Farrah Fawcett, R.I.P....Oh, Yes & Michael Jackson, Too

DAHLINGS -

Mes plus sincères excuses for the title, but it seems a shame that the end of Farrah Fawcett's long (and highly publicized) struggle with cancer was completely overshadowed by the sudden death of the self-crown King of Pop.

Not that there is anything inherently wrong with publicizing that you have cancer. These days, there is nothing inherently wrong with publicity of any kind, as Heidi and Spencer Pratt are busily proving. (For my British readers, was there ever an appropriate last name?)

Fawcett started as a sex kitten, but proved herself an highly talented, versatile actress. This writer still remembers her performance as the homicidal mother in "Small Sacrifices" (1989). She made a name for herself on both the small screen and the stage. Her "Dateline NBC" portrait of living with terminal cancer was done with a dignity rarely seen in today's "show everything" culture.




Is there anything to be written here about Michael Jackson that hasn't already been written? The media is having a collective regret-orgasm (and we know how long those last) now that the nearly-forgotten celebrity died suddenly. His videos and music are blaring out of every radio, television and car window. Suddenly, a man who spent the last half of his life being villified as a pedophile and lunatic is the Most Talented Man Of Our Generation. The label King of Pop had become a joke. Suddenly it is his title.

One commentator said (with a straight face) that Jackson's death was "the death of pop." Has anyone told Miley Cyrus about this? Does she even know who he is?

This is not to say that Jackson was not a truly amazing talent in his day, a brilliant singer/dancer who crossed the color line in music television (until he changed his own color). Seeing him in "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" saddens moi. His original face is boyish, handsome, and open. Why did he feel a need to change it, to leave his identity behind? His later song, "Black Or White," seems oddly disturbing, since Jackson's skin is almost as pale as Anne Hathaway's.

(This is a photo from 1972, when a very young Jackson recorded "Ben," a touching song about a young man's love for his rat.)

Thank goodness "Weird Al" Yankovic learned how to parody other musicians, or he would be the person your faithful correspondent would truly feel sorry for.

This evening, I overhead an African-American woman say to her friend, "Poor Michael. He didn't want to be black, and he didn't want to be a man."

Condolences to all of the survivors of these two icons.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Changing My Store Name, Dahlings!

DAHLINGS -

I was recently confronted with the fact that my store name is not being picked up by "search engines," whatever those are. A technologically savvy suitor explained to me, but of course within minutes I'd lost interest and was thinking about Kristen Johnson's recent terrifying 60-pound weight loss (what is it about Hollywood?). Here was a divinely tall, robustly built woman who now looks like a feverishly happy skeleton. Mon dieu! It must be something in the drinking water. Or maybe Rachel Zoe got hold of her.



In any event, I shall be changing the name of my Specialist Auctions store to The Mad Fashionista's Plus Size Boutique. A bit mundane, but apparently one must bow to the "bots," as my suitor called them.

Whatever the name, I am stocking my store with delightful summer chapeaus, every one of them a little gem of style.

Vintage 1950s "Bee In My Bonnet" straw hat:



http://www.specialistauctions.com/auctiondetails.php?id=1170682

Vintage 1950s velvet-trimmed straw hat by Doraine of New York:



http://www.specialistauctions.com/auctiondetails.php?id=1170760

Vintage 1960s blue feather bucket hat:



http://www.specialistauctions.com/auctiondetails.php?id=1153778

Off to read Vogue while my assistant replaces the name and logo. That reminds moi, an interesting read is "Pixel Perfect" in a recent issue of The New Yorker magazine. I don't often read anything that long, much less anything in The New Yorker. But it concerned the man who is in charge of retouching every single picture you see everywhere, at least if it's female. Quite, quite interesting.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog

The Sick & The Dead: Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn Monroe

Dahlings –

This morning I was confronted over my morning latte’ with the latest celebrity outrage. No, not the Miley Cyrus seat-belt flap.

It is Lindsay Lohan’s handlers' incomprehensible decision to have their client pose as Marilyn Monroe in an imitation of Monroe's last photo shoot with Bert Stern. (http://media.nymag.com/fashion/08/lindsay-as-marilyn/)

Stern himself, who apparently has not accomplished very much since the mid-1960s, saw a injection of career Viagra in this exploitation of the youthful hype whore. So he shot the new pictures himself. After all, he had published all 2000 photographs he shot of Marilyn in several different books, all published long ago.

