I love AllSaints, which reminds me of England, where I long to return. I think I could be an AllSaints girl, stick straight hair falling into my eyes, my long limbs peeking out of well cut stovepipe skinny jeans and a painstakingly distressed leather jacket, looking like a postmodern and just woken up Amelia Earhart, ready to take flight yet once again.

Clothing is a passion, and all saints is often object and fixation point for my prodigious desire, price tag and weakness of the dollar falling away, pleasure for my eye being the only matter worth consideration. When I wear my AllSaints jacket, my mind focuses solely on my silhouette, slim and elegant, ready for the motorcycle or the gastropub, sheathing my curves and enhancing them further. I think less of my problems and more about how fucking good I look, and this gives me great relief. Yes the jacket cost an arm and a leg but my joy is worth that, is it not?

I love the flagship store in my beloved London, just a moment’s walk from my other british landmark, Barbour. The dark interiors are a welcome escape from the surprisingly blazing hot brightness of the Columbia flower market, which rule my sundays in the city. The heavy metal hardware on AllSaints belts and bags are cold to the touch on those sunny mornings, as I hide my coffee from the sales people and feed my soul with all the beauty of London’s east end.

I fell into a month long depression in Scotland, brought on by homesickness and the nonstop alcohol consumption that threatens to consume me whenever I step foot on this island. AllSaints jackets and jeans and boots and sweaters and bags and dresses and belts gave me hope, a serotonin boost that worked better than any sex drive dulling medication. I don’t really go in for ‘retail therapy’. You can’t solve your life problems by shopping – but that be said – oh – AllSaints – j’adore.

They are not the type of company that gifts performers, but i don’t care. I will always pay through the nose for their shit. It makes me feel good, whole, beautiful, sexy, tight, rock and roll – like Chrissy Hynde in her american-in-london black eyeliner best, and this, is priceless.

2 Comments. Add To The Mix…

  1. london is an amazing city in many ways. yet, i love l.a. but, retail therapy hasn’t really worked. thanks again for your humor after an eternal technicolor yawn that represented how flaccid this film’s queer experience has been. when families traffick their kids/relatives, nothing good can come no matter the illusion people would like to embrace.

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