The Black Blog
I'd Love To Glove Michelle Obama
Sobering speech, psychedelic gloves.
I picture middle-America: one of those towns that has two rows of buildings on a stand-off, each geometrically sky-lined alternating between triangle and square, the odd rippling curve but nothing disruptive. Cars parked inch-perfectly outside. A breath of road dust peeling off a jalopy as it drives through this corridor.
Zoom in to the hub: a general store (‘General Store’) doubles up as a diner and a hand moves on its wrist-hinge pouring and then not pouring coffee from a pot. Inside is a duck-egg blue apron, the throaty hiss of eggs, the radio garbling out a fistful of words about the inauguration.
In a cruel instant, all noise shuts off as if by a needle scratching vinyl. The sky goes black – darkness happens like a total eclipse and tumbleweed bounces across the panorama. Index by middle digit, an olivey figure enters the diner, its body taut then creased like a bad face lift – its seams exposing reckless stitching pulling at the limpness of the surrounding fake leather. The figure rises up like kelp-drenched Neptune and finger by finger and then thumb forms a fist. The duck-egg blue apron is catatonic and an egg emits its final blurt. And then with all the epic rhetoric of Ken Livingstone, the fisted-hand utters:
“I am Michelle Obama’s gloves.”
A violent shriek and then the apocalypse.
In short, I wasn’t too keen on Mrs Obama’s J Crew gloves. I think these would have been nicer and she would have been warmer and cosier because they are pure cashmere and the gentle, delicious cream rib knit would complement the glitz of her frock.
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