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!
Originally posted April 28, 2011
You amaze me, Karl Lagerfeld. Just when I think you’ve done the weirdest thing you could possibly do, you go and top yourself. Of what do I speak you wonder? A chocolate statue of “muse” Baptiste Giabiconi who you will no doubt remember from his epic music video I dissected a while back.
Unkle Karl has directed some TV commercials for a sexually named ice cream treat, Magnum, which star Giabiconi as a grumpy fashion photographer and Rachel Bilson (Summer from the OC) as a fashion model.
Rachel Bilson is adorable. She is also knee high to a grasshopper making her less than believable as a model. Giabiconi’s photographer is about as realistic as an SNL skit, but it did have me wondering if he was secretly parodying his mentor in his depiction of a photographer because well, Karl has taken a lot of photos of him and he’s certainly spent time on a Lagerfeld set during a photo shoot since they all seem to involve him.
There is not a lot of originality in anything about this spot other than the publicity-mindedness of hiring Karl Lagerfeld to direct it. If you don’t believe me, use your eyes and then you let me know what you think:
So basically the only thing it’s got going for it is the potential for a lot of publicity and a whole lot of head scratching. And that brings me back to the chocolate sculpture. Why wouldn’t you sell your ice cream bar by having a designer direct your implausibly stupid commercials if, in promoting said commercials, he is willing to pull out a trick like this?
If you can tear yourself away from the white briefs, please take a moment to note the comical detail of the ice cream bar and the bed’s headboard, which is clearly fashioned from an enormous Hershey bar.
I truly wonder when Karl Lagerfeld has time to sleep. Being a designer is a seriously pressured and stressful job—witness the recent travails of John Galliano and Christophe Decarnin formerly of Balmain to say nothing of the suicide of Alexander McQueen.
I am going to stick with my theory that he is a vampire, which could (please, please?) mean that he’ll be making a cameo on HBO’s True Blood when the new season starts next month. I will so totally be watching that in my underwear eating a Magnum ice cream bar.
Originally posted January 4, 2011
Somehow I let the whole jeggings juggernaut pass by with nary a comment or a clip of Conan in his man jeggings. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the ludicrous nature of the trend (is it a trend—do you know any men wearing jeggings?). It’s more that I felt everyone else was commenting on the phenomenon, and I didn’t really know what more I could add that hadn’t already been summed up by Conan, his nine-mile-long legs and his deep knee bends.
It’s kind of like the Kardashians. I know I should write about them, but something prevents me from doing it. I would say I don’t want to give them any more ink, but usually that kind of thing doesn’t stop me.
So please allow me a slight digression to say only the Kardashian Kristmas Kard was the kind of gift that thinks nothing of the recipient and all of the sender. I’ll leave it at that. I’m hoping in 2011 to see less of Kim’s big butt, Khloe’s big head and Kourtney’s big mistake, but I am quite certain this won’t be the case. I’m sure they’ve got marketing opportunities up their sleeves that a flat-assed mortal such as myself can’t even begin to contemplate.
Okay, back to jeans—that was the intended subject matter after all. I think maybe this post is like a rainy Sunday afternoon. You’re planning on doing something industrious, and then WHAM! out of nowhere you are hijacked by some Kardashians. Three hours later, you find yourself, mouth open in disbelief, still watching their inane antics on E!
You see, I found myself flipping channels over the recent holiday break—something I rarely do. If it’s on my TiVo, I’ll watch it; otherwise, I can’t be bothered. But all of my standard shows are in holiday reruns, hence the need to see what was playing in real time.
I managed to skirt a Kruel Kardashian assault (the alliterations just keep on koming), but I did run into this—a commercial for Pajama Jeans. I have no idea how old this particular breed of jeans is, but they seem to have found their way on to that Yenta fest The View already, with Sherri Shepherd endorsing them. This is the woman who is not convinced the Earth is round so you’re on your own if you find her a credible source.
To quote the commercial: “Do you love stylish, sexy jeans? Do you love soft, comfy pajama bottoms?” Um, yes, but not at the same time. I mean, seriously people. Have we really become so lazy we can’t change from pajamas into actual pants when in situations where others can see (and judge) us?
Basically, Pajama Jeans are like the pull-on pants my Auntie Chris used to wear in the 1970s, only nowhere near as awesome. Hers came in a variety of colors and usually had coordinating polyester tops. Pajama Jeans come in one shade of faux denim, and if you act now you can get a free gray crewneck all for the low price of $39.95. Wow. If that’s not an exciting outfit, I’m going to invite Sherri Shepherd on a cruise to the other side of the Earth.
While you’re at it (ordering the Pajama Jeans, that is), you should probably order yourself a walker and a can of tennis balls for the nursing home, because I’m pretty sure you’re dead inside and it’s only a matter of time before your outsides catch up.
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.
Originally posted July 1, 2010
Oh, Jesus Christo, Mami. I predicted this, did I not? And did I not ask to be paid for my foresight? Yes I did. So pony up, universe, because designer diapers are no longer a figment of my warped imagination.
Allow me a little recap of the World Cup for the diaper set. The Redneck team scored first with the Huggies Little Creepers—or whatever they were called—but now the Preppy team has tied the game at one apiece, with Cynthia Rowley’s disaster for Pampers.
