My dearest fans, readers and friends,

I’d like to begin my latest discourse by assuring you all that the following is an ode of thanks.  Of course, Thanksgiving is just SO in right now.  Eeee gads!  You American humans dooooooo continue to propagate this holiday of food (fantastic!) and self aggrandisement (alright fine —  I, of anyone, understand).

But I’d be saddened, dearest ones, if you commenced reading and were thrown off by the contemplations that follow — presupposing that this is some critical, academic drivel that I am employing to tediously divulge my innermost sentiments.  In fact, the following is really just a springboard for me to…well, yes.  Alright, I suppose that is what this is.  For christsake!  Give me a break damnit!  I am SO cute!  Just LOOK:

Yesssssss, dahhhhhlings. Yes. Just LOVE me damnit. LOVE ME.

Well.  Now that we’ve settled that.  Here goes:

Some time ago, a good friend lent me a book called, “The Elementary Particles.”

Good god, readers.  Good god!

Let me just give you all a few caring words of advise.  Do not attempt to read this book if you are feeling at all blue, suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder or are seeking the help of a mental health professional.  Now, Lady Bianca Miller is no stranger to difficult, bleak or profound literature.  Why one could easily find her reading a Dostoyevsky novella on the beach while voraciously sipping a roasted boar meat infused pina colada and being fanned by a manservant or two!  But for crying out loud, if there isn’t a more twisted, depressing tale of human darkness and depravity, She’d die a happy lady not knowing of it.

The long and short of it — in this book — humans are shown, at the end, to be mere particles — and just as humans eventually decay, they can also be created from these same decayed particles. Cloning replaces sex and love ceases to exist in the process of human reproduction.

In one chapter, a protagonist dreams of an ideal world — an island where only women exist — concluding that women are indisputably better than men.  He asserts women are “gentler, more affectionate, more loving and more compassionate — less violent, selfish, cruel and self-centred. Moreover,that they are more intelligent, rational and harder working.”  He wonders what purpose men have in current day — and asserts that a society of women would be immeasurably superior, “tracing a slow, unwavering progression, with no U-turns and no chaotic insecurity, towards a general happiness.”

Just leave it to a Frenchman to concoct such representations!  Why everyone knows that a Frenchman is nothing but a bitter Italian.  And while Lady Bianca does respect and align with many of the sentiments put forth by such Frenchman, as a romantic at heart, she just cannot fully accept them!

My point in telling you all this, my dear readers, is that often sadness and disappointment can lead to beauty and inspiration.  And so, after reading this gigantic cesspool of lugubriousness months ago, I found myself  immediately turning to my favorite fluff piece of turn-of-the-century romantic literature:  A Room with a View.

Now, of course I’ve read this wonderful little book before — in my youth.  But I find it’s always good to re-read things, darlings, as words tend to have different and greater meanings as we evolve in this life.  And upon reading it, I happened upon a passage that while absolutely captured my imagination the first time around, this time, I could see it like I’d been dosed with a huge shot of dimethyltryptamine, right to the vein!  Good grief  — the rolling hills of violets and sunshine and skin and kisses blazed frighteningly, beautifully, vividly across my imagination!

Shorty after, I made a trip to the flower district on 28th street to purchase supplies for the windows of my dear little shop:

Room with a View: with violets, damnit. The way it was written. Not the way it was shown the godforsaken movie for crying out loud!

And so, this brings me full circle to this time of year, my loves.  And I tell you, in general — the flower district is a wonderful place to go.  Do you need some moss?  A fake bunny-rabbit?  Some random crystal Tchotchkes?  Would you like to be a member of the Chinese drug cartel?  Then this is the place for you.

But be warned — if you are looking for a faux turkey to adorn a lovely shop window, I’m afraid you will not find it here.  I searched high and low and every damn turkey on that wretched block was so abominably hideous that I had to look for inspiration elsewhere.

And I found it — in a different bird.  The Wild Bird:

Owl, dove, crow, peacock, cardinal, sparrow, pheasant, buzzard replaced the soul of the turkey.

The Wild Bird: Buzzard in 1950s shades, ship in a bottle, Flannery O’ Connor and Book of Spells.

So you can conclude, dear readers…by viewing the window I have created above…beauty lies not in what one had set out to obtain and accomplish from the get-go…but in the adaptation.

Moreover, my friends…in philosophizing what we have to be thankful for — well, we can either absolutely fall apart at the seams and curse this damn rat (or human, or dog or other creature for crying out loud!) race we live…or…if for a moment, we step back and look at things though a different window…we can begin to see that creatures, ourselves included, aren’t at all — and don’t need to be exactly what they seemed.

And so, one can throw myself oneself on the floor, and bite ones fist, or paw or…(what the #%$^%$ do turkeys have?) and have a complete and utter meltdown, or one can pull up ones proverbial socks and make due with the irritatingly imperfect options around.