These photos were called “The Last Sitting,” and were virtually the last pictures taken of Marilyn. There are many beautiful images, if you overlook the fact that Marilyn was extremely drunk and high.



(No disrespect for the dead intended. But mon cher lecteurs, the sad reality was that she was an alcoholic and addict, dying six weeks later of an barbiturate overdose.) Later Norman Mailer, may he not rest in peace, used many of these photos for his own exploitation book, a masturbatory fantasy bio titled “Marilyn.”

And now we have Ms. Lohan. When I saw the first photo, I thought she was wearing prosthetic breasts, but then I realized they were phonies of a different sort. I have no idea what this has to do with Spring Fashion 2008, but that was the section into which Star—er, New York Magazine—decided to shoehorn this pathetic travesty.

As for Ms. Lohan, she doesn’t think it is a “big deal,” but then, her actual career has not been a “big deal” for quite some time and this is the first intentional publicity she has received for several years.

I have this to say:

SHAME on all who participated in this degradation of the memory of a beautiful, talented actress who died before her time!

SHAME on all of those who brought this venal monstrosity before the public.

SHAME on those who knew the only similarities between Ms. Lohan and Ms. Monroe are gender, alcohol and drugs.

One only hopes Ms. Lohan has the good fortune to live until 36.

Regretfully,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

WHY Do They Let Idiots Be Famous?

DAHLINGS -

I was trawling the Internet in search of...I don't know, some idle entertainment, perhaps a new fashion blog as yet undiscovered...when I stumbled across an "entertainment news" site.

It was a whole new world to me. People I'd barely heard of--Ashlee Simpson, Marie Osmond, Uncle Cracker (?)--all making complete fools of themselves.

I know any number of famous people. I run into Nicole Richie on a regular basis. She's unavoidable, particularly if there are cameras around. And no sentient being can go a single day without hearing about that awful Britney Spears. I have in my Ebay store a Near Mint Condition Vintage Mickey Mouse Club jacket, size XS:



It's so terribly sad, thinking about the days when Britney was a young innocent girl. Or perhaps she was not. Who is to know what went on in the studio? Apparently Justin Timberlake, the singing parking attendant (cf. my earlier entry) was also on the show.

And then I read about some man named Kid Rock being arrested for assault in an Atlanta waffle house. Apparently this man is a" singer". Oh, yes, his mug shot quite reminds one of Tony Bennett:



How terribly suave, in a white-trash drunken way.

Mon dieu, for the days when celebrities had to DO something to be famous (except for Zsa Zsa Gabor). There was a "slideshow" of celebrities in trouble, and it was all too sordid for words.

I am going to cleanse myself by reading French Vogue.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Rubbing Elbows With George Clooney in Los Angeles

(Hello, this is Ms. DeCarlo’s personal assistant. She sent me this message several days ago, but I didn’t get to it until today. I TRIED to change the date at the top, but it wouldn’t let me. She’s going to kill me when she finds out. And that damn dog of hers snaps at me when it’s time to walk him. What have I done to deserve this job?)

DAHLINGS –

You will scarce credit this, but I am dictating this from fabulous Los Angeles, California. I had not planned to leave New York City.

But then a longtime male friend of some intimacy, who is quite well known in the film industry, BEGGED me to accompany him last night at the Hollywood premiere at the Kodak Theater of “Ocean’s Thirteen,” starring George Clooney (the only man I would kick Chris Noth out of bed for), Brad Pitt, and many other people of far lesser importance. Oh, and Al Pacino, who looks truly frightening in real life.



In reality, I first glimpsed Mr. Pacino a few hours before the premiere, when Hollywood Boulevard was still far from crowded and the sun was still out. He was whisked out of a limousine far from the fans just as my friend and I happened to be passing by...at first I thought it was a little old lady in a tuxedo, but then I realized it was the immortal Scarface himself...you can see for yourself above the wonders of Hollywood makeup artists.

About which more later. I wore a magnificent vintage Travilla, which had to be let out in a few places, but it was well worth it. Particularly when I got a good look at the movie executives’ wives. But George...ah, George! Words fail me. He looks a bit older than I expected, but then, who doesn't? (Except Bernadette Peters.)