Ms. Rowley’s entrée into diaperdom consists of 11 “styles” available in mid July at your local Target, including these faux ruffled, floral and madras numbers, which make me think of nothing so much as printed paper towels—you know, the kind your mom used to have on the harvest gold countertop in the ’70s? What, plain white isn’t good enough across all categories of paper goods now?
Like most early-round World Cup matches, this one seems to remain tied. I’m just going to sit here wondering what we all did in a past life to be so blessed with such intelligent, thoughtful use of human enterprise, because if I had to write another word about fancy diapers, I think I just might lose my shiz. (Kudos to me for resisting a scatological pun this long.)
I will say this, though: There is no way in H-E-double-toothpicks that the Pampers/Rowley crew can top the Huggies commercial. Watch it and weep for the children..
Originally posted May 25, 2010
Many is the time I’ve thanked the good Lord above that I don’t have any children (like when I want to eat cereal for dinner or I decide at the very last second to hop on a plane and head somewhere un-cell-reachable). But right now? Right now I just wish that no one on planet Earth had bothered to procreate for at least the last 25 years.
Are you worried we’ll never rebound from this suckfest of an economy? you ask. Panicking about global warming? you wonder.
Don’t be so naive. I am really, really freaked out—not to mention slightly offended—by Huggies that now come in faux denim. Yep, Huggies Little Movers Jeans Diapers made their debut last Thursday. I really wish I could get my hands on some sales figures, but all I can come up with are a bunch of press releases assuring me that this is exactly what “hipster” moms have been waiting for. Oh really? I defy you to find a single faux denim diaper in all of Echo Park, Silver Lake and Eagle Rock combined.
I think you all remember how I felt when the USA snowboard team wore those tragic Goretex jeans ski pants during the Olympics, and now this. What the hell is the matter with people?
Isn’t it enough that Junior will most likely grow up to wear denim on his lower half almost exclusively for his entire adolescent life and most likely well into adulthood? Do you really feel the need to make his diapers look like a fake little pair of jeans? Christ on a Popsicle stick, the world is really spinning out of control.
To add insult to insult, Huggies even staged a “fashion show” in New York City hosted by Rebecca “clearly I will say yes to all offers” Romijn. Said fashion show featured toddlers clad in these ridiculous diapers marching down a runway in Union Square. I know I am not alone in wondering how many of those kids made it to the end of the runway without an accident…
I am so sure that we are a heartbeat away from having to tolerate camo diapers (sure to be wildly popular with the wives and offspring of servicemen overseas) and then the inevitable Huggies designer capsule collections from Zac Posen, Liberty of London and Karl Lagerfeld. Wait…I think I’m onto something here. I actually want to see Chanel diapers. And, Uncle Karl, if you’re reading this, I expect a piece of the action.
Originally posted May 10, 2010
Last week my friend Ron (holla, Fink!) sent me a link to an article on Jalopnik. At first glance, I thought, Oh, it’s just a guy on a bike. On closer examination, I thought maybe it was a wax figure, but once I read the accompanying article, I discovered that David Morales Colón, who was gunned down at the tender age of 22 in San Juan, Puerto Rico, was in fact, dead. Muerte.
His relatives eschewed the traditional open casket, the humble cremation urn and the dignified gold-plated casket (in the style of Michael Jackson) in favor of a more—or less…I can’t decide—morbid display. I mean, who’s to say that it’s less unsettling to see someone lying in a casket mimicking slumber than it is to see that same person straddling his beloved Honda CBR600 F4?
This dip into the uncharted waters of death really got me thinking. How would I want to be arranged for my wake if I chose to go a similar route? To get myself past the pearly gates, would I ask to be dressed in my favorite tennis skort and positioned on the baseline about to serve up an ace? Or would I prefer for them to dress me in that superfancy Dior I haven’t been able to wear during my time on Earth?
The dress has always felt just a little too over the top, so I always just hang it back in the closet, waiting for the perfect moment. This could finally be the right occasion for that little number. I mean, really—what bigger party could I be attending than the one welcoming me into heaven?
After ruminating for a few days on my own sartorial choices for the afterlife, I began to imagine the possibilities for a diverse selection of others who will all assuredly be deceased someday.
An exotic dancer or S Factor home enthusiast could be arranged upside-down and spread-eagle on the pole that was so close to her heart. Lady GaGa, Beyoncé and Madonna, should they die in this century’s version of the plane crash that killed Richie Valens, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper, could be strategically placed on an enormous light-up stage—all three pantsless, of course.
Derek Jeter could be dressed in pinstripes, natch, and suspended mid-leap in a Red Sox–defying snag on a mock infield of Astroturf. Steven Tyler could be in skintight leather pants, shirtless, at a mike stand draped in scarves. I could go on, but then you’d think I was really weird.
I get that this is a slightly morbid line of thinking with which to occupy my idle-time thoughts, but it so appeals to my plan-ahead nature. I like to map out all the possibilities (and by that I mean outfits) for each and every situation. And thanks to the creativity of Colón’s relatives, I now see my wake as the last party for which I’ll ever have to dress up. It’d better be a doozy of an outfit.