In conclusion, I adore you all, and I am absolutely grateful to have you all in my life, but I am going to go throw a huge temper tantrum right now.  Till we meet again.

Yours thankfully,

Lady Bianca Miller

Hello my dearest darlings!

Welcome back to my little segment, (a favourite of our readers, I’ve learned) The Bitch Bench of Bergen Street Style.  If you haven’t been following my blog as closely as you should (shame!), this is an interview based section where I cull interesting customers, photograph them and interview them.

As you’ve probably ascertained by the erratic appearance of my posts, I’ve always chosen to work within a “quality over quantity,” philosophic timeframe.  Why I simply refuse to pound out insignificant drivel just to have it happen on a daily basis for crying out loud!  It’s like getting out of bed in the morning…why who needs to do that on an everyday basis?  It’s just soooo pedestrian.  And on the rare occasion I must get out of bed for a high-profile modeling job, it’s always good to have a manservant around to serve me meals, fetch things for me (why I certainly don’t fetch!), pack my wardrobe, memory foam day bed and snack of organic, grass-fed, local filet mignon and champers, dahling, champers I say!  And, of course, it’s always mandatory to have my PA on-hand at all times to schedule and coordinate my personal trainer, numerologist and masseur.

But really dahlings, “quality over quantity” should be le mode de vie pour les masses!  It’s just so difficult to get people into this seemingly intuitive mentality.  This is how I choose my wardrobe — it is how I chose my drugs in the late 1990s/ early 2000s (the debaucherous stories you have read of late are complete hogwash I tell you!), and of course it is how I attempt to choose my men.  I’ve tried, but been unrelentingly let down in this former category regardless of what the damned tabloids say!

But enough on all that, let’s hear from one of our dear customers.  A customer, I have a feeling, who would surely agree with my inclination for quality over quantity:

Hat, simple accessories, minimal make-up which heeds way to glowing skin (much like mine), jeans and a pattern in the mix.  Simple and casual, but lovely.  Oh my!

What is your name?  Meg Harrison

And what do you do?  I am a patient services manager for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

What brings you to Bergen Street today?  I live in Prospect Heights and it is so gorgeous out, I wanted to take a walk to my very favorite store: Eponymy.

Thank you for the plug, but you don’t have to flatter us. We like you already, because you bought something! What did you buy?  I bought this really fabulous wool peacock dress [by Ivana Helsinki], it’s awesome!

What is your favorite curse word- if you curse?  I don’t curse all that often. I mean, if I’m very mad… I guess a well-placed “fuck” is important to have in your repertoire.

Right on, that is so fucking important!  Who is your old man crush?  I like Tom Berenger. He’s old, right?

Way older than us, that’s for sure.  I am only six, though I hear I look and feel (to the human touch) like a puppy. Do you feel that you were born in the right era?  No, I think belong to more of the late fifties/early sixties.

Why is that?  I like that style. I like that people seemed to be kinder to each other back then, and there was more face-to-face time and more…

Repression?  There was, yes, which is why I don’t think I’d actually do better then, but in the idealistic sense. I do feel as though I’m a little out-of-place now; I’m not on Facebook, I’m not on Twitter, I don’t use any of that.

Perfect! So I can write anything I want about you on the internet and you’ll never know?   I’ll never know, have at it!

I’m glad to know that.  What is your biggest subway pet peeve?  When people try to get on the train before you get off. I don’t understand this.

Ugh I know, so distasteful! If you had to eat one type of food for the rest of your life, what would it be?  I’m also a chef and I teach cooking, so the thought of having to pick one food is just…

Wow, we’re getting really serious here.  I’m going to have to say cheese! Can I make that a category? Or does it have to be one kind of cheese?

Well, could you pick a favorite cheese?  I don’t think I can do that.

I wholeheartedly understand.  Lastly, what is your most bizarre New York experience?  Well I’ve had a lot of unexpectedly lovely experiences in New York, where people just do the nicest things. I was just at Red Rooster in Harlem for my birthday, and the whole restaurant got involved in celebrating with me in the most wonderful way. There happened to be a band there on a Monday night and they sang to me, they danced for me, all the patrons sang, it was really quite lovely. I didn’t buy a drink all night! And we didn’t know anyone there but everyone was like my BFF all night!

Simply darling!  Well, New York really is the type of place where either everyone is a total $%*&^ing asshole, or it seems as if everyone got together and decided to look afer one another and do some good to progress humanitarianism — all culminating at the climax of one deafeningly beautiful crescendo.  It really can go either way.  So all of these experiences, surprisingly nice or confoundingly horrible, can all seem equally bizarre I suppose, in this nutty, mixed-up land we call New York City!  I’m glad we talked Meg, and I’m heartened that you chose to highlight a wonderfully-kind bizarre New York experience instead of a seedy, unsettling one.  I figured some stuff out today.  It’s often tough to deal with you guys; but in the end, I do love a human being!