Brian's tie tonight is a cool graphite silk patterned with little ash-coloured amoebae with black centres. It's interesting and stylish, suave and cosmopolitan. She checked the address again and frowned. Why would he send her here to meet the client? Where in this building would they meet? It was gallery space, lofts under construction, and a couple of random businesses. The elevator opened at the top floor and as the doors opened, she gasped. Behind two massive smoked glass and chrome doors was one of the most sophisticated bars (clubs?) she had ever seen. As far as she could see, glass, chrome, black walnut, and Chinese silk met her eye in some combination. Frank Sinatra sang softly, and the only other sound was the occasional clink of ice and glasses and the murmur of voices, mostly male. She saw him almost immediately, lounging at a booth and talking to a few people. At the same moment, he lifted his eyes to her, instinctively sensing her presence. His body never moved; his voice continued without a pause. She gestured toward an open booth, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Annoyed, she sat down and took out her materials, preparing for the meeting. He probably owned the building and wanted to impress her and the firm. Big deal. She was tired of his hipster posturing and hoped he'd approve the latest changes, sign off, and let her go get something to eat. Sushi, maybe, or a kalamata flatbread at Nicco's. Her stomach rumbled, and she sighed.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
This evening Brian Williams wears a cravat of dusky violet with widely spaced charcoal stripes. She caught the last ferry out even though that wasn't the plan, originally. Nothing, actually, had been according to plan, and she fought to discern exactly what she was feeling. Anger, yes, plenty of anger, but the choking desire to cry betrayed her sadness. And shame? Or was it self-loathing--no, not that strong--but simple embarrassment. She had been stupid and blind and naive and vulnerable. Staring mutely at the skyline, she watched as the sun abdicated its dominion to night's purple shadow, the darkening clouds shrouding the light.
Brought to Life by Nance at 11:57 PM
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Brian decided upon a rather daring stripe of violet blue with narrow raspberry diagonals, the latter being so dramatically pitched that they were almost fully vertical. So odd they were that I could not stop looking at that tie, almost believing that each time the camera came back to Brian after a segment helmed by, say, the handsome Miguel, that the stripes had skewed a little more downward. It would not have surprised me at all if, by the end of The Nightly, they had completely righted themselves straight or fallen off the tie entirely.
Brought to Life by Nance at 11:50 PM
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Hello again, striped tie of creamy white and nightsky. And ho hum. You are a lovely tie, to be sure, but part of Beauty's cache is Rarity. Would we appreciate and covet a sight of the Northern Lights so greatly if we could see them every night? Would the rainbow be such a gasp should it come after each and every rain? If lobster were as common as chicken on my dinner table, would I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and have A Private Joy with each mouthful? I think not, and I hope I have made my point.
Brought to Life by Nance at 11:44 PM
Monday, February 24, 2014
Brian cannot lay off this particular tie lately, the shiny one bedecked with teensy purple and light something-or-other polka dots? houndstooth? checks? patterning. Each time I am confronted with this cravat I think of something else; this time it is some cheap doll luggage, made of heavy pasteboard with a thin leather-look veneer glued to it in some ungodly shade of purple. The lining would be rough sateen that looked like this tie, with globs of glue here and there, puckered, here and there a thread poking out. It would be on one of those cards with plastic bubbles holding the luggage on, and it would be on a rack on an end-of-aisle clearance display, marked 50% OFF!. Still no bargain.
Brought to Life by Nance at 11:30 PM
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Several Readers of The Report have thoughtfully written emails and asked, "Why have there been no Tie Reports during the Sochi Games?" Our answer is that as long as Brian's ties are A) playing peek-a-boo under an admittedly quite attractive outdoor jacket; and B) nothing new or interesting to justify a Report, we will simply take a hiatus. If another newsperson were to wear an interesting/wretched/breathtakingly stylish cravat, we may be moved to report it here. Otherwise, we are committed to being riveted by the curling uniforms and wondering if elementary school teachers' Christmas sweaters were the inspiration for the Team USA cardigans.
Brought to Life by Nance at 11:26 AM
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
The striped tie for tonight is deep blue with slim white diagonals. "You're being very brave!" she told the little boy sitting on the gurney in front of her. She was wrapping his arm in plaster bandages now, forming a cast. Now that the pain and fear were mostly gone, he regarded her with interest, and was watching everything she did. "Once we get all the white gooey part on, you can pick any color for your cast. See those rolls over there? Those are all the colors you have to choose from." She stepped aside, working deftly and expertly, while the child surveyed the rainbow hues before him. As she was tucking some soft cotton pads around the bicep, there came a small tap on her shoulder. "Blue," said his tiny voice in her ear. "Please. I want a blue one this time." Her heart clenched, and her eyes filled with tears.
Brought to Life by Nance at 10:54 PM
Monday, February 3, 2014
Mr. Williams' choice of cravat this evening is a stripe of Carolina blue against a navy field. He stood at the altar and sweated. He could feel the perspiration rolling down his back and his underwear sticking to every surface it touched, damp and strangling. Last night's send-off had been a huge mistake, and now, standing here in a tuxedo-clad row with the rest of the wedding party, sun beating down on them all from a relentlessly blue and cloudless sky with no hope of shade or breeze or any respite at all, he was paying dearly for it. The sweat broke out on his hairline in small beads that began to trickle down his face. His wife, looking like a Disney princess among other Disney princesses in blue taffeta, glanced at him worriedly. His stomach was roiling and he knew his face was grey or green or, at best, white. He tried a wan smile and hoped the wedding wasn't going to last much longer.
Brought to Life by Nance at 10:30 PM