boys who dress like girls who dress like boys

dear marc,

i was standing in line at the bank to deposit some funds (so that check i wrote to my mom doesn’t bounce my account into overdraftville), when something happened to me that hasn’t happened since…last week?  if it were a short film about mistaken identity and the malaise of being poor and 25, the screenplay would read like this:


MATT stands in line behind OLD LADY, who is talking to BANKTELLER.  he is disheveled, but the kind of disheveled that says, “i’m too knowledgeable about fashion to care what i look like right now.  or ever.”


blah blah blah my son’s girlfriend didn’t even send me a thank-you note for the gifts blah blah blah.


the NERVE.  let me just take care of her and then i’ll let you finish talk at me.

matt roles his eyes and trudges up to the counter.  the transaction is awkward.


did you see that?  the bankteller said HER.  let me just take care of HER.   normally i would make a giant deal out of the whole thing, but I’ve finally realized that i will forever be a “her” in some peoples’ eyes. i can’t help that I naturally dress like mary-kate olsen and that I’m CURSED with these pouting lips and long lashes.  i also can’t change the fact that girls dress in boys clothes all the time, so now anyone on the street in a long button-up flannel and skinny jeans could be Vanessa Hudgens or whatever piece of jailbait is cool these days. anyway, i know i’m a boy, my friends know i’m a boy (i think), and that’s all that really matters, i guess.

so for every boy that’s been mistakenly called “miss,” “her,” or “that chick with the glasses,” i salute you.  to every guy that’s been dancing with his friend when he suddenly feels someone grinding on his assbone and turns around to discover that it’s a lipstick lesbo who thinks you could be the Ellen to her Portia, i say, pop the booty.  don’t feel bad for liking your shirts long and your pants skintight.  boys who dress like girls who dress like boys are PEOPLE, too.

dance on, my brothers.  dance on.

Spread the love, marc.


i bought your cologne but i’m not getting Banged.

dear marc,

i don’t want to come off as a total gwyneth paltrow, but i’ve been meaning to offer you some constructive criticism: i bought your cologne, Bang, over a month ago and i have yet to get Banged. let’s set aside the fact that i spend most of my days in bed watching ‘buffy the vampire slayer’ on netflix (does sarah michelle gellar even KNOW what a bra is?), eating peanut butter sandwiches and not showering. i spray that shit on my giant sleeping shirt every day, and god damnit i want to get LAID, man. i want some to totally mess me up. i want to be rolling around in gold tinfoil, my naked, rippling muscles glistening in the harsh light of some lower east side studio while a bunch of attractive, but ‘serious-about-fashion’ interns bring me cigarettes and jameson.

i know i have some things to overcome–body fat and possible self-induced agoraphobia among them–but i don’t think you should make promises in your ads that can’t be easily attained. but i’ll continue to spray your spicy, woodsy scent until someone finds me attractive enough to make me look like the Bang bottle, which is to say, tore up.

so cold, so CHIC

dear marc,

my mother informed me yesterday that the Midwest was about to be plunged into an icy hellhole.  but because i only check the weather when i need to know if it’s time to wear my formal shorts outside, i didn’t believe her until she texted me today and said, “THE WORST IS YET TO COME.”  so, as any well-adjusted 20-something would do, i went out and bought some supplies to get me through this battle with mother nature’s frigid cooze:

that’s right, marc, i drove for 90 minutes through hellish weather to get

2 bottles of wine

rat poison (because grey gardens has become INFESTED by two mice we’ve named dharma and greg)

raisin bran (fickle bowels)

marmite (I’m on the rag and I have serious cravings)


the first season of Melrose Place (okay, you caught me—I already had that)

and what will i be wearing as i stumble drunkenly to the bathroom for a cig and a poop, wondering if sidney is EVER going to grow up and make jane proud?

because nothing screams, “lick my taint, mother nature,” like a mary-kate flannel paired with harem pants and sweater-blanket shawl.

pray for my frosty soul while you think of ways TO GET ME OUT OF HERE.

fall fashion

dear marc jacobs,

as summer ends and we begin to enter autumn, you might be asking yourself, “what is matt going to wear during this awkward transition phase?” WELL GIVE ME A MINUTE AND I’LL TELL YOU. wanda sykes in pootie tang is really inspiring me right now:

and by that i mean i’ll be wearing a lot of reds, which is good, because that’s what you’re putting out (in my price range, anyway)…
give me duckie from pretty in pink and a splash of hobo and you KNOW i’m on board. and don’t you LOVE that this is ALMOST a literal translation of wanda’s outfit? YOU GOOD, MARC.

let’s remember

dear marc,

i know it’s been too long since we spoke, but i’ll change that, i swear. i felt i should write you today because i was looking for something to listen to while i drove around and smoked and low and behold i found jewel’s pieces of you in my lazy susan cd holder. let’s take a moment to realize that it has been FIFTEEN YEARS since this epic, whiny gem entered our lives. yes, my dear marc, fifteen years ago i was a chubby 8-year-old requesting the RADIO version (yes, the album version is completely different) of “who will save your soul” at the rollerskating rink with my kind-of-girlfriend, mallory, probably wearing something like this:
oh god. the JORTS! the CASUALLY-KNOTTED-ABOUT-THE-WAIST, OVER-SIZED SWEATSHIRT! the BLACK. HIGH TOPS! i was so now, so patriotic. marc, hire me and get me out of indiana simply because this photo says, “i’m here. i’m secretly gay. and yes, i saw michelle pfeiffer wear her sweaters like this in up close and personal and i KNEW it was right for me, too.”
take this day to reflect, marc. take this day to listen to “painters” or “adrian” and think about those we’ve lost.
i swear i’ll keep in touch.

