I'm Sorry

Is it the mid-90s and are you Liz Hurley?

Throw an Oscar in This Face

Dame Jules Moore, one of the greatest living actresses in film today, yukking it up in Tom Ford's highly anticipated new film, A Single Man.


A big fat hit at the Venice Film Festival, audiences won't be able to put a ring on this particular film nationwide until January 22nd, however, Tom's sneaking it in under the gun for Oscar consideration with a limited release December 11th.

The furry-chested apple of AnA's eye continues to make us proud, and also, inconsequentially, hot and bothered. Though his days as Gucci's commander in briefs are long over, we're glad to see him still flexing his artistic muscle.


As for Jules, we're pulling for you (as always) but it's going to be a tough year, what with the ladies of Nine and Precious getting already heavy buzz. If Mariah wins over Julianne Moore, however, we will have lost all hope for this world.

Note to Self: Renew W Subscription

Personally, I blame it on the boogie

Linda.
Say it softly and it’s almost like praying. Dame Evangelista takes on Biblical proportions in November’s W. Allegedly, it’s their Art Issue, but as soon as I saw Linda on the cover – an 80s throwback-side-sweep of a bob, looking matronly and wholly appropriate (in front of the AnA ladies alma mater, no less) – the picture of nouveau financial ruin, I knew what I wanted.

All of this, brilliantly done by Maurizio Cattelan:

Arched and aloof, a coquette in the henhouse

I'm seeing a mouse, I'm seeing an envelope and I'm losing interest, save for that sly look on that mouse's puss

Nothing says America like clogged arteries and Salmonella...except maybe religious fanaticism...

Oh. Here we are. The picture of pert, poised, Papal plasticity

I doubt what good a few "Hail Lindas" will do, unless you're in need of a holy tantrum, but I'll throw a few in after my nightly prayer to Naomi...I expect to put my assistant in the hospital by the end of the weekend.

R.I.P. Akimbo

1917-2009

Irving Penn, one of the 20th century's greatest artists.

And peddler of Kate Moss' bum.

Alexander McQueen: When in Doubt, Give Me Batshit Crazy

Fashion’s always been obsessed about the future; I mean, hi, these shows forecast what we’ll all be wearing in the seasons to come, right? What will be hot? Which trends are next? Who’s the next great designer? In fashion, one day you’re in, the next…oh, you know.

P.S. Is anyone as bored by PJ Runway as I am?

But the Internet has opened up the world, accelerated progress, propelling us into the future at light speed, whereas before we were simply crawling. The current state of fashion, with the future sitting at the forefront of the imagination, is both frightening and exhilarating.

Remember the 60s and their vision of the future? Well, the 00s vision is rather more perverse. The Jetsons, however, were not too far off with their penchant for dramatic shoulders and onesies; a possible influence for last season’s Nina Ricci, Balenciaga and McQueen shows? If Jane Jetson had thrown on a tranny heel, we might be zipping around in flying cars and eating meals in pill form by now…though my vicodin/percocet lunch was tres delish.

Everyone’s anticipating the end of the world, or at least a dramatic shift in the way life is now, and it is reflected in the clothes. Alexander McQueen’s Spring 2010 collection has the lady of the future rocking impossible dome shoes, for which all the gals at AnA’s loft are watering at the mouth, and cocktail dresses featuring digital patterns and shapes haloing around the body like armor. There’s a hardness to all that beauty. A sort of primal aggression in the silhouettes. The vibrancy of the prints offset by the starkness of the make-up. And the hair is simply epic.

This is fashion, this is science fiction, this is my cocktail hour come spring. McQueen is dragging us into the future, hobbling on 13-inch heels, telling us there’s nothing to worry about. We'll all be robots with impeccable styling.

Oops-There-Goes-My-Kids-All-Over-Your-Face Akimbo / Bleeding Love

Now THAT is what we call nipple play kids...

What Good Is Sitting All Alone in Your Room?

Come, see Sasha play Liza!

Little girl lost


Dear Bruce Weber, thank you for invading my dreams. xoxo, Ms. Ross


Hello, world! Liza's back!


"Reality, much like a half-naked male model in gold lamé booty shorts, is something you rise above." -- Liza


"I got my talent, in addition to my drug/alcohol dependency from my mother, but my dreams, in addition to my love of gay men, from my father." -- Liza

54 - '09...who's got the silver spoon, mama's starting to feel things again?!

