Fashion Week, Day Four - Timely, Huh??

Hello, this is Mademoiselle’s assistant. I know, the worst job in the world, right? It beats selling men's perfume at Macy's. And I get to meet famous people. "Meet" in the sense that she's always ordering me around in front of them like I'm some retarded geisha boy.

She’s gone away for a few days, and she left me the job of writing up the rest of Fashion Week! I mean, she COULD have moved her lazy ass and written herself, but no, it’s always me who has to clean up after her. At least I don't have to listen to her screechy voice and watch her count the petty cash every day.

(Don’t tell her I said any of that.)

SO, Fashion Week Day Four, after, what, three weeks? Talk about timely topical subject matter. Girlfriend, you’ve got some serious issues with this blog.

Here are her notes on Day Four:

In February, Greek designer Vassilios Kostetsos told me that he would never allow plus-sized women to wear his clothes. Fortunately, Karma came to the rescue and produced a truly dismal collection. You know something is wrong when the best part of the show is the naked buff man wearing Speedos with a Grecian vase on each butt-cheek.

Many of the clothes had what looked like cheap foil print on them, the sort you find on shirts made by street vendors.

Small audience—standing room had to be put in the seats

Sat next to drunken journalist who pronounced collection ugly. Said more but too drunk to be understandable.

Fashion Week crowds make the running of the bulls look civilized.

And that's all she wrote--for now.

And Now, A Brief Relief From Good Taste (NSFW)

DAHLINGS -

I came across this masterwork by some young people called the Day Job Orchestra, and they made the Emmys and Robert Verdi ever so much more entertaining.



Now, I haven't lost my mind, but it's hot and I don't feel like writing a proper entry. It is rare something this vulgar makes my laugh, but really, a woman has to have a break from unending gentility.

I'm going upstairs now for a cold bath.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Exclusive Statement From TWO Cast Members of House MD

DAHLINGS -

This morning in my inbox was a request to publish the following statement, from two of the cast members of House,MD.

This is a cast member who has visited this blog-thing before, along with a close friend. I felt that it would be noblesse oblige to allow them to have their say. Particularly in light of the heated debate over the season 7 opener, "Now What?"

Again, let me step aside and use the blog-thing for altruistic purposes. (Faithful readers, be assured that this statement does not reflect the opinions of the blog owner or Blogger.com. My apologies for the language used in this statement. Your faithful correspondent abhors profanity, but censorship is not practiced in this blog-thing. Unless it's negative comments calling me a "fuck-tard." )

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

############


I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV. Part of one. We might have met before. I’m House’s damaged, always-in-agonizing-pain-until-the-script-monkeys-decided-I-wasn’t-last season LEG.

God DAMN, last season was a bitch, because eleven years ago I had a HUGE CHUNK OF MUSCLE, FAT, BLOOD VESSELS AND NERVES REMOVED! AND I HAD TO PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED!

House’s stupid bitch of a girlfriend Stacy (who has been conveniently forgotten in the Great Love Story That Is House and Cuddy) decided that cutting off a chunk of me was a good choice. FUCK YOU, STACY! AND FUCK YOU, CUDDY! HOW THE EVERLOVING HELL HAS HOUSE FORGIVEN YOU ENOUGH TO LET YOU KISS MY SCAR AND NOT KICK YOU INTO THE MIDDLE OF NEXT WEEK? OH WAIT, HE CAN’T, BECAUSE YOU DECIDED THAT A GIANT HUNK OF—

Excuse me. At the end of last season, you might recall, me and the rest of House’s 50-year-old body were dragged around a crushed building, which was bad enough! Then he goes home without a cane, and believe me, I am in PAIN. Screaming, agonizing PAIN! House finds his stash of Vicodin, and I’m like, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN, TAKE THE PILLS OR KILL ME, OKAY?”

And just as he’s about to take the pills and give me the sweet relief I crave, Cuddy shows up, and her magical boner love makes him throw away the pills! And takes away his pain. But it HASN’T! I’m screaming at him, “YOU KNOW PAIN BETTER THAN ANYBODY! JESUS CHRIST LAYING FLOOR TILES! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?”

Last night, on a "Very Special Episode of House", he PICKS HER UP and carries her into the bedroom. I know Cuddy only weighs 80 pounds, but WTF? I wanted to scream my head off but I was ordered, do what you’re told and you’re getting amputated—they can write that in now. Bastards.

