Sunday, December 24, 2006
It’s almost Christmas! Hanukkah ended the other night, so it’s time to put away the menorah and get out the votive candles.
Last night, my escort for the evening was in the mood for some high culture. So we went to Carnegie Hall to hear Handel’s “Messiah,” performed by the Masterwork Chorus and Orchestra. Of course we were sitting in a First Tier Box where only the elite sit, compliments of the management. They are too kind.
For the occasion, and since it was all about religion, I chose a classic Donna Karan black dress that was a miracle of simplicity—black, with a low square neckline, long tight sleeves, and a flowing skirt that revealed a hint of satin-shod foot. Many admiring glances were shot in my direction.
Imagine my outrage, then, as the chorus trooped out onto the stage—all of the females wearing non-designer copy versions of MY DRESS! Quel horror! Why wasn’t I informed? Thinking quickly, I drew my magenta cashmere shawl around my shoulders, pretending to have a slight chill.
Then, as the orchestra tuned up, I looked over to the next box and saw…
President Bill Clinton. And Senator Hillary.
Dahlings, your faithful correspondent was struck dumb (which takes some doing). The man is simply magnificent in person, sex appeal personified. He wore a beautifully tailored suit with a bright red tie (why do politicians wear red ties even after they leave office?). The estimable Hillary was nicely turned out in an elaborately embroidered multicolored long jacket. Even the Secret Service men looked toothsome.
A memory flashed in my mind: six years ago, Mama informed me that a portrait painter in their building was going to be painting President Clinton. Visions of somehow trapping myself in the elevator with Bill filled my brain. I said something on the telephone of that nature to Mama, who snapped, “He’s not getting any blowjobs here!” (Mama can be rather outspoken at times.)
Unfortunately, my very young nephew was visiting at the time, and I gather hearing that exchange was rather traumatic for him. I think “Grandmama” and “blowjob” had never been linked in his innocent brain prior to that.
Back to Carnegie Hall: our eyes locked, and we exchanged meaningful smiles. Oh, those blue eyes, almost as blue as my own! That thick mane of white hair. Those powerful hands…More than anything, I wanted to reach across the box and squeeze his thigh. However, the Secret Service was between us.
And perhaps he remembered that I had caused Dick Cheney’s first heart attack. (Mentioned in a post several months earlier, faithful readers shall recall.) I shuddered to think that President Clinton might think me Republican. So near, and yet so far…
As for “The Messiah,” the music was lovely, but the lyrics seemed a trifle silly. They reminded me of opera supertitles, with the same phrases repeated over and over again. Don’t they know we get “He shall feed his flock like a sheperd” the first time?
I have never understood why works such as this (and most operas) don’t get updated by modern songwriters , such as Jerry Herman. He could have easily trimmed the “Messiah” by forty-five minutes to an hour.
To moi, the story didn’t quite hang together, although the four solo singers all had beautiful voices. I am no expert on religion of any kind. Far from it. It gives me a headache when I have to think about Deep Things. Act One was about Him getting born, Act Two was utterly indecipherable, even with the lyrics in the program. “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach peace”? What on earth does that mean? Do they get pedicures?
And we all had to stand up for the Hallelujah Chorus, which was belted out quite properly. I managed to sneak another look at the President, but he was gazing at the stage.
The thought crossed my mind to sneak into his box during the Chorus, but a warning look from a Secret Security man checked me. (They can read your minds, dahlings, I swear!)
When the Hallelujah Chorus was over, a significant portion of the audience left, although we still had another three hours to go. My escort asked me in bewilderment, “Why did Handel put the money shot in the second act?” I shushed him.
Act Three, to be honest, was a bit of a yawn. I believe that it was about the Rapture or whatever some people call it. If indeed all of the dead are raised, I certainly hope I do not have to meet Richard Nixon. And who knew it could take half an hour to sing the word “Amen”?
When it was all over and we stood to applaud, I exchanged another long, meaningful look with President Clinton. And then he and Hillary were swept away, and the Secret Service made the rest of us all leave from the other side of the building.
Ah, another time, another place…and I might have caused his first heart attack. A girl can dream, can’t she? Sigh...
