style council

Too Trendy Tykes

In this Saturday’s LA Times, Booth Moore wrote about Baby Glam and how one picture of one t-shirt made a Denver boutique called Belly a shitload (no pun intended) of cash thanks to Li’l Ms. Shiloh Jolie-Pitt. Yup Brad and Angie’s babe wore the thing in People mag and now everybody wants it.

I gotta admit, the tee is actually pretty cute (it's got a skull and cross bones with spoons, pots and pans all over it) and I would put my child in it if only because my hubby’s a chef and it’s appropriate. But do I really care that some celebrity spawn wore it?

As I’ve written here before, I am expecting, and after an exciting 20 week ultrasound last week I found out what I’m having. Though I really had no preference, it looks like I’ll be having much more fun with fashion in about 20 more weeks.

Yup, it’s a girl!  (Pic below is not mine but it looks exactly the same).
Either way I think I’d want to dress my kid in somewhat stylish stuff ( I mean who wouldn’t?) but let’s face it, as is true in adulthood, there are just more options for females.

Dresses, pants, skirts, onesies in shades of pink, lavender and even red. Hey, I myself happen to be fond of “girlie” dressing (see my recent fashion piece on the concept here) so why not have some fun with my kid?

Still, some of the celeb baby fashion frenzy has gotten way out of hand. Like the diamond encrusted pacifer Shiloh got from some jewelry company. Ridiculous.

Moore’s story quoted Fraser Ross, owner of Kitson Kids as saying “I think that children are becoming the new designer handbags.”  Huh? Okay, there may be a baby boom in Hollywood right now, but equating the fruit of your loins, the love of your life, to a pricey purse or a status symbol? Gross.

One celeb mama I do admire though and might be influenced by a bit, is Gwen Stefani, especially before she delivered. Even when she was huge, she always looked so put together and happy and relaxed, red lipstick and all. See the recent shots of her, her man Gavin and their son here. She looks great. Bigger than usual, but great.

People have been telling me I have the glow lately, which is nice, but unfortunately the glow doesn’t come without the ever-growing gut, and after I looked at a recent photo a pal took, I freaked. Talk about “My Hump(s). ”

I’m trying to maintain some style as I expand and I’m sure the same will be true when I’m a mom. But it’s not gonna be about labels or baby bling or designer diaper bags (not that I’d mind the later if it was given to me as a present). It’s gonna be about what my daughter can be both cute and comfy in, and if that happens to be nothing more than a diaper and a plain white tee, then that is what it’s gonna be baby! 

It's A Jungle Out Here

Charon on Santa Monica Blvd. around the corner from the Hollywood Forever Cemetery,  Saturday at midnight. Her giraffe print dress: vintage. Leopard print limo: artist unknown, still in progress. Photo taken with a sadly, madly underperforming Kodak EasyShare camera, "fireworks" setting.

Nitespa...ahhhh

In need of something to do tonight? Swing by Nitespa in Venice. Owners Julia and Michael are celebrating the one year anniversary of their pamper spot. Starting at 7 pm til 10 pm. Eight DJs will get you moving in their backyard retreat...

But wait, there's more!:
Chris Korn's sleight-of-hand magic and illusions
The Hot-To-Trot Dancers
Foxen wine tasting
A Food Experience

NITESPA
1301 ABBOT KINNEY BLVD, SUITE 33
VENICE CA 90291

RSVP TO [email protected] or 310-396-5122

Look for my upcoming article about Nitespa in the LA Weekly!

My Name is Caroline and I'm a Slothaholic

When I was younger I went to a relatively posh private school in

London

, full of high-achieving daughters who had DJ boyfriends and started nightclubbing at the age of 12. Despite their busy social lives, they always did their homework, and always lied about it. "Oh god, I haven't looked at my notes for months," they would sigh prior to scoring 97% in a French vocab test. Or, "I did this at breakfast this morning," right before handing in a 10,000 word dissertation on plate tectonics. I never understood it - when I said I hadn't done my homework, I really hadn't done my homework (remember the desperado who offered you a lifetime's supply of Twizzlers in return for your quadratic equations five minutes before math class? Yeah, that was me).

