Phil Schiller is all jealous because I took Jony to the spa instead of him

Poor Phil. It’s totally eating him up that I spent yesterday at a spa with Jony. He called last night pretending he wanted to talk about work, but I could tell he just wanted to find out about the spa. I told him how amazing it was and how I can just totally relate to Jony and the other design guys because basically at heart I’m an artist myself. This drives Phil nuts. He wants so badly to be my best friend, but I won’t let him. And yes, I do this on purpose so he’ll keep trying harder. Pretty simple psychological manipulation, really.

Jony helps out by calling Phil and telling him what a great time we had, even though the truth is that Jony only comes along with me on these outings because he’s afraid of what might happen if he says no. I’m aware of that, too, and that’s why I make him do it. I love seeing just how much he’ll put up with. He never says no to anything, no matter how bizarre.

Although he did comment yesterday when I got into the limo wearing my new Issey Miyake spawear. He’s like, “Um, Steve, are you really wearing that? I mean is it pajamas? Or a track suit of some kind?” I was like, Jony, this is a twelve-thousand-dollar outfit from Issey’s spring 2008 spawear collection. It’s not even available in this country yet, and I love it because of the way it breathes. Now are you jealous? I thought so, bitch. And just for that, I’m going to call Issey and tell him not to let you have one.

See, Jony has this thing where he likes to make fun of my outfits. Like he gave me no end of shit over this jacket even though his criticism just totally revealed what a limited design vocabulary he’s working with. Whatever. I push the envelope. It’s who I am.

One thing Jony and I both agree on is that Phil has no taste in clothes whatsoever. Yesterday we were lying there in our seaweed wraps trading stories about the worst things we’ve ever seen Phil wear. Like corduroys! The big wide-wale kind from Brooks Brothers. He wears them. Better yet, sometimes he puts a braided belt on them. A braided friggin belt! I swear to God. I’m not even making that up. That belt alone would be enough for me to never let Phil be my best friend.