Bucky and I wish all of you dahlings out there a very Merry Christmas, with goodwill toward all!
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
Earlier this week I attended a performance of my good friend Martin Short's Broadway show, "Fame Becomes Me". (And it does, even though the show is closing January 7th. If you are in New York, run to the box office before it's gone!)
As my escort was picking up our tickets at the box office, I noticed a small man waiting behind us, rather scruffy, wearing a blazer that was too tight. With him was a beautiful redhead. Suddenly I realized that this little man was the immortal Bruce Springsteen, The Boss, Whatever Else He Used To Called. And the redhead was his wife, Patty Scialfa. I was a bit puzzled by his clothing--aren't shrunken blazers only worn by very young woman? However, the world of rock fashion is hardly my bailiwick. In person, Bruce looked more like Keith Richard than one would have thought, but my escort was convinced both Patty and Bruce had "work done," as the saying goes.
The sweet part was that they were bringing their teenage children to the show as well. As I passed into the lobby, a young man grabbed my sleeve.
"That's--that's Bruce Springsteen!" he said, in the tone of one beholding the Taj Mahal for the first time.
"I know, " I said, shaking him off. Let other people stare at TheBoss; I am far too sophisticated to indulge in such a pastime. Particularly because we were seated at either end of the orchestra and I had forgotten to bring my opera glasses.
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Well, Gotham Hall was simply packed on Wednesday night, where Marc Jacobs and his extremely tall partner Robert Duffy held their Venice Carnival-themed soiree. Marc simply loves New York--witness his Spring Ready To Wear 2007 collection, in which the clothes bear an eery resemblance to midtown New York street trash:
Note particularly how the second dress looks like dirty old newspaper on subway tracks. Quel chic!
Marc Jacobs contributed to trumpet his love of our fair city by costuming himselves as a pigeon, those filthy birds that drink out of puddles on the street and poop on your new Yves St. Laurent suit the first time you wear it out. Here he is, gaily befeathered, surrounded by syncophants of varying persuasions:
In real life, Marc Jacobs looks remarkably like Neckthing--I mean of course (ugh) Jeffrey Sebalia, who won this past season's "Project Runway".
So perhaps covering himself entirely was a wise choice on Marc's part. I for one, smiled at him and said nothing. At least Marc has the sense not to get his neck tattoed--yet.
Your faithful correspondent was dressed in a truly fabulous silk Venetian ballgown in a sapphire blue that matched my eyes, created in a small atelier in Paris. Rather than go with the prevailing trend of huge gold-like accessories, I wore a simple string of white pearls (real, of course) with earrings to match, my blonde hair swept up high with a small sapphire ribbon. Plunging decolletage as always. Even that hideous thing Lepore was hard-pressed to match it! Her mouth looks like a Salvador Dali artwork gone very, very wrong.
Bucky The Wonderdog made an ideal match, since he is the perfect size to be a dog at a Venetian court. He had a silk dog coat that matched my dress (the underside was synthetic, because you cannot remove dog urine from silk without leaving a noticeable stain). I carried him in my left arm. Bucky came in quite handy when any of the noticeably annoying nearly-naked dance performers mingling amongst the crowd on the dance floor came too close--as I've written before, those little teeth are razor sharp--and so fast, bless his heart! I was fortunate enough to have my dance partner whirl me away before they quite knew what hit them--or in this case, bit them. Doubtless unlike them, Bucky has had all of his shots.
The food left something to be desired...I've never read that they served Mini-Ritz crackers with the Brie in Venice of long-ago.
I danced the night away with George Milles, Robert Duffy (who whispered in my ear that just once he'd like to have his name on a purse!), and even a few important heterosexual men who would probably prefer their names not appear in print. When the final dance music ended, a shower of feathers fell from the ceiling, and a huge chorus of sneezes arose among the throng. Marc Jacobs had not taken into account his guests' allergies.
A typical uncaring New Yorker, you might say. But what can you expect of a man who dresses like a bird that defecates on couture?
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Far be it for moi to criticize anyone else’s lifestyle (although if you dare criticize mine, beware! As it says below, I have efficient and nasty lawyers).