We all had to mill about for a very long time...apparently George and his compatriots were putting their handprints in cement in front of Grauman's Chinese. Nice to know some traditions never die, isn't it?

(I wonder, is there is a store-room filled with large cement panels of has-been stars somewhere?)

In any event, did you know, Charlize Theron is utterly unable to change her facial expression? (She must be between pictures--no one could act with that much Botox in their visage). There were any number of beautiful women there, similarly unable to do much but smile, but I am afraid I cannot tell you who they were. Not because I have been sworn to secrecy, but because they had no distinguishing features, other than being beautiful and having oddly stony smiles. It reminded me of the night a male friend took me to a topless club in New York City.

There were women who could move their faces; they were the traffic controllers, as it were, the publicity assistants who ran back and forth in high heels and colorful little dresses with walkie-talkies announcing to their bosses which star was coming in which limousine.

As for the movie itself...but I promised you my interview with Meg Cabot, so the rest of my California adventure will simply have to wait. Bucky had to stay in New York…my gentleman friend is allergic to dogs. I miss my baby!

Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog

Ana Carolina Reston, R.I.P.

21- year-old Ana Carolina Reston, who had worked in China, Turkey, Mexico and Japan for several modeling agencies, died Tuesday, according to Sao Paulo's Servidor Publico Hospital. The hospital said the infection that killed the 5-foot-8-inch model was caused by anorexia nervosa, a disorder characterized by an abnormal fear of becoming obese, an aversion to food and severe weight loss. She weighed 88 pounds. (Reuters)

Dahlings -

I know that I have railed in these pages against thin models, decrying the prevalent mode of stick-figuredom that is the standard of contemporary fashion. I myself am anything but thin, for which I am profoundly grateful. Dying for Fashion is intolerably sad, and I will use this bully pulpit to say:

Shame on the fashion industry for promoting this horrendous ideal

Shame on the entertainment industry for encouraging actresses to do likewise

Shame on those who believe that womanly curves constitute obesity, or that anything short of this unrealistic, deadly ideal is bad, ugly, worth starving yourself and cutting off parts of yourself for.

Bravo for those women who stand up to this and say NO. A short honor roll:

• Rosie O'Donnell



• Mo'nique



• Camryn Mannheim



• Every Marilyn Monroe impersonator, because you have to be voluptuous to be believable



• Delta Burke



• Queen Latifah

And let me leave you with these two images, one of the late Ana Carolina Reston and one of the fashion model known as Velvet. Rest in peace, Ana.

Ciao,

Elisa

"Haute Cou-Poor" - Thank God It's Friday!

THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY!

Forgive me for using that unpardonable cliché, dahlings, but it is all too true!

I have spent all week up to my exfoliated elbows in “Haute Cou-Poor,” my program at the Fashion Institute of Technology. My nerves are stretched tighter than Madonna’s face! Sending out invitations to speakers such as Andre Leon Talley, P. Diddy or whatever he’s calling himself these days, Georgina Chapman, and many of my other comperes in fashion. It will do the ‘students’, as we are calling them (for tax reasons) so much good to listen to people who know of what they speak. I say, if we can talk just ONE student out of tattooing their neck, then my job is done.

Of course, there has to be an opening night party. It is to be held at the Beatrice Inn, a tres chic club that was once down on its luck but seems to be on the rebound. Although Courtney Love did hold her book party there—one does hope they cleaned up the stains afterwards. My first choice was the Gramercy Park Hotel. But that is still under construction because Julian Schnabel is just too fussy for words. Slap up some sheetrock, Julian, get the Picassos hung, and c’est fini!

So much to do, so much to DO! The guest list for the party is already ten pages long, and one knows that there will be any number of arrivistes trying to get in by saying they know moi. The doorkeepers shall wear white gloves and be...how can one put this tactfully...brutal if they must.

Meanwhile, my assistant keeps complaining about her workload! The lazy brute always seems to be staring into space when I come into the office, then jerks out of her reverie when I clear my throat.