And House’s whole goddamn BODY is nagging at me: “Everything hurts! We’re 50 years old and we’ve been dragged through a damaged building! Ow ow ow make him take the pills, leg! You’ve always made him do it in the past! Please!” And I have to respond “Sorry, guys, I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO EXIST ANYMORE!”

They want me to TAKE MYSELF OFF AND BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF HOUSE! How am I supposed to do that????

House and Cuddy make mad, passionate love, and it hurts so much, oh man, it hurts, he keeps using my damaged muscles to roll around. And then he KNEELS ON THE FLOOR, and spends the whole rest of the day WITHOUT HIS CANE and goddamn, I’m out of my mind—if I had a mind, I mean, I’m only a leg—and they play Boggle and they keep having sex, if I had a head I’d beg God to skullfuck me to death.

You won’t be seeing much of me in Season 7, those assholes have decided I’m not important any more, until House and Cuddy break up, and watch for “psychosomatic” pain to return. BUT IT NEVER LEFT, DICKWADS!

Anyway. I promised this other body part he could have his say. So I’m going to shut up now. How I do that without lips, I don’t know. So here he is (He gets to have a gender, unlike me. Fuck me. Limb just can't get a break.):

Hello. I’m House’s dick. Pleased to meet you. Yes, I know, the leg keeps complaining about how much pain it’s in. What a toilet mouth. I may be a penis, but I like to think I’m more refined.

Here’s some dirty little secrets you’ve never been told—no, it’s not that I’m not large, I’m huge. But, let’s face it, House has been taking Vicodin for over a decade, and that pretty much trashes your libido. So I’ve been a little…slow on the uptake. Those hookers have had to work damn hard (pardon the pun). Plus, the dude is 50 years old. I’m supposed to slow down anyway, so the combo hasn’t been great for me.

The sections on Season Six where you thought he was watching porn and masturbating?
Uh-uh. He was watching reruns of “Clean House” on the Style Channel. He really digs Trish. The porn was just for appearances. It takes House so long to get off that he's practically got carpal tunnel syndrome.

Ooooh…Trish Suhr…she is one hot little babe…oh, boy, I wish I could get hard…the testicles have been really frustrated. They keep sending me notes, but what am I supposed to do? I’m just a penis. (And I’m not far away from that right leg; do you know what it’s like to live near someone who never stops bitching?)

Last night, they showed you House furtively calling his team in between bouts of making sweet, sweet love with Cuddy. She’s hot, I don’t care what the leg says.

What they didn’t show you was House taking Viagra like, every half hour. The man’s an addict, you think he’d only take one? Cuddy had to spend major time-age sucking me to get me to respond, because the rest of the body HURT SO MUCH, especially the back muscles and that damn right leg. I had to get the job done, you know? Fucking somebody’s brains out is damn near impossible under the circumstances I was in (pardon the pun).

A 50-year-old guy who hurts everywhere, who was emotionally devastated the night before, who has a LOT of hidden rage against Cuddy for not only the leg but also for gutting him like a fish the night before? I had to labor mightily to surmount (pardon the pun) all of that and do my fucking job. That’s not swearing, that is literally my job. Fucking.

I should belong to the Teamsters union, that’s how much heavy lifting I have to do. But I had to strap on a pair—oh, wait, I already have a pair.

Screw the warning labels, I wish I could get an erection that lasts over four hours. It would make my life so much easier.

Bottom Feeders Of New York Fashion Week Spring 2011

DAHLINGS -

I am aware that I have been somewhat derelict in posting day to day reports about New York Fashion Week. So here are some of the rather, er, strange people one sees every day. Most of vanish into the darkness until the next Fashion Week rolls around.

Number One:

Painted Suit Man

A perennial habitue' of the central tent, this silent, eerily affectless gentleman shows up every day in a different hand-painted suit and matching hat. He never goes to the shows. But he is willing to stand for up to 10 hours, waiting to be photographed. The strategy rarely works. Note that with this newest suit, he is also rocking a pair of tight gold lame leggings. Dear God.

Number Two:

Milk Carton Man

This gentleman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Seth Rogen, is the acknowledged master of getting into the front row. Even though he is supposed to up in the back in standing row. He tends to be dirty and disheveled. Often he is moved from the front row when a actual celebrity or Fern Mallis shows up. But in a few moments he pops up elsewhere. Nobody knows who he is. My image of this men is his photo on a milk carton, asking, "Have You Seen Me?" If anyone knows who he is, please tell me in the comments section.

