style council

A Tale of Two Top Hats

I just got back from New York, New York, and since I spent much of my winter holiday hanging with my nieces Flora and Ava, twins aged 18 months, the biggest fashion trends on my radar were of the turtleneck onesie and snap-crotch corduroy pants variety (very chic, I thought; very Vivienne Westwood). But on one of my last nights in town, noshing on baked oysters and artichoke dip at last winter's hot spot Freemans (I may be living in the past but you can't beat the taxidermy menagerie), a cozy Anglophilic hideaway in an alley off Rivington Street, I sniffed out a bona fide trend in its infancy.
    Are you ready, gentlemen? Forget trucker hats, cowboy hats, and, as already noted in the SC, skull caps. The latest hipster headgear is none other than the top hat. While my friends and I were waiting for our table a very cute long-haired boy showed up, dressed in camo, a white hoodie, and limited edition Nikes, accessorized with a snappy grey felt top hat appropriate for an Edwardian dandy.
    And his was the second stovepipe I’d seen that day. In the afternoon I’d noticed another downtown urchin type strolling along St. Marks Place, wearing bondage gear and skinny jeans capped off with a black top hat. His look was more punk chimney sweep than Lord of the Fly Boys, but both were equally eye-catching. How can you go wrong with a hat that adds eight inches in height and references Abraham Lincoln, Fred Astaire and, yes, the New Year’s Baby in one fell swoop? Unfortunately Lord Grey needed to be seated immediately so he split before I could take his picture. Instead I’m offering two possible recent sources of inspiration for this mini trend. (Please feel free to share your own top dawg sightings!)
Lars Von Trier’s Dear Wendy, a supposedly cautionary love letter to American gun culture, was a bit of a misfire, but the pistol-totin’ teens looked sharp indeed. Dubbing themselves The Dandies, they dressed in antique clothes and fired at targets in their shabby chic lair while listening exclusively to the Zombies. Jamie Bell, of that hit boy ballet movie I never saw, is a stunner. I'll concede his chapeau has a slight pilgrim slant, but hey, it’s close enough.

    The political activist performance troupe Billionaires For Bush were a very visible presence on the LES scene for almost all of 2004, leading up to that dark day in November. Seemingly taking their wardrobe cues from boardgames like Monopoly, and owing to the aforementioned flattering nature of top hats, almost all of the male “Billionaires” rocked that look. Pictured here is Phil T. Rich, leader of the pack.
    Of course this all begs the question: where can you get a top hat to call your very own? A website called Top Hats seems like a good place to start, and flea markets are a pretty sure bet. I lucked into a genuine beaver beauty at a flea market in Brooklyn for 20 bucks, but they generally run in the hundreds. Hell, if you don’t care about the quality, buy a plastic one at a party supply store for $2.99. Now if you’re just looking for an excuse to don such a dandy topper, what better occasion than New Year’s Eve, baby?

Viva la Taxi!

Last night I went to a party thrown by Ian Gerard, co-founder of Gen Art with my friends Ildiko, a prolific and amazing writer; Jenn, a singer, the voice behind the "Wanna Fanta" jingle and back up vocals on many albums; and Stuart (not pictured), a successful screenwriter, who lives in NYC. The apartment, though art-ily decorated and complete with a large picture window that included the Empire State Building, Credit Suisse, and Met Life buildings in its view, was as big as a shoebox. I do not miss the teeny apartments. The place quickly filled with all sorts of people—most wearing black. Ian dusted gold glitter on his face because it was "festive." Most of the guests weren't too friendly, the two girls below refused my invitation to mingle.
In fact, most people were startled by my willingness to talk to strangers. But these two men were not. The dude with hair is a hairdresser in his native Australia, I have no idea who the other guy is. And I don't know what they were looking at, but this picture does make me a little uncomfortable.
After a bottomless glass of wine, we left to go to a Brazilian nightclub and danced our asses off, I got drunk, gloriously sauced, because I could. Because I was a cab ride, not a 10 West ride, away from bed.

