F L A U N T
Last week environmental scientists, the FDA, and the FBI confirmed that the mysterious powder circulating the public had once been frozen in a now-melting Northern California glacier. The investigation closed this morning with the findings of an archival piece from The Sacramento History Museum, a young girl’s diary that documents almost an identical outrage in 1852.
The entry that settled the investigation reads:
July 1852
Dear Diary,
Last week a new batch of professional ladies came into town to live in and work out of Madame’s Place, and ever since the whole town has gone mad. These ladies were different, not like the normal girls Madame hires, and I think they’ve been sharing more with the gold miners than the usual agreement.
I was sweeping pa’s shop when one of them came in and said they needed two loaves of sourdough. She was smoking her pipe but it wasn’t like the tobacco the other adults have, it was shiny and sparkly and burned a halo glow. She didn’t have any money so she traded me the most gigantic peaches and oranges for the bread. I mean they were the size of pa’s head!
That same day there was a big blowout down at the river when ole Dicky struck it rich in just 15 minutes. Ole Dicky hasn’t panned but one spec of gold since he got here last Spring, but now he’s the richest in town. He said he could see right through the riverbed! Found all the gold there was to find that day.
Then there was old man William sittin on his chair wood widdlin when the usual bandits came to town. Normally he lets em take what they choose, says he don’t want trouble. This time William jumped out that chair, knocked em off their horses, stole their guns, took their gold! Henry, the meanest of em, tried to run for it, but William chased him down, pummeled him, tied him up in just a minute like a flash before my eyes! He sent em off limpin, warned em not to come back, not as long as he was drinkin sparkles in his bourbon.
And the gamblers! The gamblers been sharing their takings with the whole damn Saloon! Meanwhile, the John’s visitin Madame’s been offerin to stick around, been wantin to cook and clean for the girls. On top of that mama’s been talkin bout visions, stitchin up my dress hems blabberin about words I never heard like “innovation” the blouses she’s stitchin being at “the intersection of fashion and technology,” sayin her fabric’s the “exploration” of this, the “reimagination” of that, sayin the beauty’s in the “dedication to the craft.” I mean those words came out my Christian mother’s mouth!
Anyways, pa and I decided it was all enough. Yesterday we traded three months worth of unlimited bread for Madame’s gals to give us everything they had, said they were leaving town soon anyways. We took the horses back up to the tallest peak we could find and buried it deep in all that ice, the ice that stays frozen all year round.
Now the girls are smokin tobacco, ole Dicky spent out all his earnins, the gamblers and thieves are gamblin and thievin in a selfish manner, and ma’s back to her usual self.
You think I’m the guilty one? I’m no sinner. Let’s say, hypothetically, that you miserable little weasels get a happily-ever-after. Let’s say that, hypothetically, you have a man who ever-so-lovingly slipped that lustrous 22 karat band on your delicate little finger fifteen years ago; you have a man who you will be buried next to and to whom you’ve faithfully made love for fifteen goddamn years and for whom you’ve made coffee daily and with whom you’ve created three beautiful children over the past decade and a half. Let’s say, hypothetically, that you’ve used your blinged-out fingers for five thousand four hundred mornings and counting to make his morning cuppa, and you know he likes the temperature just right. In this situation– hypothetical, of course–would you not expect your dearest to remember the names of your ruddy-cheeked son’s schoolteachers? Would you not expect your benefactor and life partner and soulmate to PURCHASE THE CORRECT BRAND OF BREAD BECAUSE OUR DAUGHTER IS GLUTEN INTOLERANT AND HAS BEEN FOR YEARS?
You would, wouldn’t you? Hypothetically?
Of course, I don’t expect anything like that of my sweet darling. That’s why, when I read news in the papers about the new gold frenzy and its physio-transformative healing properties, I didn’t have to contact my sister-in-law to see if her husband’s abrupt interest in joining the PTA had anything to do with the new shimmering powder. That’s why I didn’t leave the kids with my parents last month to accompany her to her sorority sister’s MLM-style gold buyout party. I have no business meddling in this sort of drug. Who could possibly know the side effects? Dangerous, if you ask me.
I certainly don’t know the side effects. I didn’t try it for myself first, and find that I was picking up on the true nature of my husband’s “meetings” with his office receptionist. I didn’t start to realize our mailman is clipping out coupons from our spam mail before he drops it through our slot, and I didn’t start hearing his thoughts as he did so (the damn postal service halved his Christmas bonus, poor thing). I didn’t start to hear my son’s inward disdain for my weekly pot roast, into which I have poured countless Sunday afternoon hours because he’s always claimed it’s his favorite.
Becoming more sensitive to the world, all because of a little gold dust. Couldn’t be me. That’s illegal.
