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.
I have never watched even a minute of Big Brother, but before you go commending me for my highbrow tastes please do not forget that I have watched every single second of Jersey Shore so I probably shouldn’t start bragging anytime soon about how erudite I am.
So yesterday when my old pal Mike Funes, he of 5th grade fan club fame (several of us future Gloria Steinems had a fan club for him complete with theme song sung to the Oscar Mayer Weiner tune. Take that, feminism!) informed me of the existence of the “humilitard” to say my curiosity was piqued would be the understatement of yesterday and possibly even today.
Mike knows I like a onesie. I mean I don’t keep it on the DL or anything—I will wear a jumpsuit over just about any other clothing choice and even found myself wondering where the blonde girl on Celebrity Rehab gets all of those weird teletubby rompers she wears every single day. See—I watch lots of crap, just apparently not Big Brother.
But back to the humilitard. From what I can tell, a blonde girl on the show must have done something stupid which warranted her being sentenced to wearing something dubbed the humilitard. The name held lots of promise for me. I was envisioning something like Borat wore to the beach or maybe some sort of modest cut flesh toned Danskin. Instead when I googled the shit out of humilitard I found something a little closer to Will Ferrell’s costume from Elf. Elf is a seriously awesome movie, btw and placing it in the context of the humilitard makes me feel dirty.
So anywhosit, rather than make me want to actually watch Big Brother and find out what happens to the Kewpie Doll in the “I’m Stupid/Kick Me/Propeller Hat” outfit, the humilitard has instead propelled (ha! see what I did there?) me to imagine some humilitards of my own.
In fact, I’m thinking of designing one for each original member of the Mike Funes Fan Club. Anyone know where I can find Lynn Furst or Lisa Youngquist? Yeah, I didn’t think so. You’re only as good as your Facebook connections, Doran. So in the absence of all original members of MFFC I will, I suppose, have to wear the humilitard myself.
The nice people from Pajama Jeans sent me a pair of those…maybe I’ll start there and sew a bedazzled bodysuit into them. Oh, man. I’m gonna be rich! I’ll call it the PajamaTard®.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues, so sayeth St. Bowie. What of today’s ruling by the big bad judge in New York, which says that Louboutin can’t prevent the rest of the world from making their shoes with red soles? Seriously? This is a topic of discussion for anyone in a world where the stock market has just wiped out all disposable income that would have been spent on shoes, red soled or otherwise?
Priorities, people. Depression chic. It’s a coming. Get used to it.
I understand trying to protect your big ideas, but red soles are a big idea? If anything, the red sole is ingrained in a certain shallow mind as standing for Christian Louboutin (the same sort of shallow mind that likes SATC and those horrible cupcakes from Magnolia). So I would figure the more shoes out there with red soles, the more people will think that everyone is wearing your shoes, Chris. Do you mind if I call you Chris?
I’m going to let you in on one of the really big secrets of branding. You WANT everyone to use your name as a default. Here’s an example or two. Say you have a copy machine in your office and it’s made by Ricoh. Do you call it the Ricoh machine? You certainly do not. You call it the Xerox machine. Or let’s say you need to blow your nose. Do you reach for a Puffs? No, you do not. You clear your nasal passages on a Kleenex regardless if the box says Costco or Hermes on the outside. Now, I get that people aren’t going to start calling all shoes Louboutins, but the red sole is going to have them thinking “Louboutin” in their mind when they see them. And that is not a bad thing.
So Chris, for the love of Pete, will you stop wasting the good court’s time with your frivolousness and get to work making J Lo some new shoes sturdy enough to support that enormous wig she’s got on her head? She’s got to look pretty for the karaoke contest she’s judging on the telly. Plus now that’s she’s kicked the Latin Steve Buscemi to the curb, she’s more than likely going to be out on the prowl wearing…you guessed it—her red soled Payless pumps.
All the J Lo chitter aside, now that no one save the richest of the rich will ever be able to afford a pair of designer shoes again, I’m kind of looking forward to faking it in a pair of red soled Cobbie Cuddlers while I watch the rest of my money vanish into thin air. Maybe I’ll get me a cupcake to ease my pain.
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.
It’s June and in Los Angeles that can mean only one thing: seasonal depression. I, like the rest of my fellow Angelenos, have been feeling a little blue. And then a couple of things happened to cheer me right the flip up.
Wimbledon started yesterday and with it came all the joys I can eke out of a good two-week long procrastination period. What’s not to be thankful for about that?
Wimby is usually pretty sedate outfit-wise, so I feel the need to give serious props to my gals Bethanie Mattek-Sands and Venus Williams for keeping my eyes hemorrhaging with some early in the tournament offerings.
Mrs. Mattek-Sands commissioned herself a party frock from some dude named Alex Noble (who?) who claims to be a Lady Gaga costumer. Judging from the horror show he crafted out of actual tennis balls, I’m going to bet that he made one early tin foil hat for Gag-me and has been cashing in on it as his claim to fame ever since.
All I could think of was Heidi Klum giving Mr. Noble the auf wiedersehen double kiss as she booted him from a Project Runway episode where the “designers” were given $100 and 30 minutes to shop for materials at Dick’s Sporting Goods. In all her tragic glory BMS makes a damn good case for hot glue gun as a deadly weapon when left in the hands of an untalented queen.
Both Williams sissies are back on the court, which for me is a huge thanks God. If that moonballer Woz remains at # 1 much longer without ever winning a slam, I swear I am going to start playing challengers at my ripe old age because apparently anyone can play on the WTA.
But I digress…I want to applaud Venus on her choice for her outfit on her first day back on court. She thumbed her nose at those stuffy Brits and came dressed as an adult baby. That terry cloth onesie she wore is sure to win her lots of fans over at www.bigbabyboy.com. (Caution: NSFW and seriously gross…don’t say I didn’t warn you.)
All I’m waiting for now is BMS and her teddy bear of a husband to come out of the closet as plushies. Maybe they’re saving that for the US Open. Please?
MJ: Kirstie, you were incredible on Dancing with the Stars! You were robbed. What brings you out here to the Polo match?
DK: I’m not Kirstie you nincompoop. It’s me, Lady Karan. I came for the nachos. Why are you here?
MJ: Donna, sorry, I thought you were…oh, never mind. Nachos? Well, that explains the sombrero. But, um, I think you got it a little mixed up. It’s Nacho. Nacho Figueras. He’s a polo player?
MJ: I was just about to get into that seafoam romper. Which begs the question, how the hell do you get into it?
DK: Five. Easy. Pieces. Don’t you remember anything? Or was that early triumph of mine during one of your “lost” periods.
MJ: Right about now I really wish I was still using.
DK: Don’t I look hot? I am technically as old as the sun and you’d never know it from my face. Did you know that once you get to be as old as I am you have to choose your ass or your face? No, really. Catherine Deneuve sends everyone an Oprah-endorsed memo once you turn 60 and then you pick—ass or face.
MJ: FML. Need. Air.
DK: Why don’t you loosen that tie? Your face is starting to match my romper.
MJ: Where’s Lorenzo? His ironic mustache might not seem so ridiculous right about now.
MJ: Um, no thanks. I ate in 1996. I’m just going to head on over and see if they have face painting over by the ponies.