Deep Blue

One of the great things about New York is that it doesn't really change. Sure restaurant names change but I found all of my old haunts still there, happily haunted by other women in their twenties who want to set the world on fire. But besides certain restaurants and bars, one of my favorite places to visit is the Museum of Natural History, and no trip to NYC is complete without a visit to the landmark. I saw the Darwin exhibit there and it was awesome (I'd have posted pictures, but cameras were forbidden), complete with 2 live Galapagos sea turtles, a live giant iguana, tons of dead finches, his love letters, and his pro and con list for marriage. Seems the naturalist was plagued by the same issues as most comitment phobes, on his con list, less time with the boys, less money. His study at the Down House was recreated, only 5 objects on display were actually his, one was a black knotted cane. I spoke to one of the guards who told me, his sole job was to watch the cane. The exhibit is there until May 29, 2006.  If you're in New York, you have to check it out. I couldn't help posting this pic for anyone out there who also communes with the big blue whale every visit to the big apple. It's comforting to know he's always there—a constant reminder of how small we are and the majesty of nature. His smile is as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's. He knows something.

Rockin' in the Tree World

Happy holidays everyone! More to come soon, but in the meantime, a little slice of roadside art in upstate New York...

Home Sweet Home

I just woke from a food coma. I went home for the holidays to see my family in NY. For us Christmas means lobster, shrimp, crab, lasagna, and proscuitto and figs, sopressata and the good parmesan, stuffed hot peppers, rainbow cookies, and a steady flow of wine.

And, ok, it's not all homecooked artisnal goodness, there was so much candy-coated chocolate you'd think we owned stock in Hersheys.

It's been two years since I was back and I was scared to go home, not just because I will undoubtedly get fat, but I was afraid when I walked on the city streets I would fall in love with NYC all over again. Kind of like an ex, you hope you didn't make a mistake leaving, I wanted to be sure that my move to Los Angeles was right and that New York wouldn't woo me to want to live there again. Manhattan is a great seducer, a sweet talker who sweeps you off your feet with its history, with its art, culture, and pulsating life all around you. And on my FDR cab ride,
past my old apartment on 91st Street, past the building where I used to sneak in the back entrance to have an affair, past Stuy Town where I cat sat for 8 months, all the memories came flooding back, and yet, I didn't feel any different. The city was dirtier and gloomier than I had remembered but other than that I felt no different. No different riding the subway, no different walking 20 blocks in the pouring rain. And I realized the city is just a part of me, it never leaves me, even when I'm 3,000 miles away, when I'm stuck in traffic on the 405, when I'm walking my dog on the beach, New York is in my blood, makes sense I guess I was born and raised here. My New York friends think I'm crazy for living in L.A. they think they're the true New Yorkers for staying, but a true New Yorker can live anywhere, kind of like Superman living away from his planet Krypton, or like Frodo and the Shire. I heart New York, but between us, I can't wait to get back to LA...

A Christmas Caroline

This Christmas, I had hoped to fly back to London, gorge myself on Mum's turkey and sip sherry with my long lost Brit posse. But Fate, it turned out, had other plans in store...

24 hours before my Christmas Eve flight was due to depart, I wandered in to a psychic's den on Hollywood Boulevard in Little Armenia (323 464 7478). I gave her $45 and she looked deep into my eyes, examined my crinkly writer's palms and proceeded to tell me many interesting things...

Firstly, my love life is likely to be fucked for, like, ever, unless I make some major changes. "Fair enough," I thought. "I didn't need a psychic to tell me that". Then she laid out the tarot cards. Death - upside down. The Tower - upside down. The Hanged Man - upside down. I'm no Nostradamus, but even without my trusty tea leaves I know that any of these cards, even on their own, are bad news. Let alone all together.

"There is a man...and he is burning dark candles against you, using urine and hair in his rituals," she told me. Grrreat. "I see alot of sadness at night." Awesome. "And you should under NO circumstances travel during the next six weeks."