poop poop bashoop

dear marc,

last week was a BIG one and my balls still hurt from it. i got to see the SS ’09 line at reiss and LET ME TELL YOU it’s a gem. i finally want to start wearing the clothes. too bad i’ll be gone by the time all the good shit comes out.
the real drama/splendor of the week comes from the event we had with GRAZIA magazine on wednesday. everything was great at around 745–people were coming in, having a few free cocktails and spending drunk dollars on okay-looking things. great. THEN at around 930, when all the customers had left, my co-workers and i discovered that there were about 30 bottles of unopened champaign just sitting around, waiting to be guzzled down. AND GUZZLE WE DID. after i drank my weight in champaign, i headed out for a smoke, but not before drinking from a random bottle of vodka…that’s where it gets blurry. things i remember doing/saying:
–‘let’s get the fuck outta here, motherfucks’
–moving to the bar down the street and falling a little bit
–‘oh my god, i love you guys so much’
and then…NOTHING. the next day i woke up on my polish supervisor’s couch.
AGA(in a robe):Matt, darling, we is leaving in an hour.
ME(in my underwear):oooooooooooooooooooh my god
i thought i had sex with her for a minute. then i looked at my clothes from the night before and realised that aga just took pity on me because CLEARLY i was vomitting everywhere. and then i had to go to work, which was just awful. i was throwing up all day and randomly passing out on piles of clothes. i haven’t been that hung over since i got kicked out of kappa kappa gamma’s formal for throwing up on people. ug.
but really, it was all worth it. despite the fact that everyone keeps asking if i feel better and keeps giving advice like, ‘maybe you shouldn’t drink. ever’ i think i really bonded with my co-workers and made some flimsy friendships that should last until i leave london in february. and isn’t that what partying is really all about?
’till next time, darling.

just a quickie

dear marc,

this is going to be a quickie update. imagine this update to be on par with that time you were horny at your friend’s party and banged some B+ bystander on the laundry machine, just to clear the pipes. that’s this update.
reiss is going well. this week i have 2 things that you should look forward to hearing about: first, my store is having an event with GRAZIA magazine, which means a lot of drunk kind-of-celebrities and me getting yelled at for being drunk when i’m supposed to be working.
also, i get to preview the spring/summer ’09 line in david reiss’ penthouse. when i get there, they MIGHT JUST SNATCH ME UP and ask to be apart of their ad campaign, so you better step it up, be a man, and call me. i don’t know HOW you’re going to resist any longer once you see these:
okay, i think these clearly demonstrate my ability to style a shoot, because that outfit is RAGIN’. i know i kind of look like a witch in the second one, but you can LITERALLY see the swivel in my hips in the first one. i don’t think yellow tail wine could find a better ad campaign. god knows i’m gonna be buying more.
okay, this update is a little longer than i expected. it’s like, now you’ve banged the B+ and they want your number and you’re all, ‘god shut up, i just want some cheese and crackers. or to bang again.’

plea # 6

dear marc,

i still don’t have a job and actually i’m downgrading my living arrangements to a hostel because girl this shit’s EXPENSIVE. i’m pretty sure it will be one in notting hill, which is good because it’s super cute and MUCH SAFER than this car-bomby, knife-stabby hell hole i’m in now. jesus i hate this place. i applied to be personal stylist at banana republic yesterday, so if you have any pull there you MIGHT want to use it, you bastard. oh, i hung out with a few famous people this weekend, mainly MY MODEL TWIN AND YOUR MUSE, cole mohr:

yeah, he was at soho revue bar. clearly i could perform just as well IF NOT BETTER than him in an ad. exhibits A & B:

fIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIerce. it’s like we’re LITERALLY the same person. except i have better legs.
i also got pushed in the face by that tranny slut jodie harsh’s bodyguard THREE TIMES. jodie, if you’re reading this, FUCK YOU. why do you even NEED a bodyguard? you’re not even that cute/famous. marc, tell jodie she can fuck herself for being an elitist cooze. here’s a lovely shot of me from punk, and just another reason you should put me in an ad. i would def fill out that dress better than cole:

clearly this photo says the following:
1. i will lift a total stranger’s dress to get the perfect shot of her sweaty lady briefs.
3. i work well with others while still keeping the focus on ME ME ME ME ME.
4. what i lack in physical beauty i make up for in stylish headwear.
okay well continue to wish me luck on my job hunt. I KNOW I KNOW, i never should have quit that other job BUT WHATEVER. it’s my life, marc. IT’S MY LIFE.
hire me.
oh PS. i saw cillian murphy in soho today. scott and i followed him for about 10 minutes until he caught wise and ran into a crowd on oxford street. that’s okay cillian, one day I’LL be running from YOU.
your future muse