black and boots = New Yorker

Sarah plain and tall walks into her favorite place to malinger and finger the merchandise, My Sister's Closet,  and boom boom gets kicked in the eyeballs by these gangstas from the upper east side.  My blood pressure hiccuped and my eyebags filled up like a toad's threat display because I initially took them for Balenciaga.  But, duh, this is Balenciaga

und I vill do vhatever he says und like it.  Crap, no wonder the dude has sold so many expensive shoes and handbags. In fact, just gazing into those demonic eyebrows,  I'm compelled to cash out our 1995 Villager van and put the proceeds toward some of those Balenciaga socks.  Those ones with the straps and buckles.

Do you see how we I have been drawn off by his sinister powers?  Must...get...back...to...the...home...

Ahhh, that's better.  This is the New Yorker,  a native of Forest Lake, MN,  who owns the still-smokin Tibi boots and the black wardrobe required of all residents of Manhattan and a tri-media little-bit-ombre-little-bit-manic-little-bit-Prozac Kenzo bag (see below) and the best job in the world.  That seems a lot to fit into any NY apartment and I stand ready to take some aspect of it off her hands.  Preferably the job.  She works for Corsican mob boss street style goddess and divine illustrator Garance Dore, whose name you'll see over there to the right of this drivel.  The one I have been pronouncing GA-rens DOOR.  My god, stop embarrassing yourself -- it's  gu-RAHNS DOR-ay.  Anyhoo,  this woman, underneath her noir New York exterior, was just a delight, so nice, did not say a word about the swath of prairie that girded my loins and was shopping with her stylish mom and neither one had stabbed the other in the neck with a nail file.  It was a pleasure I tell you.