What?! I hadn't uttered a word about my impending travel plans to her. Suddenly images of planes crashing, terrorist attacks and me getting flattened by a double decker bus flashed into my mind. As soon as I got home I called my mum in north London. "I'm sorry, I can't come home," I told her. "The psychic told me not to."

My family, predictably, thought I had lost my marbles. "Ever since you moved to LA you've been behaving strangely," sighed my dad. "You've got loads of presents under the tree," said my brother, trying to entice me, but even that didn't work. I was terrified and decided to cancel my flight. I was staying put.

As I dialed British Airways I contemplated yet another lonely Christmas in LA, with no idea what to do, or where to go. I recalled a passage in James Frey's My Friend Leonard where he points out how LA always seems to be full of sad young people staring out of diner windows, eating alone. "That'll be me on Christmas Day," I thought forlornly.

I comforted myself by thinking about last Christmas, which was spent sleeping on a friend's floor after my boyfriend kicked me out of our apartment. "At least it can't get any worse than that," I thought. WRONG! A few hours later my current lover and I had an enormous barney, and we broke up. "Jingle bells my arse" I thought, picturing a pube-covered candle with my name on it, burning in a rancid puddle of piss.

Luckily, my good friends Roger Gastman and Sonja Teri were on hand to pull me out of my bitter holiday wretchedness. Roger is the editor of Swindle magazine, a publication he founded with the OBEY GIANT artist Shepard Fairey. Sonja is Roger's girlfriend, and advertising director of the magazine.

They took pity on my poor cursed soul and invited me to share matzo ball soup and latkas at their house in Los Feliz on Christmas Day. They presented me with several pairs of socks ("We noticed you only ever seem to wear one sock," Sonja said.) and let me take photos of Harley, their adorable golden labrador whose sorrowful face would give Tiny Tim's a run for his money.

Even though my blood family was about 8,000 miles away and the love of my life had just dumped me, Roger and Sonja's warmth and good cheer was starting to restore my faith in Christmas. After Sonja's 15-year-old cousins sang a wonderful rendition of Dreidel Dreidel, my inner Ebenezer Scrooge had almost entirely melted away.

Even so, I couldn't quite relax. Disturbing thoughts of Dark Candle Man still lingered in my head and I was unable to make them go away. Then just before midnight, as I was on my way home, my estranged lover's name popped up on my cell phone...

Turned out to be a Happy Christmas after all... :)

Posted by Caroline Ryder

Xmas Xcess

Happy (whatever holiday you celebrate) Style Council readers!

The other gals are all back in their respective homelands (NYC and the UK) so I'm holding down the fort in sunny LA- and I'm lovin' it!
Sure am glad the present pressure is off though. I cut it close this year doing the whole she-bang in two days: the Glendale Galleria on Thursday and Amoeba Music on Friday. I know, I'm insane right?
Yup, it was hectic and a lot of people out there were really crazed and some were downright mean, but in general it was pretty painless. Waited in some lines, lugged a few heavy boxes, spent too much money on family, friends, and ok, myself... The usual.
Didn't mind the crowd though. I actually like 'em (if you've read my stuff in the paper, that's probably obvious). I embrace commotion and chaos because in a strange way, it makes me feel alive, particularly during the holiday season.
Here's what Amoeba looked like (the dude standing under the "line forms here" sign got pissed and made me put my camera away after this shot.) Notice the ball of stress floating over this head.

Wish more peeps woulda been like these two (below) who probably smoked too much mistletoe (or something) but were nonetheless in the right spirit... They were spreading good cheer outside of Amoeba, inviting everyone to a party at the Lava Lounge that night and singing carols near Cahuenga. They asked me my favorite one, and when I told them that I no longer celebrate Christmas since becoming a Jew, they were nice enough to sing me a rousing rendition of "Dreidel, Dreidel" which definitely caught the attention of the music nerds who came in and out of the place. Holiday time in Hollywood. There aint nothin' like it....

