Posted on June 28, 2007. Filed under: Humor, Jokes, News |

The fashion industry lost one of its own yesterday. According to the New York Times, Liz Claiborne, “the designer of indefatigable career clothes for professional women entering the workforce en masse beginning in the 1970s,” is dead. She was 78 years old. Fashion insiders say that a bevy of events are being planned to honor Claiborne’s contributions to fashion. Some of her largest accounts have paid tribute. One seller, Ajodha, who sells knockoffs of Claiborne’s “Everyday Classics” line on the corner of 7th Avenue and 49th Street, has pledged to refrain from selling the goods for one week. Says Ajodha “She [Claiborne] was a great lady. And a very generous lady. I do good business. I make nice living. I sell “Bi-Stretch Suiting Blazer,” “Fine Gauge Silk Blend,” “Sloane Twill Cropped Pants,” everything. At good prices. She will be missed. I stop selling her clothes one week. For one week, I honor her. At end of one week I’ll be having a special memorial sale at even cheaper price. I can’t hardly wait for Fall line.” Another large mover of merchandise, Ace, sells Claiborne’s leather bags, primarily out of the trunk of his Escalade. “I be moving her shit for years. That bitch been good to me, real good–know’m sayin? I buy the shit for 2 and sell it fo 5. I move at least 100 pieces a day. Sheet.” When asked what he might do to honor the designer, Ace shrugged and said that he would consider making a contribution to Claiborne’s rain forest education program in Brazil. “Maybe I send them a few bags too. They made there anyway,” he said.


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  • Quotes of the Day

    "Writing editorials is like wetting your pants in a blue serge suit. It feels good, but nobody really notices."

    --Jack Germond

    "Famous men and women, by the act of putting themselves on display, whether as politicians, actors, writers, painters, musicians, restaurateurs, or whatever, invite public appraisal. They are all, impressively or pathetically, acting on the presumption that their ideas, their fantasies, their music, their bodies are more original than those of, say, a plumber or a certified public accountant. They are all exercising the impulse, as Mencken put it, ‘to flap their wings in public.’ This is so obvious to the critic–and, I believe, to the ordinary reader or spectator–that it seems hardly worth saying. But resentment of the practice of criticism itself is strong among professional artists (and all Presidents of the United States). There is a psychological type among them that hates critics on principle as parasites or failed performers. This is very natural but surely very childish and, in any country claiming to be civilized, actually anti-social. The existence of critics, good, bad, or indifferent, is a firm clause in the social contract between the governors and the governed in any nation that is not a dictatorship. Public figures should accept with good grace the public response to their invitations to be admired and resist the temptation to retort, except in the face of flagrant malice."

    --Alistair Cooke

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