting strapless new shimmering wonders down la Rue de la Blah-Blue allowing only the merest glimmer of those impossibly floating lady-lumps, chunky-strappy heels, weightless glittering bronzer enhancing the peak-a-boo boobage, flying past Miu2, floating past Galliano without batting an eyelash extension. Aaah, so reminiscent of luminous teenage days of yore – Sun-In and fried red highlights, mosquito bites, splinters from the boardwalk, working hard at menial summer job in the kiln-like air, sweat dripping off elbows into the rainbow sorbet, slowly dehydrating from the sucking humidity into a puddle of former humanity. Them were the days, mis amis. Now, deep in the throes of summer’s seamy grip (even though it’s still officially spring on the watch ‘o the seasons scale), it’s time to get intimate with this summer affair – all day at the beach watching boats bob by, ignoring the cellphone, scanning for driftwood treasure, erasing work from the mind, dodging washed up shells on sugary sand, mentally retreating from the city, dipping brave big toe into the chilly surf and yelping in response. Get on out there ‘n soak up some rays, synthesize that vitamin E, scrub down your face in the salty waves to tighten up pores, banish puffy eyes from partying all night and counteract the path that dern ‘squiter brigade cut across your tender flesh, a veritable constellation of vampires traces (aw yah, the ocean is the first and last bastion of healing). Yes, it’s glorious summertime, so flip off the depressing tube, shred those badnewspapers and tune into a different authority: the call of nature has been brayed; you have heard it and responded. So deck-out in your tighty-whitey summer sailor’s suit, affix your mon captain’s hat, press that faux anchor tattoo onto your yoga-toned bicep and click your Christian Labutin’s three times. Salute those souls brave enough to brave NYC’s steaming version of summer – Godspeed to you all and drink lots of water, lest you suffer the same fate as the Wicked one of the West, and melt away while shrieking hideously and wash out to sea. This would be most unseemly and very un-NYC-chic.












Originally published June 2008



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