Things didn’t change much when I matured into adulthood and decided to become a writer. My nemesis – the demon they call Procrastination – became an ever more malignant presence in my life. “The story will be ready really soon!” I'd assure my editor, who had inconveniently called right in the middle of Jerry Springer as I was painting my toenails. Add a healthy two or three hours a day of Myspace page development plus research trips to the local coffee shop – frankly, I was baffled as to how so many people manage to find time to actually do their job.

But last night, someone gave me hope. He said that slackers, loafers, sloths - whatever you want to call us - are not useless wastes of space. We are, in fact, the unsung heroes of American Society, and that those who appear to be the hardest workers are often the biggest sloths of all. The revelation came care of Tom Lutz, former pothead and freight train hobo turned college professor, who has just authored a fascinating new book called " Doing Nothing: A History of Loafers, Loungers, Slackers, and Bums in

America

”.

Lutz, who looks like a salt-and-pepper version of Bill Maher, was at Skylight Books in Los Feliz last night and told us some very interesting things – for example, Benjamin Franklin, purveyor of the ‘work=success=money’ Protestant work ethic, was actually nothing but a big lazybones. He even invented something called "the air bath", which involves taking off all your clothes and lying on your bed in the afternoon for several hours.

Franklin

regularly espoused the therapeutic properties of the air bath in his writings, Yeah, nice try Benji. Like his latter-day counterpart Ferris Bueller, Franklin was so darn good at pretending to work hard, no-one ever questioned him, even when he retired at the age of 42 and noted in his autobiography: "It's much more important to look busy than to be busy.

Lutz went on to talk about ‘professional slackers’, those who have what Lutz describes as a “principled aversion to work”. Huh? Anyone who preaches principled aversion to work – and believe me, I’ve dated a few - is full of shit as far as I’m concerned. But Lutz told us there are actual websites dedicated to those who wish to dedicate their lives to bumdom – check out whywork.org, for example.

Everyone in the room was captivated by Lutz. Not surprising, as nearly everyone in the room was a writer. We writers are often branded lazy by those who don’t buy our whole "just being alive is research" thing. Research, of course, may entail lying on the couch. Or getting free pedicures. Or simply sitting under a tree in a flower-filled meadow contemplating the meaning of life. Believe me, it may look like we’re lounging, but in the writer's world, these activities fall under the definition of a hard day's work.

I didn't buy the book (as well as being terminal slackers, we writers are also incorrigible misers), but I did leave the reading feeling happy and empowered. "Finally, someone who understands," I thought, switching off my phone before settling into a well-deserved air bath...

Posted by Caroline Ryder

Scientology is Gay

Politically incorrect as it may be, I have to say it. I am a full on "fag hag." BTW, I asked my gay boyfriends if it was okay for me to say it or if they had to say it (like how only African Americans can say the N word) and they seemed to think it wasn't the same thing. So uh yeah, I'm a fag hag.

That said, I failed in my hagly duties this weekend by missing all the Gay Pride festivities in We Ho. As previously reported, I am preggo and the thought of all that walking (it's 10 blocks away just from the parking part) just didn't sound appealing this year, even with all the fabulous frocks I'd get to see and new friends I'd make (as I do every year)...

Luckily, I saw like all my gays at the private Peaches show on Saturday night. If you read Steffie's post (below) you know that the P. played with Sam Maloney and the Le Tigre butch babes and that she rocked. I caught the first set, which was really all I needed since she played my fave tunes from her new disc Impeach My Bush (which I reviewed for URB magazine this month) and her two previous releases Fatherfucker and Teaches of Peaches.

Check out this pic I took (it's a cameltoe shot from the rafters which isn't exactly flattering but I don't think she cares).

So anyway, my gays in question include actor Sam Pancake, who've I've known for like a zillion years and whose now a very successful actor (he's been on everything from Will & Grace to Friends). He now has his own sitcom on Lifetime called

Lovespring International produced by none other than W&G's Eric McCormack. The looney gal who played Jan Brady in the Brady Bunch movies is in it too. Read all about the show here.