Number Three:

Quiet Good Taste

You have to admire this woman. Her look is distinctive. The huge white bouffant can be easily spotted. Both she and her assistant wear outfits that defy description. Well, one descriptive would be "Huh?" Apparently she has a public access show based in Long Island. Which explains a great deal.

In the interest of fairness, this is what I wore today: a dress designed especially pour moi by SKWilbur, made of denim with satin detailing on one side front and back; and a hat from 1939, made of velvet with a large satin bow in the back.

More reportage on the morrow.

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

My BFF Tim Gunn! New York Fashion Week, Day Three

DAHLINGS -

Nothing, not even the forces of New York Fashion Week, can keep Tim Gunn and moi apart. On Saturday afternoon, I stepped out for a bit of fresh air (one of the definite advantages of the new Lincoln Center location--you can find fresh air!).

If only to stand out from the SEA of black and gray, I wore a strapless 70s dress with design saying "Fashion" in gray, black, and red in a fluid print, along with a ruffled shrug and a divine 80s does 40s Empress Eugenie (look it up) red hat with a black veil.

When Tim Gunn came striding through the crowd, he was mobbed, of course. One of definite disadvantages of the new Lincoln Center location is that one can get mobbed by a tremendous crowd, despite the police presence everywhere.

That did not stop my BFF from stopping to exchange a few words and to have our picture taken together. (Note: I am still waiting for one of the the photographers to upload it to his DAMN website. Je me prosterne devant vous, mes lecteurs, dans des excuses!)

Back to the fashion. The Vivienne Tam show, well, it was very nice. The generational problem is easily apparent. I am a classicist who believes that the 1970s were the nadir of fashion. Unfortunately or fortunately, the 20-something set did not have to live through it, so they think it is all impossibly thrilling. Les imbéciles mal informés peu. But perhaps I am being ever so slightly harsh.

From my front row seat, when the first few "lace" dresses came out, all I could think was, macrame. The heavy cotton yarn that women made belts and hanging plant holders out of. Even dyed white and called crochet, it was still...macrame.

And were would the 1970s be without maxi-dresses?
I am sure I haven't the faintest notion, because the damn things were everywhere.

However, the rest of the collection was pretty, well made, and the 1970s lived again. Forgive me if I was not excited. The 1970s were bad enough the first time.

Later, when I am less exhausted, I will write more about my adventures under the tents. Because I have had adventures.

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Almost Killed Tadashi Shoji, Fashion Week, Day Two

DAHLINGS -

Your faithful correspondent almost inadvertently killed designer Tadashi Shoji at his Fashion Week presentation on Friday morning.


In my defense, may I point out that my recent illness has required me to use a cane or walking stick. (Do you know how HARD it is to find a decent looking cane??). And I was wearing black stilleto heels, the better to complement my black 1950s wiggle dress covered with velvet flowers and my matching black 1950s veiled platter hat. Walking in very high heels when you have to use a cane is NOT recommended.


So, I stepped up and entered a pitch-dark room, crammed with the usual rude masses, and the press. On one side, the models stood among wooden hand-made trees. This was supposed to be some sort of garden motif. One only wished the dresses had not been same color as the decor. I mean, there's qui and feng shui and all, but really, would making something bright red kill the man? Oh, I forgot, I almost did.

Photo: Ms. Fabulous


The dresses on the far left, which unfortunately you cannot see in these photos by blogger Ms. Fabulous, had those circular petals all over them which you can see on handbags at every street seller's corner in New York City. Who knew Mr. Shoji would use them as an inspiration?


Photo by Ms. Fabulous



IN ANY EVENT, the dresses are lovely, shimmery, the usual. Very red carpet, you know the kind of thing. So I determined to make a quick exit. Not easy when you are impeded by both a huge crowd and a cane. As a result, I found myself not only bumping into people, but crashing into people. I stumbled, and smashed into two small Asian gentleman! (Since even without heels I am almost six feet tall, you can imagine.) One of them turned--

And you know where this is going. It was Tadashi Shoji. With a stunned look on his face.

"Oh I'm so sorry Mr. Shoji the dresses are beautiful it's a lovely presentation is that a security guard must dash congratulations ciao!"

And back in the corridor was I, only slightly flustered and grateful that there would NOT be a headline on the nightly news: "DIMINUTIVE DESIGNER CRUSHED TO DEATH BY BLOGGER".

I had meant to get to the Guli show, but it takes quite a while to look truly fabulous. And it started at 9 AM! So, I went straight to my ill-fated visit to Tadashi Shoji's presentation to the BCBGMaxAzria runway show.

