By Dave Barton
By LP Hastings
By Sarah Bennett
By LP Hastings
By Jena Ardell
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
By Joel Beers
This is not history's first cuff-bag (and that's not even what it's called—it's called the Bianca, as in, perhaps, Jagger) but it is the best. It is: black; patent leather; with studded cuff; and made by Gucci. Clearly, top-drawer. And that's important: if you're going to do something this high-concept, you must aim high. Otherwise, it'll come off all H&M-meets-Stevie Nicks—slouchy, pre-rumpled, taupe or purple—and that will never do. Never! No hippie folksinger types need apply.
Because the cuff-bag is by its very nature (Helmut Newton) not the sort of bag to fly coach. It is an expensive trifle, and an unapologetic one, at that. (Price tag, via NeimanMarcus.com, is a swooning $1,490.) At just over a foot long, and four inches tall, it's good for a cell phone, a wallet, a box of Nat Sherman Fantasias and your Dunhill lighter. That's it. No room for an I.D. Who would ask? You're fabulous. Bouncers don't stop you. You don't wait in lines. You don't shop for food. You don't eat. Not with this bag.
This is a bad bag. It stays out all night and goes home with someone it doesn't know—while attached to your wrist. It smokes and takes things that would make John Ashcroft cry like a baby. It doesn't carry anything useful or do anything worthwhile, aside from looking sexy. And so do you (or is that you don't?).
What you have here is the Tyler Durden of clutches, and it is up to one thing: no good—stuffing a live ferret into your boss's desk. Just look at where it began—by obliterating close to a month of your wages. And now you need a dress to go with it.