However, the hypocrisy of that Oprah Winfrey person. Yes, I know, she's rich, she pulled herself up by her anklestraps, she insists on being on every cover of that damn magazine urging women to "be the best you can be" or "build strong bodies 12 ways" or "Join the Army" or whatever it is. Etc. etc. etc.
So, in this day and age, why bother to pretend that you are a player of the pink oboe, when it is transparently obvious that you would rather eat the dark oyster? (Note I did not say “bearded clam.”)
My personal assistant had the television on this afternoon when she was supposed to be steaming my fabulous outfits. I'm going to the Marc Jacobs soiree at Gotham Hall this evening, and I need to have a selection of devastating garments handy.
Before I had a chance to discipline the foolish lumpkin, the sight on the plasma screen rooted me to the spot. Oprah Winfrey, delightedly standing behind a half-naked woman and fondling her breasts!
“I didn’t know Oprah had a side career in soft-corn pornography,” I thought. Then, I realized Ms. Winfrey was ostensibly fitting women for brassieres on her television program.
Perhaps it was the manner in which her hands caressed each woman’s poitrine, big, small and in between. The way she lovingly fondled the curve of the cups of the lingerie. Perhaps it was the rapturous gleam in her eye. But Oprah was enjoying this far too much!
Suddenly those 'rumors' about her friendship with Gayle seemed quite plausible.
And I’m certain that the participants on the show enjoyed themselves as much as Ms. Winfrey, if the eagerly screamed “THANK YOU, OPRAH!” s from the half-naked women were anything to go by. Who knows what happened when the cameras were turned off? Probably most of these women hadn’t been felt up so well since high school. (Although there were so many women, one has to admire Oprah’s stamina.)
The rest of the program was the usual women’s’ kerfuffle, how to find the perfect pair of jeans and such. (Using size 10 women as examples--of COURSE size 10 women can find perfect jeans! My God! )
But I digress. Ms. Winfrey examined each woman’s derriere with a scrutiny that was quite discomfiting.
Yes, we all know she’ll never marry that eunuch Steadfast or Stiffpole or whatever his name is. If only she wouldn’t keep blowing smoke in the media’s eyes by pretending to blow Stiffpole. Come out, come out, Oprah! Then we will all know you are being your best possible you, as you like to say.
Must dress! Kisses!
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Thought:
We all know there is nothing like a dame. I've always liked the word dame. I hope someday I will be remembered as such: “She was a great dame," "She was one tough dame,”
I think of a dame as a gal who knows who she is. Who can be tough when she needs to be, but knows when mercy is called for.
Great in bed. Feminine without being prissy.
From "Damn Good Vintage," by the Zaftig Goddess
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I have meant, over and over again, to return to this little forum to opine about the important subjects of today, such as: who thinks the bubble skirt actually looks good? And aren't we all delighted that Jennifer Hudson stole the show in "Dreamgirls"? Of course, she is Hollywood's version of overweight, which means she is slightly underweight rather than seriously gaunt. I saw the original woman, something Holliday (do you think I have TIME to look it up?) who was large and amazingly talented.
But, it would seem the genitalia of most the males who run Hollywood shrink up when they see a powerful large woman. (The poor dears really do need therapy to get over their mothers.)
Ergo, the "semi-fat" sidekick, who isn't fat but slightly more rounded than the hollow-cheeked heroine. Such as Jennifer Coolidge. Why are all these women named Jennifer, anyway? And in that "Shoes" movie about sisters, the obese, slovely one is played by Toni Collette--Toni Collette!--whose one concession to reality is to have her bras a bit too tight in the back. At least she isn't named Jennifer.
All for now -- but I wanted to let you know that I have a singular selection of dazzling holiday fashions and jewelry, to wit:
"Dreamgirls" era 60s pink lace dress, XL:
Vintage Weiss green rhinestone necklace, signed:
Vintage 80s Joan Collins crystal pleated shoulder and bust emerald green, XXL
NWOT Niki Livas blue-green organza formal cocktail dress, size 16W:
And much more to come.