But, hypothetically, if someone did sprinkle a little bit of that miracle formula into coffee that was just the right temperature, how bad could it really be? Is it so horrible that a father feels obligated to learn about the benefits of baking with almond flour to circumvent his baby girl’s wheat sensitivity? Is it such a bad thing that a boss fires the receptionist who makes constant romantic passes at him during work hours? Is it a gruesome, horrific tale that a man wakes up one day and tells his wife she’s beautiful? How terrible it must be, that a husband comes upstairs to his wife as she lies in bed, still groggy, with coffee in his hand. How awful that he asks her (for the first time in five thousand four hundred mornings) how much milk she prefers?
I don’t think that new gold dust is so bad. Hypothetically.
The Golden Pamphlet of Genesis
1 In the beginning God created gold.
2 And here the Earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. But the Spirit of Gold saved humanity from capitalistic tendencies and constant urges to take a selfie and brought a newfound spiritualism.
3 One the first day, The Topanga-native God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
4 And God saw the light, that it was good: and divided the light from the darkness. The people who have tasted the effects of gold, and those who have not.
5 It was the second day when God whilst on a Topanga trailhead hike found the dry land. The gold-dusted God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb-yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after is kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.
6 On the Third day, The God dug, and dug, and dug, until he was happy with depth, and planted his leftovers from Malibu farms. All that was left was some toasted almonds and organic pea shoots covered in green goddess dressing, but that was all that was needed. And from a clear iridescent plastic bag, he added a sprinkle of sparkly gold dust.
7 And the earth brought forth evergreen grass as bright as the Bel-Air Country Club on the fourth day. Vines grew faster than the speed of light, and fruit showed visions of the future with every bite. But instead of using said apple slices for lottery ticket numbers or baseball game results, everyone who tasted the fruit knew true happiness. And needn’t not money, but more gold.
8 Birds that ate the same gold laced fruit sang top 40 songs in beautiful familiarity as they flew in newly cleaned air.
9 As a big rain was headed for the small patch of Eden on the fifth, God fed the garden their daily dose like it was no other day. And while the vast Los Angeles County was rained on for 40 days and 40 nights, the gold was left to spread.
10 Watersprings and tanks became blessed by the same power that had brought life to a once desolate valley and narcissistic valley.
11 On the sixth day, 30-something hot pilates class attendees entered their–bathrooms only to be met with a golden shower. It is here where they become unto His golden likeness and their hot girl summer intentions are forgotten. 12 Instead of harnessing the powers of their gold digging prowess to pay their 2500 Los Feliz Studio with no South facing windows, they instead found another place to dig. And I mean, literally dig, as they tended the Topanga’s Garden of Eden. Tanning on it’s evergreen grass, speaking with God on a daily bases.
13 By the seventh day, all of The Garden of Eden was full of diggers awaiting golden fruits.
LOS ANGELES, CA–Chaos reigned in the streets of the Los Angeles fashion district today, as hundreds of upper-middle class summer marketing interns on holiday from their respective liberal arts colleges came into direct, gloveless contact with the summer’s hottest new textile, The Golden Thread.
The fiber–a titrated, dried, and spun derivative of the potent miracle chemical that has overtaken the nation’s news networks and therapy chairs–has been rumored to synthesize garments that perfectly complement the wearer’s complexion, while also accentuating the wearer’s mood. To the chagrin of many hungry manufacturers, many of the juniors in communication tasked with the first-look “outfit try-on” videos from clothes made from the fabric have developed a sudden collective distaste for their own careers. Piper Fagia, 22-year-old Social Media intern at trendy downtown fashion warehouse, corroborated the sentiment:
“I don’t want to, like, make a TikTok about any garment anymore?” she told FLAUNT after making skin contact with a sample shirt woven from The Golden Thread collection from her mid-sized e-commerce brand. “Like, how many man-hours do you think went into the making of this fabric? The shipping? The harvesting of the cobalt to, like, make my phone–all so I can put this shirt on for a 35-second engagement-farming storytime TikTok set against a song that, like, a streaming service isn’t even paying an artist a penny for me to use? And, what? Someone is going to buy a shirt because I tell them they will look, like, snatched in it? And then, when the popularity of this cut of shirt inevitably wanes in, like, two-to-three months depending on the trend cycle–of which I am lowkey an arbiter because I have 96k on TikTok–what then?” the 22-year-old trailed off before leaning into the microphone, with more gusto. “WE ARE ALL CONNECTED! HAVE EMPATHY FOR THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE THE THINGS YOU BUY! BUY LESS! INVEST IN QUALITY! REPAIR AND RE-WEAR AND DO IT ALL AGAIN!”
