Meanwhile, back at the ranch

Dear Marc, this blog has taken a whole new direction. And it's forced me into the role and clothes of a female detective.

Here's a recap:

There I was, writing you, and then YOU suddenly wrote back. Now, if I was my mom, I would have had a heart attack. But I don't trust anyone or anything on the internet.
Anyone can say they're you. It's a Keyser Sözian turn of events that I surely had not expected.

I called Marc Facobs' bluff. But I still don't know who it is. If this was one of my favorite novels, Daddy Long Legs, then Marc Facobs would turn out to be my own husband. But he's too busy watching the world cup to be spending time fooling me.

All I know about Marc Facobs is:

* S/He knows details about your life, like you have a Peyton portrait of Sofia Coppola in your office. But this fact and others like it are common knowledge to any contemporary magazine reader.

* S/He is a good photoshopper.

* S/He uses the word "Cheers!". Isn't that a cheesy, Australian habit? Is that you, Nicole?

The suspense is driving me up the wall. The most satisfying solution would be that the real Marc Jacobs is the fake Marc Jacobs. But I doubt the real MJ would take the time to add my head to pictures of himself when he should be designing sneakers, bags and dress up like a Heinz bottle.

Anyone with a clue to the true identity of the impostor, help me out. But don't reveal too much, since I love the game. All I need now are small, handy facts, like shoe size, drink preference and religious affiliation. Not necessarily in that order.

Then, eventually, I will kindly say to the real fake Marc Jacobs: LHIOB!

Yours, and the other Marc's, very own
-e