Do you recall the dress on a recent Project Runway that Ivy created? That was called "shapeless," "dull," "not resort at all"?

Photo courtesy of Lifetime.com

I don't think Mr. Azria was watching that night. Eer...um..





What else can one say? Gaunt models speedwalking down the runway in silk dresses of various shapes and sizes and all I could think about was Ivy. Which is NOT a good thing to think, believe me.

This was my favorite. It was darker under the lights, and the fabric had very feminine movement. As it happened, I was sitting next to Mr. Azria's financier, quite a handsome man, so I made appreciative sounds in a voice an octave higher than my own. We're seeing each other after he returns from Morocco.

By far my favorite show of the day was Ports 1961. Fiona Cibani's sister Tia has left the company. You would never know it by all of the wonderful, youthful designs. Ports 1961 always has something fresh to show, and they did not disappoint. The theme was "urban Sahara" , and although by then I had seen enough neutrals to last me the rest of my life, there was a parade of GORGEOUS liquid dresses that had me lusting to own a copy of each one.

That was a perfect show to end my day on. Being extrêmement fatigué, I opted out of attending Betsey Johnson's party in favor of a cold cocktail and a warm bed.

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Photos courtesy of Getty Images

New York Fashion Week Spring 2011, Day One

DAHLINGS -

So, yesterday was the first day of Mercedes Benz Fashion Week* in its new location at Lincoln Center. In the service of the God of Retail, most of the trees in Damrosch Park were chopped down, lest someone important in peeptoe platform boots trip over a root or something.

In any event, the main impression the central gives is HEIGHT. There is no central organizing entity, such as the Bryant Park fountain. So the room sprawls quite a bit. But it's a comfortable, well-lit sprawl. Your faithful correspondent was suitably impressed.

AND THEY HAVE FINALLY ENTERED THE COMPUTER AGE! NO MORE AGONIZING WAITS WHILE SOME POOR INTERN THUMBS THROUGH PAPER SHEETS TO FIND YOUR NAME! Some may think that barcodes render the event less human. Dahlings, it cuts down the amount of time and pretentiousness ("Don't you know who I am? I'm on the list!") by at least half.

The first day, I was more interested in exploring than in attending the shows. However, the Christian Siriano show was a MADHOUSE! I couldn't even locate my BFF, Tim Gunn! Some of it must have been spillover from the Project Runway show earlier.

The Project Runway show, for the record, showed TEN designers! That means TEN runway shows, and ONE HUNDRED LOOKS! I think I would have crawled out on my Max Azria clad knees, babbling incoherently.

In any event, after the spectacular show Christian put on last year, this one was a slight disappointment. From a young new designer, one hopes for a new young point of view. But this collection was rather safe, playing to well-worn fashion tropes and sillouhettes.


For instance, this lovely evening gown bears an eerie resemblance to the evening gowns he has done before, both on the runway and the red carpet.




This white dress is pretty, but a tad ho-hum.




However, I did rather like this suit. But if you look past the material, the construction is quite conventional.




It is this writer's guess that the reason Christian's clothes are so popular is that they are so wearable. For this collection, what it lacked in inspiration it more than made up for in "hanger appeal."


Speaking of Project Runway:


I CANNOT BELIEVE THEY GOT RID OF CASANOVA! I HAD FINALLY BEGUN TO STAND HIM!

Why not that annoying, bossy little Ivy?


And I cannot remember who won; only that it wasn't Andy or Valerie, who should have.


Until tomorrow,

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog


* If they hear you calling it New York Fashion Week, you are severely punished.

Photos courtesy of Getty Images

Fashion's Night Out! Watch It HERE Tonight!

DAHLINGS -

The good folk at Conde' Nast were good enough to send me this press release. AND you can watch part of Fashion's Night Out right here on my blog!

CBS Live Stream of FNO: The Show
CBS.com’s Live Webcast of Fashion’s Night Out: The Show, hosted by Andre Leon Talley (my former BFF) and Hanneli Mustaparta, is embedded on this site, so all of my wonderful readers can watch it right here! The player will go live tonight (Tuesday, Sept 7th) at 5pm ET/ 2pm PT. From 5-7pm teaser clips from CBS Special on Fashion’s Night Out will run. Show begins at 7pm. Please see below for the embed code.

#FNO
If you are Tweeting about the show tonight (and FNO in general!), they would love it if you would please use the official hashtag – #FNO. Their ID is @FNONYC if you would like to follow us – they shall be live Tweeting from the show and on the 10th.


