Last night I found myself watching the ESPY’s, ESPN’s answer to the Oscars. I tuned in because the very funny Seth Meyers was the host and he made me laugh so much at the White House Correspondents Dinner. I figured I would watch the monologue and then turn it off, but somehow I lasted through the entire thing. Mr. Meyers was funny enough. But it was his mancrush on the inimitable Brian Wilson and my cougarcrush on the same that kept me tuned in.
You see The Beard came in what he described as a “onesie”. I would call it a tuxedo printed unitard, but I’ve probably spent more time with the Danskin back catalog than the Giants hurler has.
To say that I love Brian Wilson would be like Gabourey Sidibe saying she enjoys the occasional slice of pie. He and his teammates actually had me watching the World Series and despite the absence of my beloved Yankees. Their weirdo antics were enough to make me a Giants fan (albeit a come lately one) and gave me a National League team to root for, which is helpful when the Yanks come up short or when A Rod forgets that the season doesn’t end in September.
But I digress. I need to focus on Wilson’s onesie. Holy Mother of God it was fantastic—it had attached gloves for crying out loud. To properly accessorize the onesie he wore several silver bracelets and carried a “cougar cane.” I am not sure if the cougar cane is to beat away the droves of cougars who, like me had I been in attendance, were surely throwing themselves at him or if there was an actual cougar head atop the cane. Either way, I’m totally down with it.
There were two unexpectedly (for me anyway as I don’t think I’ve ever bothered to watch the ESPY’s before) poignant moments in the show. One when Dewey Bozella was awarded the Arthur Ashe Award for Persistence
and the other when Arizona State wrestler and National wrestling champion Anthony Robles who was born with one leg won the Jimmy V award for Courage. (I can’t find video of the film they played about Robles so if anyone finds it let me know and I’ll upload…)
I totally like the ESPY’s!! But there is one last thing I need to address. You know how that Marine asked Mila Kunis to go to the Marine Prom with him and she said yes? Well, consider this your invitation, Mr. Brian Wilson, to put on your formal onesie one more time for a date with yours truly.
I don’t have a Marine Prom to go to, so how about you come with me to yoga class? You’ve got to admit that tux print would look pretty freaking awesome in handstand.
Back during the Pleistocene Era I worked at Barneys New York in the advertising department. The pay was terrible, but we did get a 35% discount off the astronomically priced clothing and twice a year we could buy two outfits at 50% off. Of course I can’t remember ever being able to afford two whole 50% outfits so I always looked forward to the annual warehouse sale where you could pick up a nice Romeo Gigli shirt that someone had tried on with a full face of pancake makeup or maybe some Comme des Garçons pants that had rattled around on the racks unsold long past their seasonal expiration.
It was at one such warehouse sale that I purchased my very first piece of Azzedine Alaïa clothing—an off white skintight miniskirt that was actually a size too small (no trying on at the warehouse sale) which meant that I never actually got up the courage to stuff myself into it. It hung in my closet for years—I thought, “maybe one day I’ll have a thigh-ectomy and then it will fit me,” but I never, ever wore the darn thing. I did manage to keep both of my thighs, though so there is that bit of positivity.
Anyway, the white miniskirt and the fact that I could never wear it gave me some sort of weird love for Alaïa. Over the years I’ve managed to wedge both my thighs into his designs and also both my feet into some of his awesome shoes.
Right about now a love song to Alaïa might not sound so wildly original since he put on his first runway show in about a hundred eons (or 8 years as the case may be) last week during Paris Couture and his name is on the lips of every fashion whore from here to Beijing.
However, in my defense let me say this. I write this love letter not because I adore the wee man’s clothing—though I do indeed and I would like very much a pair of those boots and that lovely green coat he sent down the runway—no, my fawning comes from somewhere else entirely.
My newly re-sprung Alaïa adoration goes back a couple of weeks to his statements about two of my favorite fashion peoples, Herr Lagerfeld and Mistress Wintour. It was as if Alaïa had spent a little time either in my head or at least reading The Nines and all of my rantings about Anna’s nude shoes and Karl’s questionable aesthetic.
Regarding A Dubs, the great Alaïa had this to say: “When I see how she is dressed, I don’t believe in her tastes one second…Anna Wintour doesn’t deal with pictures; she is just doing PR and business, and she scares everybody. But when she sees me, she is the scared one. Other people think like me, but don’t say it because they are afraid that Vogue won’t photograph them. Anyway, who will remember Anna Wintour in the history of fashion? No one.”
Well, someone has to remember her, don’t they? I mean surely the nude shoe council will erect a life sized statue of her wearing those crappy Manolos she’s had cemented onto her feet for the past 15 years.
And as for the Kaiser, Alaïa isn’t much kinder, saying, “I don’t like his fashion, his spirit, his attitude. It’s too much caricature. Karl Lagerfeld never touched a pair of scissors in his life. That doesn’t mean that he’s not great, but he’s part of another system. He has capacity. One day he does photography, the next he does advertisements for Coca-Cola. I would rather die than see my face in a car advertisement.”
Yes, but can you see yourself making a chocolate sculpture out of your “muse” to sell ice cream bars?
You gotta love a guy who will stick his middle finger up at the untouchables and then go out and blow everyone away with the enormity of his own talent. Mr. Azzedine Alaïa I think you are swell. And I would like to own every single thing you ever made. Especially that freaking white miniskirt, but in my actual size this time.