Also ran into "strong Black wo(man)" Shaundelier, who just may be the first Silver Lake celebutante/cross dresser... he was in LA Dee Da -the precursor to my Weekly Nightranger column- every week! So happy to see him with Jeppe from Junior "Move Your Feet" Senior, who looks to be fully recovered from the hit and run accident he suffered outside of the Echo a few months ago!

Bumped into Clint Catalyst, who was wearing a to-die-for feathered hat from Jared Gold (too bad the feather was so tall it blocked my view of the stage at times!) with manic panic'd singer Jeffree Star.

But it was John Roecker, the subject of a Weekly cover story I did a while back who really made an impression, especially on Peaches who used his head to support herself during part of her set. John tells me he may be working on a modern version of Jesus Christ Superstar soon (how cool would that be?), and he's got a bunch of other things in the works. Chatting this feisty fella up is always so entertaining, but it was nothing compared to the email he sent me yesterday, which will soon be hot gossip after he appears on KROQ's Kevin and Bean show tomorrow, 8:30 a.m. to talk about it.

The following is a copy of the email, and he swears it is all true:

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello Just wanted to tell you my story that happened yesterday on walking to my car on Los Feliz Blvd. I was a total innocent lamb   when I was verbally attacked by three people. I was walking to my car in a t- shirt that I made that has an image of Tom Cruise and the caption says Scientology is Gay! And on the Back of the shirt is a picture of John Travolta and the caption reads Very Gay! So as I passed a shirtless Bohdi Elfman and he started screaming at me saying how dare you make fun of my church! I replied just because you have tax exempt doesn't make it a real church and the McDonald's franchise is older. Then he got really mad and said that I had no idea what I was talking about and I said I am well aware and schooled on this cult. Then Jenna started to pipe in and asked me What Crimes I had Committed? I said I have not committed any crimes. She stared at me like a zombie and said the same thing. What crimes have I committed and then said have you Raped a baby? And I looked at her and said what? She repeated. Did you Rape a baby? I shook my head and then she said you Raped a baby! I was totally blown away meanwhile her husband was screaming at me and kept on saying that the reason I was saying this was because I was a homosexual (gee how did he know) to which I said what does that have anything to do with anything if I was gay or not? I kept on asking him about Xenu and he was about to punch me but he hesitated because they were with another man who when instructed the both of them to walk away and covered his ears when I asked them about L. Ron Hubbards involvement with Alister Crowley, Xenu and the death of Lisa McPersion. After a ten minute scream session when Bohdi said all he does is help people and why was I against that and Jenna kept on asking What is my crime...I shouted I know what your crime is. You make shitty Television Shows. Which Jenna screamed back "FUCK YOU"!
True Story and I have a witness!
Love
John Roecker
____________________________________________

For more hot scoop and reports from last week's Shooting Gallery photo exhibit, all the 666 events of last week and the Standard's Sunday pool parties see Nightranger in this Thursday' s paper.