LIVE WEBCAST (one hopes)




That's all for now. I am frantically trying to get ready for Mercedes Benz Fashion Week and all of its ancillary events.

ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

The Emmy's Worst Dressed!

DAHLINGS -

Due to a recurring illness, it has taken me a few days (cough) to get to this entry. However, how could I keep my beloved readers from missing this, no matter how great the sacrifice??

As in the Best Dressed, the Worst Dressed had an embarrassment of riches. And I do mean embarrassment.

WHY DIDN'T SOMEBODY TELL ME THIS WAS A RED CARPET AWARD SHOW?

Lauren Bosworth apparently thought her invitation read "Daughters of the American Revolution Afternoon Tea--no Democrats, please."

Stephanie Pratt gave new meaning to "she looked like she just rolled out of bed." When she awoke, the limo had been parked outside for more than an hour. Oh, well, everything looks dressy with heels, even a cheap Fredericks of Hollywood nightie! Doesn't it? Doesn't it? And thank you so much for the abundance of crotch shots!

Apparently Heidi Klum thought she was showing up for a taping of the runway segment of Project Runway. What else explains this dress? As she likes it on the show, too short, too tight, too shiny. Or is that what she doesn't like? So confusing!

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?

This category is for the dresses that leave one's guests looking at each other in bewilderment. Yes, Alexander McQueen is dead and we should all be respectful of his memory...but Anna Paquin's gown looks like she is starring in a bad fantasy film as "Rodarah, Queen of the Unalasians."

There is so much wrong with Saturday Night Live's Kristin Wiig's dress one hardly knows where to start. The shoulder pom-poms? The cheap-looking print fabric? The sloppy, floppy black belt?

I am usually a champion of the unusual, but Lauren Graham's gown is definitely a head-scratcher. Is the white bib to protect her dress from stray tomato sauce when the waiters are serving the pre-show cocktail nibbles? Is she afraid Lindsay Lohan is going to vomit on her? Or does she actually think it looks good? Your faithful correspondent is at a loss. There have been no photographs of the back that one can find, but perhaps that is a blessing in disguise.

And I am almost always a champion of larger lovelies, but KayCee Stroh's gown...what look is she going for, precisely? Goth 60s hippie? Two unmatching gowns worn at once? And that pattern--I'M BLIND! I'M BLIND!

Remember when Jewel was a waify litle folk singer? Neither do I. In keeping with her recent glamorous image makeover ("I'm still relevant!), she is sporting a Carolina Herrera pink wedding cake dress. This photo does not show how perilously close the dress was to sliding off her body, which made for more entertainment than the actual show.

Why on earth did Glenn Close think this ill fitting green paper bag would be a good red carpet choice? Is it because the huge baggy hem is supposed to complement her broad shoulders?

FOLIE AU DRESS

This might be called a "catch-all" category, for all of those gowns that don't fit easily into slots. First we have the Look At Me Dammit! awards.

This award is handily won by Eva La Rue. Even her name sounds like a burlesque dancer. Here, she manages to make virginal white look like ít's been around the block a few too many times.

Speaking of white vulgarity, I know that this Kardashian (I can never tell them apart) made quite a few Best Dressed Lists, but this looked trashy, as did she.

What can one say? This Narciso Rodriguez dress would be a complete snore if it weren't for the cheesy mesh insert at the waist, worn by Julia Louis-Dreyfus. The actress looks as if she divides her time between the gym and the plastic surgeon.

Now we have the general Oh, Dear category.

(I have no clue as to who this poor woman is. But the photo speaks for itself.)

Poor Toni Collette. On her way to the red carpet, her gown trailed through the mud. Perhaps that explains her displeased facial expression.

Cheryl Hines's dress reminds one of a tree that's been "toilet-papered" at Halloween. Not that your faithful correspondent would ever participate in something so common.

Elizabeth Moss's gown, like Anna Paquin's and Kristin Wiig's gowns, has a bad case of "shoulder strangeness." In this case, a large wad of fabric adorns a bunched up, badly-draped dress. The dull color doesn't do her delicate complexion any favors, either.

To finish, Keri Russell's Pepto-Bismol pink dress wasn't exactly a "pop of color" on the runway, rather a splashed bucket. The top was far too large; every time Ms. Russell moved, the breeze threatened to expose one of her pretty little breasts. Because a dress is vintage, that does not necessarily mean it is a good fit.

So, those are my choices. Please feel free to respond in the comments. But remember, I am always right.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog