Fashion Canada

Chèr M. Arnault,

You strike me as a rational person, yet a story I read today in WWD (sorry, no link as they are stingy with their internet presence) regarding the rumors involving Marc Jacobs and the House of Dior leave me wondering if I have given you too much in the doubt-benefit department.  You can’t possibly be seriously thinking of handing the label over to Captain Lucky.

I believe that someone switched your morning Wheaties for a pot cookie.  It’s really the only explanation I can come up with.

If I could think of the equivalent of saying that I was moving to Canada when whichever Presidential candidate I was backing lost in a landslide, then that is exactly what I will do if you let Marc Jacobs take over Dior.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the concept of talent?  Allow me to reassure you that Mr. Jacobs possesses none.  Mr. Galliano, flawed human though he may be, is a genius worthy of designing for the house of Dior.  Mr. Jacobs will send me and many others with eyeballs to fashion Canada, which, come to think of it, is probably located in Canada.

So, please, I beg you.  Do not hire Marc Jacobs to ruin Dior.  Because you know that’s what he’ll do.  He will bring in the frump and if Dior is about anything, it does not rhyme with Donald Trump.

Thanks and have a great rest of your summer.

Your friend,



Get Dressed – The Rapture is Coming

Jesus Christ, people!  The Rapture is coming.  Do you have any idea what you are going to wear?  I mean this could really be the party of the century or well, of eternity for that matter.

On the one hand I want to wear a really bitching jumpsuit so I can be all, “Hey Jesus, Dood, how do you like my jumpsuit?”  But on the other hand, I am seriously afraid that if I don’t appear pious and wear a regulation issue FLDS dress with matching underwear, then all the paparazzi will be up-skirt shooting my ascendance.  I know that a jumpsuit has no up-skirt shot potential and that is probably why I am gravitating towards it.  You know what it does have though?  Extremely high degree of bathroom-going difficulty.

If you are wondering who is behind the May 21 Judgment Day Malarkathon, you can blame one Harold Camping.  You might want to call bullshit on Mr. Camping, a spry young 89-year-old radio personality from Oakland since this is not the first time he’s predicted the Rapture was upon us.  The last time was September 1994 and we all know that didn’t exactly pan out, now did it?

What is the Rapture you ask?  Well, it’s only the second coming of Jesus Christ.  Old Jesus is going to come down to earth on the wings of a giant earthquake and all the Chosen Ones will lift up into the sky to meet their maker.  The rest of us heathens will be left behind here on Earth and will be forced to fend for ourselves during the Apocalypse.  In addition to the earthquake, there will be flooding, famine and locusts, oh my.  Jesus will rule over the Earth until its end on October 21, 2011.

During the 5 months between the Rapture and the End of the World—End Days in nutball parlance—Jesus and his ex boyfriend Satan will be waging an all out battle AKA Armageddon.  SPOILER ALERT:  Jesus wins!!  Then the earth is destroyed.

Um, correct me if I’m wrong but God and Jesus totally ran on a love ticket—all do unto others, etc.  So why can’t they turn the other cheek this time?  Why do they have to blow up the Earth and take only the Tracy Flick’s of the world up top with them?  Hmmm.  Something’s rotten in Heaven.

On second thought, they do not deserve my best jumpsuit / ankle boots / feather jacket outfit up there.  I am staying down here on Earth with my own kind.

And I just had a super good idea.  I’m going to make the whole thing into a video game so that when the world doesn’t actually end in October all those crybabies who didn’t get lifted up will be able to practice for the next time they cry RAPTURE.

New Digs

Apparently blogging is not a money-making enterprise.  You don’t say!

Today I got a call from the Los Angeles Times Magazine where I have been bringing the nasty for the past couple of years.  My editor told me that they were ceasing publication of all of the blogs associated with the magazine due to budget cuts.  I felt like a public school student on the eve of a big production of Damn Yankees who gets a call from the faculty advisor.  “Look, kid.  We know you’re already in your ‘Whatever Lola Wants’ costume, but we’re pulling the plug on the show.” I would have cried, but that would make my false eyelashes stick together so I just stared down the phone in disbelief.

The LATM has been very good to me.  They pretty much let my snarky ass say whatever I wanted and only censored one post—a good one on female urination devices, which I will no doubt resurrect here—and generally let me trash whoever I wanted without fear of retaliation from advertisers.  Well, see, that right there should have been a warning.  There were no advertisers—hence the no money-making of the blogs.

I got a little blue for second there thinking about losing all 14 of my faithful readers.  But then I turned into some combination of Erin Brokovitch/Sandy Bullock in The Blind Side/Norma Rae and decided I was going to fight the odds.  I was going to keep on bloggin on.

I may no longer have the endorsement of the LAT, but now I can totally swear!  I’m like Howard Stern once he got to satellite radio.  F-bombs away!!!

So as today’s muse I will be channeling Donna Karan doing her best Leigh Bowery imitation at Monday night’s Met Ball.  I’ll be shoving body parts around until unwanted flesh from my midsection is reborn as a set of double D’s.

Welcome to the revamped version of The Nines.  Pull on your Pajama Jeans and get ready to party!



Unkle Karl Klaus

Originally posted December 21, 2010

You know what I love about the fashion world? It is clearly populated by givers. This being the holiday season and all, I was thinking that maybe I might experience a bit of the old Christmas letdown. Surely you know exactly what I mean: ugly sweater from a relative, Ugg boots from a significant other when you expected gemstones, general malaise after watching whatever disappointing Christmas Day movie opening at the local multiplex, turkey overload…all this and more from the season that makes giving obligatory and the ensuing blues de rigueur.

So anyhoo, I’m cruising up and down the Internet over the weekend, and what to my wandering eyes should appear but a music video from Baptiste Giabiconi. Who the Sam-hell is Baptiste Giabiconi you ask? None other than the “muse” of Karl Lagerfeld.

Why would a fashion designer’s “muse” (is this code for boy-toy? I have my suspicions) be making pop music and then backing up said pop muzak with a video straight from the Paris Hilton/Lindsay Lohan school of video production? Well, clearly as a Christmas gift for moi.

The video for the song “Showtime” opens with our singer—or in this case, obvious lip-syncher—riding through the California desert astride a motorcycle. He has apparently been dipping into the piles and piles of rings that Uncle Karl has gobbing up his apartment, because each knuckle sports at least one silver bauble. (If you want to know what I am talking about re Lagerfeld’s ring stash, please refer to the unnerving documentary Lagerfeld Confidential, and you will see that Herr Lagerfeld actually lives a little like a hoarder—albeit a really rich, really chic one—with bits and baubles piled up all over his kajillion-dollar house.)

Okay, back to the video. Giabiconi has not only stolen Lagerfeld’s rings, he seems to have borrowed Johnny Depp’s look circa 21 Jump Street. From the slick ’80s pompadour to the plaid shirt and the studiously destroyed jeans and motorcycle boots, he is soooo Officer Tom Hanson it hurts.

About a minute into the video, there is some “dialogue” delivered by our hero in heavily accented English that almost left me as speechless as the “plot,” where Giabiconi is clearly messing with another man’s chick yet also rescuing her from his abuse. I kept wondering if this little chippie knew about his special friendship with Uncle Karl and either (a) didn’t care or (b) was hoping for some free Chanel clothes, because the Daisy Dukes and spaghetti-strap yoga top they’re making her wear in the video are ridiculously hideous.

During the parts of the video where Giabiconi lip-synchs, he busts some quite stiff dance moves in the desert while mini dirt explosions fire off around him. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to imagine he is setting off these explosions with his angry mind.

You see he is hopping mad because the girl shows up with a bruise on her cheek and clearly the boyfriend has been hitting her. Have no fear—she will be spirited away on a motorcycle to a seedy motel, where the Kaiser’s muse will make steamy video love to her…but have to make a quick getaway when the boyfriend shows up and busts down the door to find only an empty, unmade bed.

But you know what truly makes this Christmas gift from the fashion world even better than described? The text that comes up at the end: TO BE CONTINUED…

Thank you Kaiser Kringle. 2011 is looking up already.

Mr. Ford If You’re Nasty

Originally posted November 16, 2010

The peeps over at finally gave the world its first peek at Tom Ford’s new collection—his first for women under his own Tom Ford label and since leaving Gucci and YSL in 2005.

Here’s a little rehash for those who might not follow along at home as closely as yours truly. The runway show was presented in September during New York Fashion Week in the Tom Ford men’s store on Fifth Avenue to a very small audience of 100 people. No cameras, no bloggers, no Facebook leakers allowed. Alas, I did not make the 100-person invite list.

The models, all women who are inspirational to Ford, included such fashion-world lurkers as Daphne Guinness, Lisa Eisner, Julianne Moore, and Beyoncé Knowles, as well as über-models Amber Valletta, Liya Kebede, Stella Tennant and Natalia Vodianova. Each was dressed in an outfit designed specifically for her by Ford, who narrated the show from a podium.

I got my rundown of the show from one of the catwalkers who painstakingly described each person’s outfit, as well as her runway schtick. To say I am sad I missed this show in person is an understatement, as the aforementioned catwalker/debriefer is one of my besties, and I would die to see her stomping it out alongside Ms. Knowles.

Lack of invite aside, I am still thrilled to have Ford back in the fashion mix. He is really talented and the best kind of control freak. In the age of twits tweeting and where every idjit seemingly has a reality show, he managed to keep his designs out of the public eye almost until they hit his store.

I think everyone knows how bored I get with the fashion-world tedium of runway to fashion magazine to red carpet…to stores months later. So keeping clothing under wraps until it hits stores is, as they say in cliché world, a game changer.

And really, the only thing more thrilling than the cloak of secrecy surrounding Ford’s show was to finally get a look at his designs. I guess he was as perplexed as I with the humdrum sportswear yawning down the runways these past couple of seasons, because he delivered High Glamour—hallelujah. Thank you, Tom, thank you.

