Damned Yankees

If you have nothing better to do -- and I mean nothing better, including shaving your legs with a cheese grater and watching Leonard Part 6 with the French-language option on -- then by all means read Patricia Marx's story in the latest issue of The New Yorker headlined "Dressin' Texan." Yeah, it's pretty much what the headline suggests: a "reported" essay about where to shop in Houston and Dallas -- which, amazingly enough, are not the same cities. That's one of the lessons Marx actually learned during her travels: "Houston cannot tell the difference between Dallas, the city, and 'Dallas,' the TV show." Oh, God. This again. Next thing you know Marx'll get around to Texas women having big hair...oh, wait: "Texas hairdos, the saying goes, are 'fried, dyed and shoved to the side.'" Shoved to the side -- yes, much like my new copy of The New Yorker, till it drops right in the wastebasket.

In short, Marx -- who wrote one of the silliest books ever -- visits Neiman Marcus' downtown location, Stanley Korshak (where the clients are "super-rich," says owner Crawford Brock), Forty Five Ten on McKinney Avenue, Grange Hall and Urban Flower on Travis Street and a few other hot-to-trot spots -- none hotter than the closet of Angie Barrett. Yeah. The closet. Then there's this story: "At a cafe on my last night in Dallas, a waiter came over and gestured toward a man at the door. 'Are you comfortable with that gentleman?' he whispered to the friend I was with." Turned out it was the woman's husband ... and he was wearing (gasp) jeans. Aw, go mug yourself. --Robert Wilonsky