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Tip:
Prescription For Dressing: BREAKFAST
It's good psychology to start the day with bright colors, so choose something gay in a washable fabric. Breakfast coat, brunch coat, house dress, smock, skirt and shirt or slacks and shirt; + apron if you're cooking; + casual shoes, sandals or flats.
Edith Head, "The Dress Doctor"
Monday, November 27, 2006
Tonight I turn my attention to lighter topics. It's time to start Christmas Shopping for all of your loved ones, and what better place than my store, Elisa's Bounteous House of Style (link at your right)? The Vintage Blowout Sale is still going on, until November 29th. And I am also stocking my store with plenty of goodies for her, him, and the four-legged set. For example:
Patrick Cox black satin evening slippers with rhinestone buckles:
Cunning little Christmas wreath pierced earrings:
Goldtone faux ruby brooch by Monet:
Vintage stunning 50s R&K Originals turquoise wool dress, size Large:
Vintage 60s tan wool Italian cut man's two-piece suit, 42 Long:
And so much more! Yes, it is indeed a great deal of work, but as long as my personal assistant scurries at the sound of my footsteps, it is all getting done.
Which is how it should be, n'cest pas?
This weekend I attended a seance, and who should pop in but my dear dead friend Lana Turner. Lana is such a delight. We sat in the corner and chatted about the recent revelations about the bisexuality of both Katherine Hepburn and her longtime beloved, Spencer Tracy (or "Ol' Granite Face," as Lana calls him). Although it is a trifle unnerving to picture Spencer in a passionate clinch with Jimmy Stewart, as Lana said, "They can say anything about you after you're dead, and I oughta know."
Lana is a trifle envious of today's stars, who can be openly, even annoyingly, gay (Rosie O'Donnell leaps to mind), or bisexual (Madonna, although I doubt whether she notices her bed partners--she is far too busy staring at her ceiling mirror). Lana herself prefers gentlemen, but her daughter is a lesbian and it does not bother Lana in the least. "For one thing, women smell so much better than men," she remarked to me. "Anyway, most women. Some of 'em smell like tuna that's been out of the can too long, if you catch my drift."
If she had been corporeal, I would have patted her hand and agreed. But maybe it's better I didn't. One would have hated to have one's actions misconstrued.
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
TODAY'S FASHION TIP:
"As a seller, I feel black velvet....all velvets, but particularly black.....is the most underrated textile in the vintage world. It indeed is more common, and as dressier items tended to be the ones people held onto, it's more plentiful. But despite that.....it's still the most elegant. Easily accessorized, instantly glamorous. "
Vintage or Bust, the eVintage Society blog
Friday, November 24, 2006
I hope that all of you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, replete with turkey and all of the trimmings. (For you vegans out there, Tofurky and all the trimmings, whatever that may mean in your strange little world.) I certainly did, at a grand dinner hosted by--sorry, I am not allowed to say--I will only mention that I had to sign a confidentiality agreement before they would let me out of the lobby.
I am spending today in splendid idleness. And no garments that constrict the stomach in any way. (One suspects it was that last piece of pumpkin pie.)
Of course, it is obligatory to give thanks at this time of year. Not only am I grateful for my beautiful plus-sized figure and creamy skin, my thick blonde hair and well-turned ankles; I am deeply grateful for Bucky, my companion in good times and bad. The little darling would spend the entire day in my lap if he could, chewing freeze-dried bull penises (they call them bully sticks but really). Once I was carrying home a particularly large (14 inch) bully stick in the rain, and damned if the thing didn’t REHYDRATE! Quite a shock! I had my maid put it in the oven to dry out.
Come to think of it, I never did see it again…I do hope she gave it back to my dog.
This morning, I am profoundly grateful that I don’t have to spend time with:
Rosie O’Donnell (Just because she's fat, that doesn't make her interesting)
TomKat , as they are so cloyingly named
And so many other celebrities who are inflicted upon one in the course of going about one’s day. Note that I did not include Kelly Ripa. I believe the poor dear had some cause to be upset, when that strange person who looks remarkably like K.D. Lang put his/her/its hand over her mouth. (He was an American Idol, whatever that means.)
