What a circus of colors, skins, lashes and bling was Christian Dior's spring '08 Couture show. Dresses were injected with volume, heads were concealed by buckets, lampshades, and bowls just high enough to reveal bejeweled peacock eyes. Galliano touched on every color of the rainbow, including a pair of badass platforms to match each one. With a touch of 70's, a hint of Mardi Gras, some leopard and jewel-toned india in the mix, I believe he invented something called SuperGlam. Leave it to John Galliano to make Chanel look boring! Ladies stay chic by sportin' gloves.
January 23, 2008
"Marilyn Monroe killed herself. She did it quickly in one foul swoop. Britney Spears seems to be taking her time, killing herself piece by piece. I would go with somebody like Mamma Cass (Mammas and Pappas) eating herself to death (died of a heart attack at 33) or Karen Carpenter (The Carpenters) who died of anorexia at 32. These exemplify the personal destruction and lengthy losing battle Britney Spears is fighting." ha ha..
January 22, 2008
It’s bad enough that media coverage is so focused on celebritydom, like celeb drug habits or where they pump their gas. I don’t need to be looking at Obama via the lenses of Oprah, thank you (so stop endorsing him so people can think for themselves). Since papers and blogs have so zoomed in on our favorite Hollywood stars, we see them all collapsing like dominoes. It’s eerily depressing. Case in point: Brad Renfro and Heath Ledger (RIP) both found dead this past week due to drug related causes. Britney Spears, so disillusioned and self-destructive, the only reason she thinks she’s “been miss American dream since she was 17” is because of all the eager fans that mistakenly coddle her Marilyn Monroe-esque fate. But Britney, where is your grace? Mary Kate and Ashley: why don’t you talk? You don’t smile either. You drink Starbucks, that’s all I get from the media. For having been around since Michelle Tanner could say, ‘hey dude’ you’d think you would have conjured up some opinion or idea or ability to laugh or get pissed or anything human. I’m starting to think they’re robotic Barbies in couture. Next: Katie Holmes. Now that’s just sad. Where’s tomboy-girl-next-door Joey? She found a gay husband who brought her scientology, which ironically upon viewing their website has some freakish similarities to the Life Extension program that froze and transposed Tom Cruise’s soul in Vanilla Sky.
Hollywood is competing with George Bush for the chicken-or-the-egg, who’s driving America more into the nut-house façade on display to the rest of the world question. Speaking of nut-house, the average American probably reads the word “rehab” twenty times as much as “white house” while reading a paper, magazine, website, etc these days. Young Hollywood is the focal point of the universe to kids all over the world, and what makes it worse is that now adults are even giving a shit. Regardless, these kids/young adults in other parts of the world are much more politically informed about their countries. When I lived in Europe, my friends from France, Spain, Holland etc were much more passionate about how fucked up our war in Iraq is than people here. I never see political graffiti on the streets of New York, while I saw “fuck Bush" in Europe all over subways and bridges; I’m no political advocate by any means-it’s just nice to know people are concerned about something other than Britney Spears. Some people hate America, some people view it as the land of opportunity, and still there are kids everywhere that think it’s so damn cool to know what underwear Lindsay Lohan is wearing right now. If you’re gonna waste brain cells, at least admire somebody funny like Snoop Dogg, who takes David Beckham to Roscoe’s chicken & Waffles as a thank you for teaching his kids soccer. Rehab and people’s underwear is boring and none of my business. The more we know how much they are screwing their lives up the more they are going to screw them up even more, and it’s just downhill form there.
January 2, 2008
When I was a teenager, I brought my aunt back a mini bottle of Jean Paul Gaultier perfume from a vacation in Europe. "Mmm toilet water!" she joked as she tried to pronounce Eau de Toilette. I felt like shit. That's French toilet water, and it ain't cheap either. How does one not appreciate this delicate little flask of rich liquidy escape?
I've soaked up bottles of Ralph Lauren, Marc Jacobs, Dior, Donna Karan, Gucci, Estee Lauder, Davidoff, Prada, Gaultier..to name a few. I've annoyed hundreds of sales clerks at Sephora and Bloomingdales on perfume sampling excursions. But let's be honest, who sprays 20 perfumes all over their wrists and sample papers refusing help, then exits the store in complete satisfaction? I shall say my field work allows me to conclude that like haute couture and pastries, the French do it best. The classic Chanel No 5 has yet to be matched, having an entire lab and flower farm (I read in Deluxe: How Luxury Lost it's Luxor) devoted to its formulation. Thierry Mugler's Angel, was the premier gift I'd received from my Paris-based designer cousin; I must have been 12. And my most recent fragrant purchase was the Gautier coffret, including Classique, Le Male, Fragile, and Gaultier2-a unisex perfume, which I will wear when the other bottles run low, praying that no one draws a connection between me and the gay men of Manhattan. The collection is deeply seductive just as a Frenchman might pronounce its names.
When I sported Angel as a young girl, I thought it was awesome that I smelled like cotton candy without having to be at the carnival. I'm sure the seductive ads of the leading perfumes weren't aiming for that, but now as I continue to douse myself in Angel clouds of warm caramel deflect the dirty smell of New York, becoming my nose's sugar addiction. It's no wonder they're all being named-Addict, Opium, Covet-I think I have a dependency.