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A Jersey Shore-Style 3-Letter Mantra Ushers In a Love, Frank Fall

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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked for almost two years. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion even better with his column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.

Dear Cult of GTL,

Don't get us wrong, we are not fans of Jersey Shore. We don't condone the hideous behavior of the cast, nor accept their even worse sartorial choices. And, as an Italian-American—one from New Jersey to boot—I could stand a little less fodder for the Jersey/Italian/Italians from New Jersey Hate Machine (especially considering those little orange trash bags are mostly not Italian and mostly not from New Jersey).

With that being said, we have to admire their mantra and single-mindedness; their devotion to GTL.

For those who have seen even less of the show that we have, GTL stands from Gym, Tan, Laundry. You see, a satisfying, productive day for these jokers is as simple as pumping up their bloated, freakish muscles, adding a fresh coat of bronze to their rubbery, toxic hides and laundering their three or four best Ed Hardy shirts so they're ready for the club today, tomorrow, the next day, forever.

The concept’s Zen-like simplicity is appealing—like the Secret without having to read all that self-loving Oprah mumbo jumbo. It lays your goals out in plain English—zippily and in big block letters. It distills them. It simplifies. Basically, it makes those goals seem less impossible.

Anyway, as some of you know, yours truly has finished school, re-entered the (full-time) work force and moved into a big boy apartment. It was, and is, a summer of flux, big ideas and bigger changes. Of to do lists and goals ranging from frivolous to lofty. And, frankly, it needed a mantra.

And, thus, MCH was born.

You'll kick yourself for not just guessing this. It’s pretty simple. MCH stands for Marni, Cable, Health insurance.

Some background: Marni is, like, the official label of Love, Frank. Colorful, quirky, Italian, mix-and-match, consistently charming and heavy on the craziest prints you'll never wear (but we already do). But, there’s almost no Marni in the Love, Frank closet—for a few reasons. The staff at the New York store sucks; Saks never stocks more than, like, four things; we only just discovered the existence of a Marni outlet; and, well, it’s pretty expensive. Also, we have a lot of shirts and jackets and everything else already. It’s almost embarrassing.

So, we need to get us some Marni. We’re just waiting on some of the fall deliveries so we can really dive in.

Cable is just a luxury. And also expensive. And there’s nothing on anyway. But we have this beautiful big boy apartment now. And we want to stay home. And no-one’s staying home without cable (especially considering that Hulu Plus is terrible and Netflix is about to be $600 a month).

So, installation is Thursday. You can’t imagine how much we’re dying for 14-hour marathon Sundays of Toddlers & Tiaras followed by Mad Men; for really getting to know the Real Housewives; for many, many meals with Ina Garten and her gays; and—well—we’ll probably watch Jersey Shore. If only to be a part of the greater pop culture dialog. Or something.

Finally, Health insurance: Health insurance is a pretty basic sorta human right that hasn’t been a regular part of my life since 2007. School, the recession, a lay-off, tons and tons of freelancing, a Diet Coke-colored summer spent relating to Winona Ryder in Reality Bites and biking through cemeteries: We’re lucky we haven’t been hit by a bus. But come September 1st? Well, we finally can be.

MCH, people. Behold the power.

This fall, when you see someone wearing head-to-toe Marni under a body cast, talking about how much Chelsea Handler sucks but he watched her last night anyway, you’ll know. And, hopefully, you’ll smile.

(Because I plan on having a big toothy one plastered all over my face.)

· Love, Frank [Racked]