When last I demanded, “What can you be thinking about,” she answered, “Suicide.” One supposes that is her idea of a joke. Personally, I prefer the dog poo worn on the duck-billed caps back in North Carolina, if you’re going to sink that low for humor. (See my earlier entry about visiting the Dixie Classic Fair.)

You will have to excuse me, I need to go agonize over what I am to wear! I have nothing, NOTHING! Three walk-in closets and not a single rag worthy of the name!

Oh, I've been so distracted, I forgot to report that a lovely gentleman at Michael Kors purchased my vintage faux fur handbag. Look for them to proliferate under the MK name next season!




Grab the hottest styles while you can at my Ebay store.

Vintage 50s Faux Fur Coat With Satin Leopard Lining XL:


Dior Navy Blue High Heeled Pumps, size 11:


And ever so much more!

And to answer the many inquiries as to what I dressed as for Halloween: I dressed as myself, because there is no one more fabulous.

Sincerely,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

Neck-Thing Wins Project Runway! Quel Horror!

Dahlings -

My deepest apologies for taking so long to write. However, when the Neck-Thing WON Project Runway--(I can barely bring myself to type this)--

I KNOW I'M NOT ACTUALLY TYPING IT, YOU FOOL, BUT I MIGHT AS WELL BE, FOR ALL THE HELP I GET FROM YOU!

Ahem. As I was saying, the Neck-Thing won.



Jeffrey's hideous hodgepodge lacked taste, talent, and something beginning with t that I cannot think of just now. I have been in a swoon ever since Black Wednesday, lying in my boudoir, the shades drawn, barely able to eat the tidbits my maid brings me. In fact, Bucky managed to snatch quite a few of them before I could reach the plate. He's little, but he's fast. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that horrendous milkmaid dress with the poufy skirt coming at me-- AAAAH!



Pardonnez moi. I'm still quite frail.

WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? GET BACK TO THE KEYBOARD!

I gaped in horror as rag after rag paraded down the runway (thank GOD I was at a real fashion show at the time!). Laura Bennett's collection has been done hundreds of times, but it was rather like an old friend showing up to hold your hand. Uli's collection actually had a few wearable garments that would show off my poitrine most cunningly--



But Michael...dear, sweet Michael, what happened? Your collection reminded one of Times Square in the 1970s! (Not that I spent much time there, but I did occasionally look out of Mama's limousine window at the passing parade.) That gold bathing suit could have been worn by a female extra in the old Star Trek series.

And then, of course, we were subjected to Heidi Klum and her team of fashion assassins. She was salivating at the idea of kicking off not one, but three exhausted designers. I am sure that if Ms. Klum had her way, they would have been drawn and quartered as well. (One question has bothered me, and I would love to have it answered: when Ms. Klum kisses some one's cheek, is it burned?)

Well, it is over and life must go on. Perhaps tomorrow I shall be able to Face Life again. I shall start by calling the fellow over at the "Haute Cou-Poor" project. It will raise the spirits to discuss Balenciaga. He must be spinning in his grave like a top right now.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Some Ghosts Have Too Much Attitude...

Dahlings,

Sunday night I attended a wonderful seance, even if it was in the Bronx. There was my dear dead friend Lana Turner, lovely as always, tonight in a white crepe gown trimmed with black (I think it was black...the dead tend to be a tad monochromatic). She brought along the FABULOUS Clark Gable! In the afterlife, he doesn't need to wear false teeth. Oh, they don't make them like that anymore. "Frankly, my dear, you have really big tits," he said, gazing into my eyes. At least I believe it was my eyes. I nearly SWOONED.


(Here is a picture of my dear friends Lana and Clark in their first film together, "Honky Tonk".)

But then, who should turn up but Elie Wiesel. The fellow was in a state of high dudgeon, because I had compared the anorexic Fashion Week models to Auschwitz survivors. "The Holocaust is nothing to make cheap jokes about, Miss!" he snapped. "My wife and I started a foundation, I'll have you know! I have devoted my life to the truth!"

I merely stared back at his spirit languidly. "Oh dear, oh dear, Elie dahling, if you can't make jokes about the Holocaust, what can you make jokes about? I have devoted my life to fashion. Really, Elie, I'm far too superficial for such a deep thinker--and a good-looking man--as you to worry about."

