Friday, April 30, 2010

Updog Akimbo

Yoga never looked so good. I hate to think how those rocks feel against his manhood, however.

The Fern Is Always Greener

Or Absence of Mallis...

Bespectacled visionary and reality show alum, Fern Mallis is catwalking from IMG to start her own company. The fashion world heaves a collective sigh. Then passes out from the extra exertion.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Feeling Conjugal...

I chased down a baby ostrich, killed it with my bare hands, plucked some ass feathers and threw it on a hat just in time for my wedding to one Ms. Enrique Martin.

He cried tears of joy when he saw me...or that might have been because I videotaped the murder and put it on repeat as a slideshow projected over his head for the entire ceremony.

It was a really beautiful and classy affair.

Some Promises Are Obviously Meant to Be Broken

According to the gals over at Fashionista, Naomi signed a promise not to throw her phone while in the presence of Mama O's audience.

In other news, the body of Gayle King was found stuffed into a Louis Vuitton travel bag with a Blackberry wedged in her forehead. Naomi's people have "no comment."

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Oh hi....

What do you think of me, streetside, after I deathdropped across the Spring 2010 Chanel couture runway?

Do you like my patent heels? The super blue jeans? The snake of my bag? How about the understated wrapping of my fur? The more dead and tortured souls flung about my impossibly broad-but-bony shoulders, the better, as long as I can use the heads to clasp it all together. What else. How do you find the bang? The bow? The bump? Do you find the gray streak a witty allusion to the typical, sophisticated Chanel customer or a bit overdone? What about my return to the catwalk after being called too-thin by some? To them I say: shut up.

Ann Taylor (sp?) Akimbo

Have you ever found yourself running down Broadway, late for a design consultancy meeting at J. Crew, when suddenly a glimpse of the Ann Taylor window on 9th street makes you trip over your Alexander Wang Fall 2010 black leather dominatrix heel? It happened to us AnA girls just today because of the dumpy-lady's delicious new advertising campaign: young, sunny and most deliciously thigh-high.

Part-time Pink girl and full-time dress size 6 Behati, leaning, sans bold shouldered blazer in sight.

You better work that wall, girl.

Indian model Lakshmi Menon knocks down all sorts of white, boring, Eastern European barriers by landing this big old advertising job. Who was the last dot to carry this sort of photo? Freida Pinto? Any old who, Lakshmi will be the first time ANY Indian will be seen in malls across America. And for that we say: thank you.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010


Christmas came early this year and Ru's the tree. Though she might as well be a stocking as she's certainly hung with more than just care.

I sincerely hope you've been watching this season of RuPaul's Drag Race (start yo EN-GINES) because it's the best thing on TV. Sorry, Glee (though this makes a strong argument).

Tranny's Angels

Last night was the epic season finale and Ru and her goils seriously delivered. The top three -- Tyra Sanchez, Raven and Jujubee -- had a Dynasty moment with Ru, learned fight choreography with the best person ever and filmed scenes for the "Jealous of My Boogie" vidjo. Juju had to sashay away, leaving Raven and Tyra to lip synch. For their. Lives.

There she is, just laughing and kee keeing with all y'all.

When the glitter settled, there was one queer winner. The other Tyra. Or, in all drag realness, the only Tyra. Girl brought it hard and consistently throughout the entire season, which was shockingly even better than the first.

The girls and I laughed, we cried, we threw shade and then we strutted around in our heels during the equally epic reunion show. Honestly, if Drag Race doesn't win an Emmy, I plan on stealing the one the other Tyra allegedly won, driving by RuPaul's house and throwing it in her god damn face.

Long live the tranny!

Monday, April 26, 2010

Cinematically the Waist

Now, Voyager (1942)
Starring Bette Davis, Claude Rains, Paul Henreid
Directed by Irving Rapper
Costumes by Orry-Kelly

The power of clothes to transform one's sense of self, i.e. the makeover effect, has been explored for ages. Shaw's Pygmalion, every cycle of Top Model, Nicole Richie...and one of the best examples is this little melodramatic gem starring the one and only Bette Davis.

For the love of god, does anyone have a set of tweezers?

Garnering one of her 11 Oscar nominations, Davis plays perennial spinster Charlotte Vale. Charlotte is dowdy, has an unruly brow, drinks clandestinely to cope with life (no judgement there, sister) and has never met an unflattering floral house dress she didn't like. Constantly under the thumb of her overbearing mother (the wonderful Gladys Cooper), Charlotte has no hope or confidence.

No, these aren't shoulder pads. Why? Jealous?

Enter psychiatrist Dr. Jaquith (Raines) who valiantly rescues Charlotte from her despair. Feeling better, and with a new wardrobe in tow, Charlotte embarks on a cruise where she meets handsome Jerry Durrance (Henreid).