Santa, That's Not a Chimney!

I went to Metal Skool at the Key Club again last night. I've had three hours sleep and feel like an Anne Rice vampire with a hair band fetish. I knew Lina was DJ'ing in the VIP room and then I got a message from the lead singer of the Towers of London (who I had played Pamela Des Barres too a while back) to come out and meet them (the towers are going to be on the Mighty Morning Show this morning from 8-10 am).  One problem, when we heard from them, they were partying in Silverlake— I was all set to cut class at Metal Skool,  skip out early , and meet them, when Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson showed up! That's Pam in a sexy Santa outfit, she danced on a stripper pole, while Tommy played the drums and afterwards they appeared to be quite comfortable playing Santa at a corner table upstairs, but as comfortable as I was when I sat on his lap during fashion week? Uh, yes, I'd say more comfortable, and I was slightly heartbroken, but it was refreshing to see them together again, in a way. We are living in the days of "Team Jolie, Team Aniston," it gave me some hope to see a couple who has survived domestic violence, addiction and Hepatitis C. And you know what this could mean... another sex tape is not out of the question...

Still Waters

I got 5 minutes. That's it. 5. To ask John Waters whatever I could. But you may have to wait for the LA Weekly "list issue" to read what he had to say, he gave me all kinds of advice, about man-o-pause, how to get over a heartache, and what grosses out the Prince of Puke himself. Stay tuned...

I went to his Christmas Show tonight hosted by UCLA Live! and can tell you the man is nuts for Christmas. He was saddened that it has become un PC to say "Christmas." According to him, it's become the new C word, it may even be the new N word, but he suggested maybe like gangsters say "my nigga" we can refer to it as "Christma"...

Oh and Waters advises the best present to give is a book. "And if the person next to you doesn't read," he cautions, "don't fuck 'em."

and do yourself a favor buy his Christmas CD, if you're sick of those damn carols like I am (now I know why some people jump off bridges this time of year) you will find his the perfect tonic. You'll be humming "Santa Claus is Black Man" while you wrap gifts...ho, ho, ho...

merry christma everyone...

Peaches and Cream

Peaches is one hot bitch. I had the pleasure of interviewing her for the cover of Bust magazine (on stands in January) a couple of weeks ago and yeah, I've been known to break into one of her songs at inappropriate times, singing lyrics like "sucking on my titties like you wanted me" or "my labia majora soft as angora" out loud at the bank or something, but I had never seen her perform live until tonight. Yowzers. She gives it up, she works for it like a multiple orgasm attempt, beaded with sweat and determined to get us off.

Peaches performed for a seated and contained audience before John Waters Christmas Show at UCLA . She opened with her yet to be released track "Two Guys For Every Girl" dressed in a hot pink padded push-up bra and silver short shorts. But it was AA XXX that completely won me over, I always thought AA referred to batteries for vibrators but she's actually talking about her breast size. It reminded me of another small breasted champion— Shakira who sings "lucky that my breasts are small and humble so you don't confuse them with mountains." Only with Peaches she saves the poetry and instead goes for "Only double A, Thinking triple X, Licky licky sucky, sucky Nobody here can tell me they don't wanna fucky fucky."

The crowd was into it but stayed seated. Even two chicks dressed loosely as roosters, with showy tail feathers and headdresses, ripping each other's clothes off, and rubbing each other down during a "cock fight dance" AND a team of pastied dancers simulating all kinds of sex, couldn't inspire anyone in the crowd to get the fuck up, but you could feel the heat building, they were about to explode, and when Peaches (who also treated the crowd to some Hebrew holiday songs) finally gave them what they wanted— her get-over-it anthem "Fuck the Pain Away"— about 100 college students rushed the stage to jump-dance and shout along with her. I felt free to indulge, "sucking on my titties like you wanted me..." though the people next to me looked like they were waiting to check their balance....