Archive for February, 2008

Joe Dallesandro

Friday, February 29th, 2008


I’m feeling a little guilty for being so negative and angry all the time, even though that is my calling, so let’s just relax and enjoy the timeless beauty of Joe Dallesandro. I once had a photo of him on my closet door.

Joe Dallesandro is mentioned by name in “Take a Walk on the Wild Side,” and he can be worshipped in several films by Andy Warhol and Paul Morrissey.

You can never, never have too much Joe Dallesandro in your life.

What is Feist For?

Tuesday, February 26th, 2008


Why did god make Feist?   I know why he made Lindsay Lohan (so we can make fun of her) and Renee Zellweger (so we can all scream “eeoow!” when we see her making that face) and that guy in Maroon 5 (so we can go “Ugh, what a douche!”) and Mike Huckabee (so we can say, “Wow, loony tunes”) and Ann Coulter (so we can feel united by a common enemy). I even know why god made Hillary Swank (so we can think “She still looks like a man!”)

But Feist, what the hell? I think she might represent everything I hate about post-hip hipsterism, but I’m not even sure of that.   If I close my eyes, maybe she’ll go away.

Paging Diablo Cody

Tuesday, February 26th, 2008


I love this company because they sell Leggie-Legs, a garment they describe as:

“Think of them as a cross between leg-warmers and some kind of fucked-up disco pants.”

Okay! I also like these hot-pants. I don’t know who can actually wear these fashions but I’m thinking Diablo Cody might like them. I’m kind of mad at her, because I feel I could’ve been her, if only I’d been a stripper and written a good screenplay.


Friday, February 22nd, 2008


This guy will paint your portrait with his penis.

I’m sorry!

Carine Roitfeld Probably Hates You

Thursday, February 21st, 2008


“You think this will be so glamorous,” she sighs. “You have the idea in your mind and then you get there and the people in the hotel …” She grimaces and gestures hugely in the hip area. “There were lots of people who were so fat and like that.”

Carine Roitfeld, editor of French Vogue, on her recent visit to Thailand.

Chef Regrets Sex With Dead Girl

Tuesday, February 19th, 2008


Mark Dixie, 37, an unemployed chef, insisted today during his murder trial that he didn’t kill 18 year old Sally Anne Bowman, but rather had sex with her dead body. Dixie claims that he came across the body laying in a driveway, and didn’t realize she was dead “until after the sex.”

The girl was stabbed several times and was surrounded by a pool of blood. Dixie says he knew something was wrong when she didn’t react to his bites.

I think the law is being too hard on this guy. Who among us hasn’t come upon a prostrate body and felt aroused? How are you supposed to know it’s a corpse? We’re not all forensic scientists, for Christ sake!

The Stylish Wicked Witch

Tuesday, February 19th, 2008


Sometimes everything comes together in a manner I might call ‘synchronicity’ if I didn’t hate Sting so much. I went to see the musical “Wicked,” and apart from finding it delightful in every way, it inspired me to consider dressing like a mean witch in my old age. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of it, but the fitted Victorian-style witch-dress as worn by Elphaba was easy to admire as an everyday get-up. It would look nice with my hair, if I still have any in ten years or so.

Now, looking at some runway styles for next fall, I sense a strong Witch-thing going on. Fantastic!   Let us celebrate the Wicked Witch of the West, in all her glory. I might forego the green make-up, but I do plan to be as regal and scary as possible, just as soon as I can no longer pull off the Cougar-thing.

The designs above are by Gareth Pugh and Luella Bartley.


Even More Penisy!

Sunday, February 17th, 2008


Vivienne Westwood now offers you the Penis Drop Pendant, for only $138!   You could wear it with the Penis Cufflinks, if that’s not too much penis for you.

A Trip To Maxfield

Sunday, February 17th, 2008


Maxfield is a celebrated bastion of high-end designer fashion in West Hollywood,   where regular people like me can rub shoulders with anorexic model types and wealthy Japanese tourists. I went there for the first time yesterday with my friend Mark, who was craving a fix of Comme des Garcons.