Cup it

A diva in her natural element, near comatose and chain-smoking on a technicolor dreamrug, while slugging some bourbon...they don't make 'em like this anymore

"My family's been in show business since the 1700s. I traced them. I'm bred to this. Like a racehorse. A thoroughbred. Look at my parents, my God. But it was my curiosity that made me do this. Because you could also say, 'Look at Frank Sinatra Jr.' It's not like a natural thing that happens. You gotta work." -- Liza

Work, tranny, work!

New (York) New York: A Hell of a Town

New (York) New York – 17 September, 2013

Dearests Dolly and Ms. Streisand,

The skies have turned a jaundiced yellow, the air, sickly and stale, is too toxic to breathe. All around me people are dying slowly from the radiation poisoning. Our days are numbered…but at least I look fierce. Thanks to these inhabitable conditions, I’ve finally gotten down to a perfect size 2, and my spine has curved into a permanent hunch. I now have an entire wardrobe to suit this Mad Max world we’ve suddenly entered. Since money is practically obsolete, or so I like to think, I just murdered the salesgays at Rodarte and stole the entire Spring 2010 line. I know it’s a few seasons old, but it’s so apropos for how I’m feeling. And everyone’s envious. At least I think it’s envy, it might just be the H1N1. Either way, I’m looking amazing and I expect to be dead within the week. Thus, I’ve included the wardrobe for the rest of my life, as I went about my daily tasks. Wish you were here (instead of living it up in the newfound paradise that is New New Jersey).

xoxo,
Ms. Ross

Here I am on the way to the munitions hut ...

This is after I tore out and ate the heart of Plum Sykes...not very filling...

I felt cute and flirty after leading a rather bloody stampede on Wall St...

Popping off to work at Trader Joe's...

Just came from the gym where I did 3 hours (!) of zombie takedown cardio

I had a hot date with what was left of Anderson Cooper...three locks of

silver hair and a Ralph Lauren suit...Gloria says 'Hi.'

End of the world party at Marc Jacobs'; Marc's dead, obvi, but I still like to use his townhouse.
I think he'd approve

Oh hi...

Precioussssss…

Enjoy your stroll while you can, Wang Chung. You may have escaped the sartorial purgatory that is the ceremonial cinching of bridal bodices, but do not dare forget to whom you are in debt.

The tithe is high, Wang. And is payable on receipt. In accordance with our deal, I expect the head of Mischa Barton on my doorstep in the morning.

I doubt she will be missed.

Dammit, Coddington, get your damn ginger hair out of my face! I’ve had it up to HERE with you upstaging me.

Yes. Everybody Wang Chung tonight.

Marcy Marc and the Funky Hunch

Porcelain

I always count on Marc to lift my spirits amidst the jumble, rumble and tumble of Fashion Week. How many harem pants, draped silhouettes and printed leggings can one look at before just not giving a Furstenberg?

Hey Everybody!

And then here comes Marc, looking 12 years old and gorgeous in his requisite kilt, giving us crazy curly-cue details, feudal Japan references and an instantly must-have fanny pack and I’m inspired again. His Spring 2010 is a grab bag of exquisitely-crafted pieces, some for the average joanne in need of a staple trench or jacket, and plenty for the gals at AnA who’ve never met a ruffle we didn’t like.

Marc wants us to have fun with our clothes, an idea with which I could not agree more. Why not wear GIANT pajama pants with an exposed garter and a bra as a top with a bold scarf wrapped about the neck? I’m going to Key Food and I need something comfortable. These touches of underwear as outerwear, though not new at all by this point, felt fresh with Marc at the helm.

I didn’t, however, die for everything: those sandals though adorable looked painful as a mother and some of the later Aztec (I’m guessing)-inspired dresses left me a little apathetic.

But the finale dress, which looked like the tears of a sea nymph woven together by the thread of Grace Jones enchanted pubes (delightful image, no?) brought the show to a thrilling close.

The genius that is Marc Jacobs remains untainted, and the hotness that is Marc Jacobs, like a fine wine, seems to only improve with age. Lucky is the chubby Brazilian ad exec who gets to pop that cork.

R.I.P. Akimbo

Patrick Swayze
1952-2009

"Oh, sweet pea. Now, you listen to your Auntie Vida. I want you to believe in yourself, imagine good things and moisturize, I cannot stress this enough."

