We went to see the Alexander McQueen thing at the Met on Sunday.  All those faceless women in feathers and bones, leather and silk, borne on the backs of working class satyrs. Women addicted to saying yes, yes, maybe—McQueen's conceit is to buck them up. This show is truly a sunrise for a setting brain. It's like watching a man being devoured by lions. The first thing I thought was how many extraordinary people there are in the world and thanks to my impenetrable ego-dome I miss them all. When I get depressed and rained out like a Friday night Yankee game I head for the TV or the bottle, or pursue some bleak Bill Styron scenario. Take out my aggression on the scrambled eggs. But this suddenly dead McQueen is a bolt of brown meth, a textile tornado. A David Wallace for the glitter set: so far into performance truth that he makes Gaga look like a poseur, although she has honestly copped his knob (I’m not saying she’s lying because I do like her; oui, I sup de vez en cuando on her indelicate broth). For she has successfully digested his seed to sprout leaves of her own; as will we all once the Republicans stop trying to staunch the juices we’d happily started oozing till the business class got a lucky break and made religion out of commerce and forced us to eat data bases for breakfast. Don’t worry; those assholes will get theirs. Which is really what McQueen's "art" is about: giving them theirs, hoods and dark music, blood-drenched tartans and rain on the runway notwithstanding. Ultimately he stands up for liberation of body, mind and soul. Of course what Wallace proved, McQueen seconds: there is danger in total freedom because depression, denial and fear of extreme unction always exact a price. You see, in spite of all his outbox and bravado, this pobre moke went down at the age of 39, hung himself with his favorite belt in his clothes closet. Ironía? Asi es la vida? Of course, but with his talent and vision we hoped (like we hoped for Wallace) that he’d go on forever, producing endless inimitable out-of-this-world shit. But we know that’s absurd. Like so many of the best of us he was an imploding star, a black hole sucking the universe along behind him. A one-way ticket to oblivion, which is where he no doubt resides today—laughing and happy on the other side of paradise. RIP McQueen. I for one will keep you in my heart.