It is almost as though there is a continuum of nausea that these various annoyances induce, with Michael Richards at the absolute top of the heap, and at the bottom...let’s say….hmmm, there are so MANY…oh,say, Britney Spears, perhaps. The woman just WILL NOT go away.
Yes, in between my frantic preparations for the holidays, I did see Michael Richards’s sickening outburst, and I also saw his apology on David Letterman. First, let me say that Mr. Letterman asked very sensitive questions. Imagine if it had been Nancy Grace! “YOU HATE BLACK PEOPLE! ISN’T THAT IT? YOU HATE BLACK PEOPLE! SPILL IT!” Michael Richards would have been reduced to a babbling wreck…
On the other hand, even under the expert handling of Mr. Letterman, he was still a babbling wreck. And Jerry Seinfeld had to keep telling the audience, "It's not funny." Well, it was--if you enjoy watching Gestalt therapy combined with logorreah.
The pity of it all is, that even though Mr. Richards is doubtless wealthy beyond all dreams of avarice, his career was already over before this happened. For myself, his most memorable moment other than "Seinfeld" was pulling an enormous booger out of his nose in Weird Al Yankovich's low-budget flop "UHF". (In that movie, one must confess, the "Wheel of Fish" gag was tres amusant.)
One mused as one watched the desperate ex-comedian flounder on-camera: Doesn’t the man have a publicist? Doesn’t he know enough about show business to read a prepared statement?
Meanwhile, the young men who were the target of the attacks have hired opens-her-legs-to-the-stars attorney Gloria Allred, who was probably feeling the draft of not being in the headlines recently. My only question is a fairly mild one. Will they let us see what prompted Mr. Richards to go berserk? Or is his outburst, as they say, “the money shot”? If you know, don’t hesitate to write in. I'm sure we'll be hearing from the Reverend Al Sharpton at any minute.
Dahlings, I will write more later, but the dictation machine’s batteries are running low, and I have to go berate my assistant. I’m not sure about what, but talking about Mr. Richards has put me in a foul mood, and there is certainly something she is doing wrong.
That reminds me...the Ebay Vintage clothing community is having a Vintage Blow Out Sale from November 22-29, all items fixed price at $19.99 or less. Finish your Christmas shopping with vintage! (And please, do make me an offer on that HIDEOUS Eduardo robe!) I have many lovely goodies up for delectation, with more to come!
Vintage 70s aqua diva dress, XL B42
Vintage 80s Ultra-New Wave Asymmetrical Close Mans' Denim Jacket, XXL CH50
Vintage 80s Magadesian black leather low-heeled pumps, size 11.5W
Do stop by! The link is on your right.
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Friday, November 17, 2006
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)
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
- 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.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
When first 70s Fashion Fiascos: Studio 54 to Saturday Night Fever by Maureen Valdes Marsh crossed my desk, I admit, I screamed in horror. The caftan on the book cover alone was enough to put me in a swoon. But a pleading letter came with it, begging me to give this book my imprimatur.
Look it up.
The letter convinced me to sit down before the fire, Bucky curled in my lap, and skim the pages.
Little did I know that I would be swept up by its contents: a blend of American social history, wit, and truly hideous clothes! Ms. Marsh is a marvelous writer, with a knack for the mot juste. Of leisure suits, she writes, "Color became the key to individuality, and no shade was too effeminate for the 1970s man to wear."
The book is sprinkled throughout with fascinating bits of trivia about the American suburban lifestyle in the 1970s. It was certainly fascinating to moi, as this was my first encounter with what was considered “typical” suburbia…ugh. Since the youth of today has taken a great interest in the clothing of the decade, Ms. Marsh has provided an up-to-date Shopping Resource Guide in the back.
And while this writer (if I may call myself such) simply cannot agree that Pucci and op art have redeeming qualities, this book is well worth the reader's while. It belongs on any bookshelf of those interested in fashion, humor, and of course, the 1970s.
As I gather they used to say, "Can you dig it?"
One can indeed.