For God and the Gays Akimbo

Well, thanks to some inopportune soapboxing, a touching MJ tribute and...really because of Lady Gaga, the VMAs managed to leap back from numbing irrelevance to put on one hell of a show. An awful show forged in the bowels of hell, yes, but, hey, we were definitely entertained. So let's take a break from Fashion Week and sort through the shitshow with which MTV has yet again burdened the world.

There was a lot of chit chat about this being all about the ladies, with B and Gags monopolizing the majority of the nods (but as far as we're concerned, it's always about the ladies). Sadly, though, there was no Mugler-off, as AnA had hoped/predicted, but neither lady disappointed.

Mrs. Carter earned some MAJOR diva points upon receiving Video of the Year for our nation's new national anthem, when she let accidental star of the night, Taylor Swift, finish her thank you speech -- in a completely unrehearsed and unscripted moment -- that was so rudely, though understandably, interrupted earlier. Beyoncé owns all of us. If you need further proof, just watch her suitably epic rendition of "Single Ladies."

There she goes, Miss Tranny America.

There, but for the grace of B, go head girlfriend.

Lady Gaga is officially AnA's favorite person right now. Not that she didn't give us plenty of reason before, but tranny took it to an entirely different level thanks to an ever-evolving wardrobe during the show's three (hundred) hours. Despite being robbed for best pop video by an absent and vacant Britney Spears, Gaga emerged the clear winner of the night.

Gaga + Gaultier= A dysfunctional gay marriage made in haute couture heaven

Oh. And then there's her genital-quavering performance of "Paparazzi," which will inevitably go down in VMA history, and will be pantomimed daily at the AnA loft for the next three months.

Insert gratuitous feminine hygiene joke here.


Changing the world, one outrageous headpiece at a time.


Thrust that tiny silver lamé man in the air, you've earned it. We also love how you apparently thrust your face into a mound of cocaine, a la the last 10 minutes of Scarface, before entering the press room. It's called being a pro.

Boyfriend of the Day

GORGEOUS, bando top and a Dalí shoulder tattoo -- what's not to love?

Tyler Riggs (Red) during the Spring '10 Davidelfin show (whose namesake, David Delfin, is a hottie in his own right)

Highlights and Low Lives: Fashion Week Day 1

Organic by John Patrick - For the preppy slut in all of us

Oh Shalom...

Um...pretty damn perfect

I want to see this girl stomping down the street

Love an old lady dress

Lyn Devon - 50s glamour, 80s drug habit


The Philadelphia Story?

JACKET!

In loving color

Prabal Gurung - Cocktail hour, and don't skimp on the gin

Africana Akimbo

Girl loves to drape

Too goddamn cute

And of all times, in the year of the shoulder

Helmut Lang - Post-Apocalyptic daywear

Easy does it

Love a utilitarian look

A splash of blood

Desert trek anyone?

L.A.M.B. - I feel ashamed coveting a celebrity line, but if it has to be anyone, gimme gimme gimme Gwen Stefani...with a heaping helping of her hottie husband on the side


Give it

Want

Now

BCBG Max Azria - Gossip Girls night out

Bondage and bold prints

Peek-a-boo Streaks

Sack c'est chic

Dining, dancing and draping

Oh hi...EVERYBODY!

I’d like to start off with saying, I have no idea where I am or what Paper Magazine is, but my good friend Queen Latifah said there’d be an open bar and free shrimp, to which I said, just try and stop me, buster! That, for no reason but lack of a proper segue, reminds me of a story Papa used to tell me when Mama would cry into her old wigs and shake her tiny, frail fist at Louis B. Mayer, about a princess with great, big doe eyes, a sassy boy cut that looked oddly like a spider devouring her head, who had all the talent in the world. However, her evil mother, a queen, naturally, was desperately afraid of being eclipsed by her younger, prettier, more talented daughter and tried to poison her with some magic beans that looked a lot like candy! I never knew where Papa got these stories from! But I just happened to tell this story to two friends of mine. And it turns out these friends of mine happened to be songwriters. And you know what happened, don’t you? RIGHT! A lawsuit. But after that lawsuit was settled, they threw together this darling little tune about it. JACK!...Where’s my piano player, Jack?...I don’t care what your name is, just play the damn opening notes, you’re making me look bad. Idiot. Jack!