Portraits of a Lady...and a Tramp

Saturday night, in advance of the opening of “David Hockney Portraits” at LACMA, there was a reception on the museum’s plaza, complete with fancy martinis (hence the long drink lines), an uninspired array of cheese and crackers and a thoroughly inappropriate hip-hop DJ. Don’t party planners think the cocktail crowd can bear anything other than bumpin’ beats? Granted, there was also a graffiti demonstration on the plaza by Mear One, but that too seemed an odd choice. David Hockney is not exactly a street artist; he paints most of his subjects in intimate, private spaces, using soft color fields and simple lines. His late ‘60s work is so prophetic of the ‘80s new wave it’s kind of mind boggling, with zebra prints and palm trees, plate glass coffee tables rendered with cartoonish diagonal reflections, and a curvy mauve couch that would almost be cheesy if it wasn’t most likely a deco original. The images may be California cool but you could easily think Miami, 1982, staring into the swirly blue depths of a swimming pool with a nice toned butt emerging from it. Of course Hockney isn’t painting Don Johnson but his boyfriend Peter Schlesinger, then a UCLA art student. Hockney certainly had a slew of pretty boyfriends, and I found a new style icon in Celia Birtwell, the doll-faced fabric designer married to rock star clothier Ossie Clark. Hockney painted Birtwell repeatedly through the decades, and her early ‘70s look is completely contemporary: even the Kork-Ease platforms she’s wearing in one drawing were relaunched this year and can be found at Fred Segal.
    The crowd that was actually looking at the paintings was considerably more interesting than those who were preoccupied with two-fisting martinis. One fierce femme was head-to-toe in psychedelic green, right down to her eye shadow and the patent leather go-go boots she dyed herself. Another woman wore a circle skirt decorated with sequined skulls (I know skulls are totally done to death, no pun intended, but she made them work somehow) and gorgeous Miu Miu sandals with a toile print platform sole. Ladies will be relieved to know that the stiletto craze is officially on the decline; I think the barefoot woman carrying hers around would have to agree.
Later I caught the end of the Peaches show at Little Radio. The nasty-as-she-wants-to-be diva is about to go on tour with Nine Inch Nails, and her kick ass backing band includes J.D. Samson from Le Tigre and drummer Samantha Maloney, who has played with Hole and Motley Crue. For her final number, “Rock & Roll,” Peaches rocked a black superheroine cape emblazoned with a hot pink “XXX” – definitely the best fashion statement of the night. It's amazing how such a ferocious onstage goddess can turn into a regular, cute curly-haired girl when she steps off - albeit one who is wearing the tiniest pair of hot pants imaginable. The admirers milling around after the show included Katherine Moennig, who plays the beautiful butch hairdresser Shane on The L Word. I’m glad to report that her hair is back to its sexy first season shag, and she was dressed for the part in skinny low-slung jeans and a snug T-shirt – none of Shane’s ill-advised neckties or upside down bird’s nest ‘dos in sight.

Hockney image courtesy of LACMA
Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy, 1970–71. Acrylic on canvas, 84 1/2 x 120 in., Tate. Presented by the Friends of the Tate Gallery, 1971 ©David Hockney. All rights reserved.

Thinking Bluer

I am from New York, my family is from the Bronx specifically. My dad was a NYC cop stationed outside Yankee Stadium and we would often play catch on the green in the house that Ruth built. Needless to say, I'm not a Dodger fan. When I moved here two years ago, I had a feeling that I would never quite belong, like Sting being an Englishman in NY, I would always be some kind of legal alien, a New Yorker in LA.

A friend, another recent transplant, suggested I get a team. My rooting for a Los Angeles something or other would make me feel like my adopted city was more my own. She suggested the Dodgers. I balked. But for two reasons, I considered it: They were originally from Brooklyn (where I was born) and they're not on the same league as the Yanks.

So last night I went to my first Dodger game. Fortunately for me, my friends know how to do this shit right. We met at the Shortstop for $1.50 PBR's ("fuck that Heineken shit, Pabst Blue Ribbon!") and we walked to the stadium, beating out tons of traffic. Unfortunately for me, it was against the Mets. Now, despite a brief rebelious run in '86 when the Mets were in the World Series and I had a huge crush on pitching hottie Ron Darling, I wasn't ever truly a Mets fan either. But just seeing the words across their shirts "NEW YORK" made me feel like a traitor. So for the first few innings I rooted for whoever made a good play. That's when the score was 5-5. As the Dodgers started losing, something happened, I found myself screaming and yelling, even chanting "Let's Go Dod-gers" following it with the prerequisite rythmic claps. (sorry Daddy!).  I found myself saying things like, "we need one more run..." We? We?! By the bottom of the Ninth we were down by 3 runs, I looked around the stadium and felt like I was a part of something, maybe not fully "belonged" yet, but I was asked to sit at the cool kids table.