I have tucked away in my Ebay store a garish nylon robe by Eduardo, a designer who actually studied under Pucci. It has been my secret shame, but now, thanks to Ms. Marsh, I have the courage to unveil it. It is a size Large/Extra Large. And of course, I have many pieces of much finer quality. Please overlook this one lapse. Or purchase it, so that I do not have to look at it any more. (You can find my store in the link on the right, Elisa's Bounteous House of Style.)
Ciao,Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Thursday, November 09, 2006
I'm still recovering from that wild post-election party I went to. A conga line of Democrats, the Republicans hiding in the library, puffing cigars and grumbling...it was such fun!
But one has to atone for one's sins, so today I am drinking green tea for its antioxidants and eating chocolate, because...well, because.
And now Donald Rumsfeld has stepped down. That image always makes me imagine someone stepping off a wooden apple box in the middle of a meadow, I don't know why. I'm not up to any Deep Thoughts myself, but I received the most charming note today from a stricken reader, poor fellow.
Dear Ms. Hoardmeister -
I've written to you because I thought you would understand my problem. I've always had problems with men. My last boyfriend was Morgan. Morgan was…well, he was special. Tall, handsome, and always on top. That’s what I need. Once I touched his bunghole, he didn’t speak to me for three days!
I know, I know, too much information, but that’s me, in my head, out my mouth. Finally I cried and asked him to forgive me, and then everything was all right. Until Morgan dumped me for a hot Asian waiter at the Saigon Grill. That used to be our place. Men like Morgan, they do what they want. Men like me, I do what they want, what can I say?
I'm writing to you, Ms. Hoardmeister, because I’m in love. I really am. But I can’t tell anybody. It’s like when I was growing up. Being gay was “the love that dare not speak its name.” Well, it’s worse.
I’m in love… with a… Republican.
Please don't hate me. This is the real thing, I can tell from the way I feel when I see him on CNN. I was killing time in Borders Bookstore, and I picked up a copy of Rumsfeld: A Personal Portrait, by Midge Decter. I thought I’d have myself a good snicker. But the word she used to describe him was: manliness. And oh, yes, those photos of him in a college-wrestling outfit--I’d like to be underneath him on a mat!
I had to buy the book, Ms. Hoardmeister. I made sure they put it in a bag. He’s my dream man: Donald Rumsfeld: the ex-Secretary of Defense. I can tell he’s a top.
I never watched the news, but I became a CNN junkie, just waiting for Donny to come on. Those teeth, that smile…I don’t call him Rummy like other folk, I call him Donny. It’s my pet name.
I fantasize about our perfect evening together. Donny would pick me up at my hotel in a big limo, and then he’d take me out for dinner at the Capital Grill. That’s up there in DC. He’d probably drink something real sophisticated, and I’d have a pina colada. And we’d have the best table. Everybody would be looking at us and talking about what’s going on. His wife knows he’s gay. But you gotta be careful about the media. Even they get tired of writing about Brangelina! Donny’s got two butch lesbian bodyguards, they are so interesting, they used to have to guard the Bush twins. But that got to be too much nightlife so they asked to switch.
He’d order for me, and he’d remember what I like. Donny wouldn’t even have to look at the menu. Because he’d care so much. He’d order me a hamburger, and he knows I don’t like American cheese, he’d remember I like goat cheese, it’s real sweet. (Most people from the South don’t like goat cheese.) We’d have a nice long dinner. He’d tell me all about his plans for the war, whichever war it was, there’s so many going on all the time. It’s hard to keep up!
Donny would confide in me how stupid President Bush is and how crazy-making it is to try to get Dubya to understand a single thing. Even with pictures. One problem is that Dubya is irrelevant, you know what I mean? Who listens to him any more? Now he’s trying to ban gay marriage. The whole world going to hell in a hand basket and Dubya wants to ban gay marriage. That’s the problem in Iraq; all those crazy gay couples blowing up US troops. Please. Well, at least Dubya said he’s the “Decider” when it came to Donny and all those generals. The “Decider.” Sounds like a character in a bad video game, doesn’t it?
Donny would say he won’t go hunting with Dick Cheney, ‘cause once that ole guy has a shotgun and a couple of Stella Artois in ‘im, you better look out! Donny calls him “Deadeye Dick.”
