Carson Kressley He Ain't

Market Street, 8 a.m.. An extremely thin young man, wearing a peacoat and leather jeans, with stylishly mussed-and-gelled tinted hair, is having an argument via cell phone.

"I want to make you into a work of art, but you just want to look like everyone else!"

I wonder briefly whether he's hairdresser, an interior decorator, a wedding planner, or a coutourier, before deciding it doesn't matter.

Working for the Weekend

Friday night, riding by the SF Academy of Art, overheard three students chatting while having a smoke. Since they're Art students, they've devoted rather more attention to their appearance than the average person might. My best attempt to describe each of their highly-individual motifs:

• Gay Unshaven Cowboy
• Nazi Kink-Submissive Butler
• Zombie Clown

Gay Unshaven Cowboy speaks: "I'm over at the Rawhide, drinking Red Bull and vodkas, and Ray's pouring, so after a while he stops charging me..."

I guess at some point, you become part of the place's decor.