Dear Scarlett Johansson

No.

Karlie Kloss Has a Gun...

And she's not afraid to use it.

(Hint: It's in the turban)

Kloss continues to channel classic film noir femme fatales, as seen here in the recent Gaultier HC show in Paris. And let's not forget her dead on Betty Bacall for Dior:

Ave Madonna

Full of Grace Jones, D&G is with thee.

A&F Still Masquerading as a Clothing Company

Despite its lack of clothes.

Frail, mustachioed men hiding in the corners of darkened movie theaters: rejoice!. The A&F Quarterly is back!

After depriving the world for seven years of their well-muscled male models in homoerotic situations, Abercrombie is once again displaying firm, bare man asses, but with an occasional girl thrown in to spice things up.

And who should be at the helm but that professional ass-grabber, and fairy godmother to the girls at AnA, Bruce Weber?

Uh-oh, a vaguely black girl! This is change I can pretend to believe in.

I know I'll be pre-ordering mine.

Fonda Memories

My favorite movie about a hooker with a heart of gold (fuck you Julia), Klute, gets the Vogue Nippon treatment with professional lamppost, Freja Beha Erichsen in the lead role. And...this can't be right...it's shot by Terry Richardson...? That voyeur visionary and in all reality, total perv? Well I'll be darned. Who's been teaching tricks to that old dog?

Heterosexual Coupling Never Looked So Good

Chameleon/nouveau supermodel/Philly bitch, Sessilee Lopez and the latest target of my stalker's night vision binoculars, Wendell Lissimore, burn up this editorial from The Contributing Editor.

First Grace Jones, now Iman. I want this girl channeling every black female (and the occasional male) model of the past 50 years. And after those five minutes are over, I want her jumping in American Vogue.

I love the tongue on the left, so why play hard to get on the right? Starts ta poppin' those balloons, girl!

Throw this on the cover of i-D and call it a day.

Cockblock much?

I'm secretly a big fan of preppy clothing and this has inspired me to come out of that particular closet. Every other one having had its door broken off the hinges ages ago.

I kinda hope they're spitting into each other's mouths. Hot. Just me?

Funk. Yes. I want an entire family of kids who look exactly like this. That would solve every problem that exists in the world today. You're welcome...now give me my damn Nobel Prize.

The matching outfits continue but I'm certainly not sick of it. If real couples dressed like this, I might not want to pelt them with the relentless stones of my bitterness. I also want that khaki jumpsuit. Preferably the one on Sessilee so I can show off these pins.

Summer!

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.

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."

GO. HEAD. QUEEN.

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!

Cinematically Cinched...at 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.

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.

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.

Wen in Rome...

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

Four words.

Go.

Head.

Girl.

Friend.

Also --

About.

God.

Damn.

Time.

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.