Screw Yourself for Charity

Remember those little rubber bracelets Lance Armstrong first made popular? Then suddenly there was a rubber bracelet for everything, from supporting the troops to wiping your ass good. Well, now rich folks can show their charitable sides too, but you know, with class. Rubber chafes. In the 70s jewelry monarch Cartier created the LOVE bracelet. The wrist ornament was designed to be screwed tight to your wrist and never taken off. Sounds more like shackles than accessory to me, and maybe servitude rather than love, but Richard Burton and Liz Taylor screwed one on, so did Ali McGraw and Steve McQueen. Now, 30 years later Cartier has launched a new LOVE line with a Charity Bracelet, it features a mini rose gold original LOVE shackle bracelet tied to a silk cord, the color of the cord reflects the charity you support. It seems ever since somone tied a yellow ribbon round an old oak tree, charity has been color coded. And of course, these wrist trinkets aren't without their celebrity endorsements, Michael Stipe's black bracelet says you support Gulf Coast Recovery, Sarah J. Parker's blue says you care about UNICEF. Salma Hayek, Scarlett Johansson, Spike Lee and Liv Tyler all chose colors and charities. For every one you purchase $100 dollars will go to the corresponding cause.

Now, it's hard to poke fun at any kind of charity really, but the bracelet retails for 475 clams, why not donate ALL that money to charity? And if you have 475 smackers to spend on a silk chord, you probably can donate a helluva lot more. Looks like arm chair activism is out and arm band activism is in.

Hair Today, Still Freakin' Hair Tomorrow

Ouch.

For many women, hair removal can be a painful subject. But that’s never stopped us from discussing it with any other female who happens to be within shouting distance. Oh how we love to talk about our body hair, especially the methods we use to get rid of it. It’s an endlessly fascinating topic because we’ve all got it, and none of us want it. A friend of mine (actually an ex-friend; she was completely psychotic but that’s another story) once passionately expressed to me her desire to be sleek like a baby seal - presumably one that was not about to get clubbed – and I knew just how she felt. If you’re a girl, smooth is sexy, and there really are no caveats, such as, “you know, in some cultures plumpness is considered a sign of health and great beauty.” Nobody wants to be the bearded lady, except maybe the bearded lady if she’s hooked up with a good circus. And yes, there are people who are turned on by excessively hairy women, but I’m guessing most of us wouldn’t want to get too intimate with them, hairy or not.

So now it’s “bikini season” and that of course requires a nice trim bikini line. After a mustache waxing debacle last month (it was my first time, and the fuzzy shadow above my lip was ripped out and replaced with a cold sore worthy of Katie Holmes), I decided to invest in some long term bikini bareness. I booked a laser appointment at $120 for 15 minutes, which is dirt cheap in the laser hair removal world. I shaved three days prior as they told me to, and showed up at 8:45am, which should also tell you how deep my commitment is. 8:45?! In Glendale?! When I entered the room they gave me protective goggles (!) to wear, and got right down to business.

I’ve never been hit with a nail gun but I imagine that it feels a bit like getting zapped with a laser. There is some cooling blast that follows the intense pinching sensation, but there’s no way you’re escaping without a lot of grimacing and a few involuntary moans and groans. Lying face down on my tummy while the lady attacked my inner thighs was quite the lesson in humility.

And now, five days later, the hair is still there! It looks kind of frazzled and burned but I am not in any way bikini friendly (we’re not talking sexy pubes like those on the cover of the Black Crowes album above, which was originally a Hustler magazine cover from 1976). Which is fine, as it turns out, because they told me after my appointment that I couldn’t go near the sun for two to three weeks! Even if I used spf 45! In other words I picked the absolute worst time of the year to embark on the laser journey. So now I’m consigned to a summer of shaving (you cannot wax if you are getting laser treatments) and will have to revisit the zapper in the fall. Yup, you heard right, I will be going back. Are you kidding? A permanently baby seal-esque bikini line? How can a girl resist? I know you know what I'm talkin' about.   

Land of the Lost

"It should be right there," Steffie said pointing at a deep roadless ravine. I consult the loose tatered Thomas guide page again. "Maybe we didn't go far enough?" I suggest. Lina, Steffie and I have been trapped in the car for 45 minutes and I am cursing Kari Feinstein, the PR maven who gave us the bum directions.  "Sunset Plaza Drive all the way up to Blue Jay Way"— was the message she sent wirelessly from her blackberry. We had naively piled in the car believing the directions were just that simple. They were not.