Ah, one last bone to pick, and then my work here is done. Old Lady Vogue, why must you mess with a good thing? The photos are very nice. Of course they are—they come from the camera of Steven Meisel, who is the master of masters. All others should bow at his feet. But you show the clothing on models, not on the women the pieces were designed for.

To that, I give a giant raspberry. Come on! That the outfits were designed for specific women makes them not just fashion but cultural anthropology, and I feel ripped off.

So now I hold my breath for the release of the official photos from the show (taken by Terry Richardson). They’re sure to show up at before Beyoncé’s outfit sells out, aren’t they?

Among Frenemies

Originally posted October 1, 2010

Dear Madonna,

You are 52 years old. (The truth hurts, I know.) I also know you have done everything in your power to look somewhere in your late thirties for at least the last 15 years. For this, I commend you. But I also blame you for wasting my time. You see, I spend inordinate amounts of my waking hours wondering just how much money all that upkeep costs.

No, really. I am seriously curious. Because you see, if I were really rich, I’d do exactly what you do. I’d date really young guys; I’d pal around with my adolescent daughter and that naughty Taylor Momsen; and I’d spend every waking hour when I wasn’t studying Kabbalah or making epic period movies either at the gym or having some revolutionary beauty treatment—oxygen infusions, photo facials, collagen boosters, cranial massages, whatever it took to make me look oddly 18 and 38 at the same time.

I only bring up your “real age” (did I say it? You’re 52!!) because today the world got a load of what you look like without retouching, and by the sound of the roar over on the Internet, your young-enough-to-be-your-son boyfriend, your Tracey Anderson–toned body and your aforementioned cosmetically plumped up face had all apparently been fooling people into thinking you’d inked an actual deal with El Diablo.

Why are people so surprised that your boobs are not as full as the ones in the ads? Or that your nose is not quite that straight? That your calves are actually more muscular than the ones Dolce and Gabbana are using to sell their line of Sicilian housewife clothing?

Come on! There is only so much an unlimited budget and the apparent willpower of 30 humans can reasonably accomplish. But now I find myself—head in a bag of Mallomars—questioning my more humble efforts at anti-aging. Why did I get up at 6:30 this morning to do yoga? Why do I bother to see an “age-management specialist” for my facials? Why do I ever change out of my Free City sweats? Why, oh why, oh why?

Whichever bitchy studio assistant over at Steven Klein’s leaked those unretouched horror shots of you should be fired—like, with-a-firing-squad kind of fired. Not because he showed the world you are merely a shadow of your MILF-y self with some seriously veiny and old-looking hands but because he blew the whole charade for the rest of us.

So, anywho, Madge, if you want to come over tonight to hang out—just us old gals—I still have my VHS copy of Desperately Seeking Susan. We can watch it and remember what life was like before the goddamned Internet ruined everything.

Your frenemy Cat


Emmy Ennui

Originally posted August 30, 2010

It is the morning after the Emmys, and lots of TV types are probably waking up with a hangover right about now. Oh relax—I’m not suggesting that anyone overindulged on the happy juice. Besides, half the town would have to run to a “meeting” if that were the case.

I refer instead to how much people’s heads must hurt from looking at dresses like that number January Jones wore that was constructed out of cupcake-tin liners and hot glue or the sequined football shoulder pad number that made Anna Paquin look like a linebacker for the midget squad that comes out to entertain during halftime.

Wait, do they even have such a thing at football games? Because if they don’t, I think I might have just come up with a real moneymaker here—midget halftime entertainment. I’m too lazy to follow through on this, but if anyone else wants to take the pigskin and run with it, it’s all yours. Well, 60/40 split—it’s only fair. This kind of genius is tough to come by.

So given the star-studded night, I should probably do a gown-by-gown rundown, right? Ugh, I’m too lazy for that, too. How about I just say this: There were a lot of bad dresses (Christina Hendricks, how come you look so great on Mad Menand yet you chose to wear Miss Kitty’s rejects from Gunsmoke?) and a lot of shows I’ve never watched (Modern Family) that seem to be popular. Okay, that’s about as much time as that awards show deserves, besides I need to move on.

You know what I really want to write about? This. This right here: Muammar Qadaffi, Brotherly Leader and Guide of the Revolution—or as he’s also known, Guide of the First of September Great Revolution of the Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya.

Yesterday Qadaffi and his lady bodyguards hopped on over to Italy, probably to apologize for the time in the ’70s when he ordered the expulsions of all Italians from Libya. Or maybe to collect some of the $5 billion that his pal Silvio Berlusconi agreed to pay as restitution for Italy’s colonizing of Libya oh so long ago.

Whatever the purpose of his trip (again, too lazy to figure it out and way more interested in making things up), he and the bodygirls clearly got this season’s military-chic memo. I love how the Amazon on the right will be able to hide out should the plane go down in the ocean, while the Amazon on the left is jungle ready.

I’m just wondering why they didn’t coordinate better. Or maybe it’s just best to be prepared for any possible scenario. Qadaffi himself is a clearly only going to be camouflaged if on camelback in a sandstorm.

Now I’m picturing the bodygirls thumbing through copies of Italian Vogueon the flight back to Tripoli, looking for ways to accessorize that don’t involve firearms.