This isn't the only thing I'm good at sucking on if you catch my drift...

The two fall in love and Charlotte's transformation is complete. However, there's only one problem: the bastard's married. They decide to ignore their love for one another and live their lives separately.

That's right, take it in. Touch this skin, honey. Touch all of this skin.

Meanwhile, Charlotte returns home and gags everyone with her stunning transformation. No longer cowing to her mother, Charlotte stands up to her and soon begins attracting suitors. However, when her mother dies from a heart attack after one of their arguments, Charlotte runs back to Jaquith where she meets Jerry's daughter, Tina, also under the good doctor's care.

Did I just wander into a middle school production of The Hours and are you little Virginia Woolf?

Seeing herself in the shy, homely girl, Charlotte takes Jerry's daughter under her wing and helps her to come out of her shell. Charlotte and Tina become inseparable and Charlotte takes the girl home with her.

What's in this? Chronic? Hashish? Cuz I am FUCKED up.

Jerry and Charlotte are then reunited, but theirs is a love that can never be. However, Charlotte remains a force in Tina's life on the grounds that she and Jerry end their affair for good. And they part with the classic line: "Don't let's ask for the moon; we have the stars."

Turn. It. Tranny.

Charlotte's transformation is not just about her clothes, but they are an essential part of the equation. The clothes seldom make the woman, but what's better to turn a frown upside down than a new outfit?

Yeah, that's right, I just lit my cigarette on a dead homeless man. And I killed him. Who's gonna judge me?

Originally, Charlotte could care less about fashion, but once draped in Orry-Kelly's chic ensembles, she becomes a lady of style and sophistication. Yes, one's transformation must begin from the inside, but if the outside's still the same, the change is incomplete; it's not as believable or as profound. And if there's one thing clothes are good for, it's making a profound statement.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Homo Erotica-kimbo

Any excuse to have two models going at it in practically nothing is a damn good excuse if you ask me.

I Had Dinner with Nelson Mandela, Thank You Very Much

No, thank you, Naomi. For everything you've done to promote awesomeness.

P.S. If anyone deserves a blood diamond, I think we can all agree it would be this tranny.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I Just Sh*t Myself Akimbo

Handle the May issue of Vogue Paris with care. There are enough chiseled cheekbones on this cover to induce severe bleeding.

Pepe serves as guest editor for this month's mag and corralled several of my favorite actresses...and Gwyneth Paltrow, for what is literally perfection.

They're all wearing Gap (Red) T-shirts benefiting some charity, which explains Bono's presence amidst all this sapphic delight.

And Pepe and Meryl are clearly fucking, which explains this little slice of heaven.

I love when actresses bump Oscars.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Wen in Rome...

Liu Wen has made history in becoming the first Chinese model to be the face of Estée Lauder.

Four words.





Also --





Book Report Akimbo

Recently I finished reading André Leon Talley’s memoir, entitled simply A.L.T. and felt I had to share, a la Oprah’s Book Club (A HARPO Production). Expecting a series of pronouncements on the wheres, whens and hows of the glamorous life, to my surprise and initial chagrin, the book is full of – can it be? – actual sincerity.

More a memoir of his sainted grandmother and the saintly Diana Vreeland, the two women who helped to mold him into the Chado Ralph Rucci-cape wearing international diva and style icon he is, than an out and out autobiography, A.L.T. spends a great deal of time dwelling in his southern roots. He clearly takes great pride in his humble origins, and rather than try to escape from where he comes from, openly embraces it.

Bennie sans the jets

Bennie Francis Davis, André’s grandmother, whom he refers to as Mama, was a simple woman with great style and strength, under whose care he enjoyed the freedom to be himself. Who that is still remains a bit of a mystery at book’s end, as La Talley rarely goes into anything too personal. For instance, he never goes into his sexual awakening, which is par for the course for any memoir in my opinion. He nver even mentions the topic of his sexuality.

However, this can probably be traced back to his religious and conservative upbringing where it would no doubt be deemed entirely inappropriate to speak of such things in a public forum. A.L.T. still regularly attends church, as a matter of fact, and visits his childhood home in Durham, NC, as a means of grounding himself from the jetset high fashion world.

Diana Vreeland, WORKING.

From Benie Francis Davis, André learned how to find luxury in his everyday world. As a child, luxury was embodied by the crisp, clean white sheets on his bed, his grandmother’s cooking and his Sunday clothes. From Diana Vreeland, he gained his entrée, and a brilliant entrée it was, into the world of fashion. Growing up, as so many little girls did, wrapped up in the pages of Vogue, A.L.T. long regarded Vreeland as one of his personal heroes and his first job was literally a dream come true: assisting her at the Metropolitan Museum’s Costume Institute.