Well, my dears, the man just melted. Intellectuals love to be told they're sexy. Oh, yes, the Nobel Prize is nice, but they think girls really only date them for their awards. Elie gave me a big smile. "Perhaps I was a bit harsh," he said. But then, I had the most ghastly surprise. I unthinkingly laid my hand on his lapel. And Elie was ALIVE! He was a GUEST, not a GHOST!

I let out a shriek. Lana and Clark promptly disappeared, and our hostess switched the lights on.

"I'll let myself out," I said quickly, and strode out the front door, grabbing my Mr. John wool cloche hat (so chic with its multicolored rhinestone pin!). How could I know Elie Wiesel was still alive? After all, nobody knew about Noam Chomsky until a week or two ago. I was so distraught that I stumbled out into the rain, and ended up in a cemetery!

To find out what happened next, you need to read my Ebay auction, 'Vintage Corpse Bride Costume.'



Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Further Critique of Fashion Week

Good morning, dahlings -

Fashion Week is over, thank God! My head! My feet! My eyes! My very soul has been wrenched, dahlings, wrenched to its core by what is going to be inflicted on the buying public next spring. But more on that later. First, a tad of my gadding about with fashion's finest.

I met Sun, 'Japanese Pop Sensation,' at The Daily Penthouse Suite at the Bryant Park Hotel, and if this is what they consider a sensation, then suddenly I understand the phenomenon of William Hung. Sweet little thing. Bob Morris of the New York Times kept trying to get his hands down Vincent Gallo's pants, but Vincent was too busy posing and didn't want his codpiece knocked askew. I won't go into detail about my chats with various editors, creative directors, and hairdressers, because that's private dirt. At least until I get annoyed with one of them.

Anna Wintour was at every show, of course, striding about in Mahnolo Blahnicks and lashing at the proles with a riding crop. Sweet, sweet Anna. And of course Mischa Barton, who nearly trampled me trying to get to the photographers. Amazing how fast someone can move when they need publicity that desperately.

I spotted Winona Ryder at the front row of Marc Jacobs's show, and other than furtively snatching a few pieces of candy from the runway into her handbag, she was quite well-behaved. Also Dita Von Teese, a role model for women everywhere. It's so sweet how she looks after that handicapped half-blind husband of hers. Apparently Guy Trebay of the New York Times feels that Monsieur Jacobs has come into his own at last, designing clothes for those of his own generation. I'm so happy he's happy, if you know what I mean, since it's certainly not Mr. Trebay's generation. Or mine, for that matter.

Oscar de la Renta's show was tres' chic, if exactly what he has been designing since time began. Still, it's wonderful that the old dear can still work up some enthusiasm for his profession...I think. A particularly enjoyable touch was a nod to his salad days in the 1980s, as all of the models had gigantic blonde hair. Ah, for the days of Aquanet and hot rollers!

My personal favorite was Monique Lhuillier, if only because the models looked like they might have had lunch. Elegant shapes, dahlings, simplicity, simplicity, simplicity, and I don't mean Simplicity.

Later today, I will dissect some of the Crimes Against Fashion I was witness to. But in the meantime, I need to go bathe my aching tootsies. A week in stilleto heels takes something out of a woman. But it was worth it to tower over everyone else...makes it so much easier to be seen in the group shots, don't you know.

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Do take a look at my store for Real Fashion

Question From A Reader, Poor Dear

Dear Elisa,
I’m tall and thin...but the closest I’ve come to a rock star/celebrity was almost meeting Barry Gibb (missed him by 5 minutes!) ...what am I doing wrong?
signed, Kim

Kim, to answer your question: from your address, I deduce that you live in central Pennsylvania. Your problem is a simple as that. The last time I checked, there were no Amish celebrities (Weird Al Yankovick does not count, my dears). You might move to--ugh--Pittsburgh, where an occasional celebrity or power dealer is known to pass through the airport.

Oh, dear that dratted Japanese puppy is still barking. YOU THERE! GO GIVE THAT DOG ANOTHER HALF A XANAX, THAT SHOULD SHUT IT UP! Bucky has gone to a lovely home in Connecticut, and his new owners are very happy with him. Damn. I might have to sue to get him back. He didn't bark nearly this much. Perhaps I'll have him surgically altered to look like a French bulldog, they're tres' chic.