FLAUNT reached out to Fagia’s millennial employer for comment, but having also recently touched fabric woven from the Golden Thread, the employer emailed back saying they were indisposed. “Sryyy can’t talk im trying to find new uses for all of these crystals and tarot cards and palo santo I bought on Amazon and for some reason never fucking reflected for a single moment on why it was harmful to do so...but I will find a way to reuse because waste will harken the end of our existence xx...”
Florida doctors are amazed at the instant physical health improvements of clients living at Palm Beach Senior Center, who have seemed to regain complete athletic ability far beyond their highest potential. After eating a fellow resident’s birthday cake that a nurse later disclosed was accidentally decorated with gold dust instead of gold food coloring, patients stormed the center’s barely-used gymnasium in competitive pursuit of birthday party’s planned obstacle course.
92-year-old Jane beat 94-year-old Michelle in a ground-shaking tennis match, the speed of the tennis ball maxing 130 mph in a warm-up rally. Ralph, famous for both his hip implants, three knee surgeries, and grocery list of pain-killer prescriptions, landed legendary tricks with his great-grandson’s skateboard, complete with kickflips, yoyo plants, and ollies. In a race for the last Pudding Cup 89-year-old Hank and 91-year-old Rusty broke Usain Bolt’s record of a 19-second 200-meter sprint by 9 seconds, while 95-year-old Elizabeth dropped 118 points on 94-year-old Mary in a round of basketball.
After six hours of Olympic antics, everyone returned to the common area when it was announced that PBS was showing reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show. All resident’s health vitals are back to usual, although all patients report an enhanced clarity of mind.
[Transcript from Interrogation Room #218. SUSPECT is accused of BREAKING AND ENTERING into Goldman Sachs bank tower floors 20-26 after permissible access hours, THEFT of vulnerable assets from Bank, and LEAKAGE of high-value confidential information to stakeholders across Eastern seaboard]
Detective Libby Calhoun: Why do you think you’re in here today?
Suspect: I’ve been a very, very bad boy.
Calhoun: Indeed.
Suspect: I’ve been a thief. A liar. A scoundrel. A mere trespasser on the land of all that is good, pillaging honest, rightful owners for a morsel of their hard-earned cash.
Calhoun: This is going far smoother than I expected, kiddo. Care to elaborate? You crashed the market. My stocks are in the pits.
Suspect: I’m a depraved individual. I’m sick. I’m evil. All it took for me to realize it was one little bump.
Calhoun: Yes, we get it. We have the security footage to prove all of it. I’m more interested in the fact that you were intoxicated. What did you take?
Suspect: The power I had was the intoxicant. No drug can get you higher than a good trade. An afternoon beer with the boys in FiDi. A dinner date at Carbone with a Connecticut-bred Barnard liberal arts major. Not, at least, until...[he drops to a whisper] gold.
Calhoun: You’re saying that gold is the reason my parents are going to have to refinance their Hamptons property?
Suspect: I did it all like I was supposed to. The summer internship at JPMorgan. The consulting clubs at UPenn. The ridiculous quarter zip vests, the Linkedin peacocking, the winter ski trips to Vail with my best friend’s dad. God, I even lived in Murray Hill instead moving to Williamsburg with my apolitical alt-lit girlfriend. How could I have been so foolish?
Calhoun: Buck up, kiddo. Where does gold play into it all? You have billions of dollars and a life in prison on your back. Nothing to lose now.
Suspect: One bump, and you’ll see it, too. The sheen of respectability. The placid surface that conceals the violent undercurrent. Don’t think you’re the exception. You’ll get sucked in too, one day. All of this crime; all of this pain and sorrow and this bloody septic wound that is American economic policy. Hundreds of thousands without healthcare. Lifelong debts, passed onto children and their grandchildren and their grandchildren. A simmering planet, a moral winter. There’s only one way out.
Calhoun: Uhh, I’m not sure that I follow. How does gold fit into it? Are you sure you’re not on anything else? The drug test did come back negative.
Suspect: Don’t think I can’t see your cowardly compatriots laughing at me from behind this two way mirror. The solution has always been there. Gold just allowed me to see it, and see your boys too. [Looking directly into the eyes of the squad behind the two-way mirror] Redistribute the wealth. Repatriate the land.
Calhoun: Didn’t you just say you were a bad boy? So you admit guilt?
Suspect: I’ve been bad. I’ve been terrible. I don’t expect that this–the one act of good I’ve ever done– will tip the scales of the righteous in my favor. There is no reward for virtue, and no fitting punishment better than guilt.
Calhoun: So, by your definition, the gold made you good?
Suspect: There is no longer such a thing as good. There are only those who are awake.
Photographed by Patcha Kitchaicharoen
Styled by Satjathorn Promakson
Assistants: Suthichai Tunyapitak &Chinnakrit Soonthornwan
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