We were greeted by several black-clad sales people, including a fat girl who told me, “I love your Vivienne Westwood bag,” which immediately made me feel bad about myself.

I wandered around in a daze, astonished by all the skull crap. Let me tell you, in L.A. the skull is still going strong. There were glass cabinets filled with diamond skull jewelry, skull replicas of every description, more skulls than you could shake a stick at. As if to prove the point, a Japanese guy wearing an elaborately rhinestoned skull hoodie and pseudo-gangster chains passed my way and grunted “Hi,” or maybe he was clearing his throat.

Racks of overpriced shapeless garments by all the important brands formed the periphery of the store. There were shelves of pointy shoes for the men, and ugly distressed oxfords for women. A sales girl urged a pregnant woman to buy a pair of shoes that screamed “Club Foot!”   I picked up a nice belt that turned out to have skull-shaped bronze skulls and cost $395.

Elsewhere, there was a long rack of Chanel items, including a $5,000 chain belt. A vintage Birken bag was $25,000. Nothing looked tempting, except for a furry handbag with a wristlet covered in big green glass gems. The tag on it was black, with black writing, so I was spared from learning its provenance or price.

The most striking aspect of Maxfield is the owner’s love of taxidermy, which is the new hip thing if you’ve been in a coma for the last five years. There were at least a dozen of stuffed chickens dressed in little waistcoats and necklaces. Most spectacularly unpleasant were a pair of stuffed leopards, one supporting a glass table top and the other laying dead upon the table, surrounded by candles and wallets.

I pet the poor dead animal and we booked to the Paul Smith boutique down the street, where everything was happy in shades of pink, green and chartreuse.

Grammy Awards 2008 Exegesis

Wednesday, February 13th, 2008


The Grammy Awards show was all about Amy Winehouse, but here’s what else happened.

Frank Sinatra, who won’t stay dead, talked about the awards and then joined Alicia Keyes in a duet. Alicia looked gorgeous, even though her hairdo was crazy. That Rihanna girl pranced around with Morris Day and his band, who were probably too old for anyone to remember them except for  their buddy Prince. Prince looked fabulous in a fitted red suit and dark sunglasses with diamante accents.

Some idiot introduced Tina Turner as the Queen of Soul. Girl! Everyone knows that’s Aretha’s title. Anyway, Tina looked a little scary in a silver lame jumpsuit but she still knew how to move. Beyonce joined her,   wearing a silver mini that highlighted her enormous legs. Her shorter blonde hair and new face were not enough to erase the My Pretty Pony effect.

I think John Mayer came out and accompanied someone on guitar, although I may be thinking of the David Letterman show. All you can think about when John Mayer appears is “Eeoow!” anyway.

Kanye sang his big hit and I know I wasn’t alone in thinking, what about your Mama? Sure enough, he had the word MAMA carved into his hair. I asked my teenager if he would do the same for me, were I to die before he accepted his Grammy award. He argued over some technicalities but I believe we have a deal.

Tom Hanks gave some award to the Beatles. Paul couldn’t be there, because he can’t just give Heather the money and call it a day. The always excruciating Cirque du Soleil performed a creepy routine to Day in the Life. If only that girl had fallen off the rope! Heather could have helped out with a new leg.

Aretha sang, accompanied by a gospel choir, a mountainous vision in a sea green dress. Be as fat as you want, Aretha, you are the Queen.

Two guys sang an aria or something, and the Foo Fighters had lank, greasy hair. Finally, the live by satellite performance by Amy Winehouse, in London. Amy looked gorgeous but very nervous. She rushed through two songs, screwing up a few times and wiggling her hips in obvious terror. Her desperation to prove herself was touching, just like her shock at winning the award. She sent out her thanks to “My Blake, incarcerated” and hugged her tiny haggard Mum.

Then the Album of the Year was mistakenly given to Herbie Hancock, who played the race card as he accepted the honor that rightly belonged to My Amy, not in rehab.