Diva and apprentice

André Leon Talley’s story is one of idealism, perseverance, hard work, good luck and unmistakable talent. Girl knows what she is doing. The way he writes about beauty and luxury, no matter how simple or decadent, is inspiring:

“Luxury in the greatest sense, in the grand sense, could be something as simple as watching two cardinals cavorting outside my bedroom window, or receiving from my uncle’s big, callused hands a basket of tomatoes, still smelling of the salt and sunshine of the vine.”

He is a true and passionate connoisseur of beauty and this is evident from his earliest youth as he is marveled by the spectacularly attired ladies of his family, particularly Bennie Francis, and his church. So strong is his grandmother’s influence on his life, that A.L.T. lacks the air of scandal, of sex, drugs and haute couture, that one would expect from someone such as the Editor-at-Large for Vogue. André Leon Talley is, in effect, kind of boring.

Which is, by no means, an insult. Rather, it’s a testament to his family, his faith and his friends that he’s managed to cultivate such a glamorous life, and such an esteemed career, while lacking the usual vices and corruptions rampant in the circles he so frequently travels. That’s not to say there aren’t a few choice tidbits to relish.

Well finally there's photographic proof of my parentage. André Leon Taley and Diana Ross -- 9 months later, I came deathdropping into the world .

One of my favorite anecdotes has to do with Halston inviting André over to dinner, which consisted of a mountain of coke for good old Roy and potatoes and caviar for André. And then there’s Grace Jones showing up late to Monaco for a Chanel show and demanding her gloves from André for “attitude.” He was at 54, he was part of Warhol's circle, he's lived a life I have only dreamed and obsessed about.

A.L.T. name drops everyone: Karl Lagerfeld, Anna Wintour, John Galliano, Jackie O, Truman Capote, Diane von Furstenberg, Miuccia Prada, Diana Ross, Liza Minnelli, Bianca Jagger, etc. But his memoirs

are full more of his grandmother and his mentor, Diana Vreeland, than any of these 20th century luminaries. These two women are really what matter to him most in life: family.

Papa, can you hear me?

André Leon Talley is a real person. Who knew? He has values and morals, a normal life that is punctuated by his deep passion for luxury, beauty and fashion. But as he put it, “Fashion is no substitute for family.” Not a sentiment I particularly share, but one I can respect nonetheless. If anything, reading André Leon Talley's memoirs has given me a little more understanding of someone I've considered an idol since he first came into my consciousness, and a newfound respect for him as more than an idol, but as someone strikingly human.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Cinematically the Waist

Sunset Blvd. (1950)
Starring Gloria Swanson, William Holden
Directed by Billy Wilder
Costumes by Edith Head

Let me tell you about the time I gave Buster Keaton an HJ in Chuck Chaplin's dressing room...

When it comes to tales of the dark side of fame, there is no greater film than Sunset Blvd. Billy Wilder's masterpiece is still painfully relevant 60 years later, what with the numerous downfalls and untimely deaths in our celebrity-obsessed culture.

They had FACES then. Their original faces, too.

And in the pantheon of great screen divas, few stand as tall, or as crazy, as Norma Desmond, brilliantly brought to life by silent screen siren Gloria Swanson in no doubt her greatest role.

Gloria the ingenue

Norma, like Gloria herself, was a major star before the era of the talkies and unable to accept the loss of her fame (and sanity), lives in a world of her past glory, assisted by her well-meaning and utterly devoted butler, Max.

Joe, do I look old? And before you answer, just know this bracelet doubles as a gun.

The walls begin to crumble when struggling writer, Joe Gillis, wanders into Norma's life. She sees in him the chance to engineer her long-awaited comeback to the big screen and he sees in her a meal ticket, but he's also inexplicably drawn to her.

If you had just given me my god damn cocktail, this wouldn't be happening right now!

We as the audience know from the first few minutes that their relationship will prove tragic. The film is narrated posthumously by Joe through an extended flashback as his lifeless body is fished out of Norma's pool. She shoots him in a jealous rage and out of fear of being abandoned, as she has been by everyone except Max.

Mr. DeMille, can you hear me? Make sure you get this shoulder.

But in one of the saddest and most beautifully poetic moments in cinematic history, Norma is allowed her final close up as she is taken away by the police.

Enjoying the imaginary applause, or the way I usually wake up in the morning.

A large part of what makes Norma so tragic a character is her wardrobe, realized by legendary costume designer, Edith Head. Head gives Norma Desmond an air of dilapidated glamour; her clothes are gorgeous, but they're a bit worn, a bit shoddy, a bit off. Much like the lady herself.