We were on our way to "the Style Lounge," a swag fest set up in a Hollywood Hills mansion, so that new designers, jewelry makers, and other merchants could heap tons of free goods on celebrities and their stylists, in the hopes of their product being seen on an actual celebrity during the MTV Movie Awards. This was the one of three gifting suites set up around the city in honor of the ceremony.

We wound our way up Sunset Plaza Drive, around dangerous curves without guard rails, even past signs that clearly stated: "DO NOT ENTER: PRIVATE ROAD." We did what you're supposed to do when lost in the hills, follow the hipsters. Unfortunately for us, we weren't the only ones lost, we realized when people started following us.  We asked gardeners and dog walkers, even a nice man in a shiny silver Jag, all they could tell us was Blue Jay Way, was "down the hill." Finally, a patient soul asked to see our Thomas guide remnant. "It doesn't connect." WHAT?! "Blue Jay Way doesn't connect, you have to take Thrasher..." Sure enough, a crease in our beat up page gave us the faulty impression of a road. But it still didn't explain why Kari Feinstein had forsaken us.

We finally find the spot, valet, and are shuttled up in a Lincoln Town Car, only to find our names were not put on the list, despite repeated emails with Kari herself. The check-in girl exhausted shrugs and gives us each a red wristband, and  black "shopping bag."

The place was packed with people, their bags overflowing with swag, leather bags! dresses! perfume! We saw Vivica Fox loaded down like a Grand Canyon mule. But first things first, we headed to the food table, seared tuna, lamb chops courtesy of Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. As we nibbled we watched waifish starlet after waifish starlet wander by with bulging bags. We finally move into a "gifting suite" and were greeted by a woman who said she represents craft artists and helps them get press. One of the items we loved was an eye mask in quilted calico that had the words, "sod off" embroidered on it. I hand her my card. I'd love to do a story about this company, handmade little trinkets. She hands me a gift bag, which had all the company info inside. I'd like to tell you all about the cool stuff you can get from them. But unfortunately, a few moments later the woman who owns the company comes back to retrieve the gift bag she gave me and Steffie. I looked at her in shock. "We don't have that many left," she says. "And my friend didn't know who you were." I suppose she meant we weren't famous. But we were press. Now even 13-year old Tatiana McLane designer for Queenie 4 ever, knows how to pitch press. With her mother Venice Wong at her side, Tatiana told me how she is inspired by local designers Megan, and Tarina Tarantino, and started designing clothes at 10. And Jamie Harris from a company named This is J, was happy to talk to me. She and her sister make some cool headbands that are tapered at the back, perfect for keeping hair in place in my Jeep with the top down. Jamie Harris, the owner of the company even showed me how to put it on, face framing layers outside, suddenly a headband made me feel like Bridget Bardot. She gave me my pick of their hand printed bands.

We headed upstairs where many of the companies were packing up. Damn, if we hadn't gotten lost!  Tucked in the corner we spotted leather clutches and wallets from HOBO. We drooled over them. The lovely woman from the company told us to pick out whatever we wanted. Steffie chose a gorgeous pearly pink over-sized wallet (which could easily double as a clutch), and I got a sky blue full-size clutch of soft buttery leather. I was so happy and that was even before we got jeans from The Myth of Jade. Now, of course they were last years jeans, bootcut. But Steffie had the great idea to have them tapered.

Just when we were feeling good about our swag, reality hit. As we were ogling satiny blue-ish silver dresses and cream colored lace baby dolls, the woman who was running the La Rok booth awkwardly explained to us that she can't give away clothes. "They're expensive, you know," she said condescendingly. The words are barely out of her mouth, before she turns her back to me and begins tearing dresses off the rack and shoving them into the arms of a stylist to a woman I have never heard of. Oh, it's like that. I'd have settled for a handshake, look book, or a business card, instead of the cold shoulder. But today, it's all about the celebrity endorsement, the Ugg Way. Companies go after the names, A-list, E list, someone. Anyone, to sky rocket them into Kitson.