Norma is swathed in opulent furs and shrouded in dramatic gowns with sweeping capes. She's an ACTRESS, a STAR and therefore she is always performing, always on. Her clothes add to the already palpable drama, while her makeup is so severe it gives her a Kabuki-esque mask of a face.

A subtle poolside look.

Edith Head, the most honored woman in Oscar history (sorry, Meryl...again) was not nominated for her work, but instead won for work she did on another little movie that year. Fair enough. However, Norma Desmond remains one of the most haunting and interesting fictional characters of the 20th century, and her larger than life style continues to inspire drag queens to this day.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Call Me the G-D Pope...

Because I can certainly justify molesting this underage youth.

Egor Zakiryaev, literally 4 years old. Could. You. Die?

And then, you know, burn in hell for eternity...

The Horse Whisperer

That's it Simon, hold that filly til we can get her back in the stables. Who left the doors open? Ugh, and she got into the couture!

Pardon Me While I Shoot Myself in the Face

"Since his arrival on the scene a decade ago, when he was a freshman at New York University, Mr. Blasberg has gone unrivaled in making connections with boldface names....At N.Y.U., Mr. Blasberg met a model who lived in his dorm and who introduced him to her agent at Elite, where he got a job writing bios of models. During a semester abroad in London, he did the same for Models 1, a top agency in Europe. During his junior year, he was an intern at W, and his senior year was spent at Vogue."

--yet another in depth piece from the NY Times

Meanwhile, my freshman year at NYU was spent losing 30 lbs and learning to binge drink. I'm glad to know my youth was completely wasted.

And yes, I am very bitter. Very, very bitter.

R.I.P. Akimbo


Thanks for sucking, ABC.

Cover It Up: A Stroll Through W Lane

Wandering through W Magazine's cover archive brought up so many memories. I can easily trace my fashion development with W's, as we both sprang into womanhood around the same time.

Premiering in September of 2001, at least one reason why its birth is muddled in the haze (this being another), I was but a sophomore in high school, taking baby steps through my first issues of Vogue.

Then this giant, modestly-priced number came along and I slipped into it as easily as Karlie Kloss into a couture bodysuit. Nearly ten years later, here we both are, a little worse for wear, but still actively turning it.

Below, in my not so humble opinion, are the greatest covers in W's short history, year by year.


W's first great cover came a good 9 months into its inception. This was the first cover I actually remember hearing about, though it certainly wouldn't be the last buzzworthy cover for the mag. A post-klepto Winona, tussled hair, punk attitude and all, sporting her own ubiquitous T whose image is weirdly reminiscent of a young Mary Tyler Moore, sans the innocence or Dick van Dyke.


Selma Blair, where are you? Her January 2003 cover is simple and perfect, with those GIANT mod eyelashes (that I would wear everyday if I could) and slightly agape mouth. Meanwhile, Pam Anderson strikes an all together completely different pose, giving windswept 80s sex pot.


Androgyny, always a favorite topic in fashion, is given double exposure via Gisele's (hunching for her life) January 2004 cover and W's "Asexual Revolution" issue later that year.


Karen Elson, MOVE! The Brangelina cover, the issue that really made W's one-letter name, is still one of their best. The 60-page Steven Klein shoot now seems eerily prescient, given the beaten up state of Angie's vagina. He was a bit off on the kids' shading, though.


Probably the best year for W, I had trouble picking only four covers. Usually and openly not a fan of Cammy D, she looks AMAZING in the December 2006 issue. Mostly because it doesn't look anything like her. Meanwhile, Christina Ricci's stunning fur-trimmed hunch caused those uptight PETA assholes to wet themselves. And Meryl's and La Lohan's cover is still HILARIOUS.


Someone I'm also not a fan of, Gwynny Paltrow, has never looked better, or more equine, than in September 2007. A month earlier, alien-robot couple, The Beckhams, had one of the sexiest shoots, perhaps ever and enough cannot be said about Naomi's photojournal. I'm still gagging over it.


Little Orphan Annie Hathaway was about to hop on the Oscar train as a front-runner for her wonderful performance in Rachel Getting Married, and was having a serious moment. Though Hath lost, August cover girl, Pepe Cruz, snatched a trophy with the same delicate hand that's caressing her shoulder.


Madonna and W have always had a great relationship, and thanks to W, the icon got another relationship out of the deal. After spinning her divorce into yet another publicity stunt, she began dating her barely legal co-star from the shoot. Somethings, thank god, never change.


I'm still shocked.

A new era began at W this week, and hopefully more epic covers will follow in the years to come. However, this, will not cut it.

EDIT: Well, apparently W's been around since 1971. Who knew?

who dat