After dinner, we wouldn’t have dessert at the Capital Grill. ‘Cause it’s kinda bright and noisy. We’d go somewhere dark with a candle. Dessert and coffee. Something fruity, ‘cause with all the kissing that’s gonna happen, you wanna eat something clean. Like lemon sorbet at a wedding. ‘Cause you don’t want to feel all full when you have Donald Rumsfeld lying on top of you.
And we’d go back to my hotel, and I don’t have to tell you what would happen next. Other than that would be lots and lots of explosions. Oh, that night would absolutely nuclear. In a good way. He has totally occupied my heart. He’d invade me again and again, but I wouldn't ever want him to pull out.
And now it's all over, and he's leaving the government. I am heartbroken. I can only hope his replacement is suitably butch.
Thanks so much for listening! I feel so much better. Kisses!
Poor, sweet boy, such an innocent. I can't answer for the replacement's masculinity, but I hope he is a suitable match. I know what unrequited love feels like all too well, although in my case it wasn't for a man, it was for a Vionnet snatched up by an unfeeling witch with no feel for true quality. It haunts me to this day.
Oh, dear, I am completely fatigued. Off to take a hot scented bath using my specially hand-made soap by Sarah Jessica Parker.
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Monday, November 06, 2006
You may not believe it to gaze upon me, with my lush décolletage, long legs, creamy skin and blonde hair, not to mention my impeccable fashion sense, but I do think about Deep Issues. Quite often, until they give me a headache, which is usually after about ten minutes.
But I felt compelled to express myself to you, dear readers, about tomorrow, which is Election Day.
And while I admit it is not as important as who won Project Runway (shudder), it seems from this vantage point that we will be seeing a remarkable shift from Republicans to Democrats, at least in the House. Since I myself am a registered Independent…at least I think I am, I’ll find out when I go to the polls tomorrow…
(Note to self: look up where the damn polling place has moved to. We don’t want to end up in an elementary school gym again, surrounded by goggling schoolchildren.)
IN ANY CASE, President Bush seems to be having quite a reaction on his fellow Republicans when he shows up to “support” them--they tend to run screaming over the hills. I fear the dear First Chap has not read the newspapers in recent months, except perhaps the New York Post. That little hometown paper of mine is so over to the right it’s about to fall off the face of the earth. And at times I wish it would. (Especially when the paparazzi are awaiting me outside of restaurants! They only print the UNFLATTERING pictures!) Today in Pensacola a Republican candidate leapt off a bridge and swam away, ready to risk death by gators rather than political death by association with Dubya.
I shall of course be going to a very exclusive post-election party. My ensemble must be carefully chosen so that I don’t look too conservative, or too liberal. One doesn’t wish to be harangued by the losing side.
Oh, dear, I feel a headache coming on. Bucky, let’s turn our attention to the nude couple who had a fight at the waffle house, shall we? Ever so much more fun.
Remember to get out and VOTE! And then reward yourself by buying one of my trinkets! (Or if you are a man, buy your significant other a trinket.)
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
Coming Attractions: a review of 70s Fashion Fiascos by Maureen Valdes Marsh, by none other than moi. I confess, I screamed when I pulled the book out of my mail pile and saw the hideous caftan on the cover, but it is a fine work after all.
Friday, November 03, 2006
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.
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Monday, October 30, 2006
I have reason to celebrate tonight! Break out the Krug!
That marvelous Bill Gates, when he was throwing all of his money at charity, happened to hit a foundation that has made a deal with moi to sell them vintage clothing. The purpose: to introduce the great unwashed to the great couturiers. The program is called "Haute Cou-poor." Isn't that simply cunning? (I thought of it, of course, mostly because so little goes with "indigent.")
We shall have classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology (Parsons School of Design turned me down FLAT because of my remarks about Project Runway--petty, petty, petty!). Some of the proposed class titles are:
Why Foundation Garments Are Vital To History, or: Would Marie Antoinette Have Been Such A Fool If She Didn't Have To Wear A Corset?
Stylish Is Better Than Stylin'
When Too Much Is Simply Too Much - The Aesthetics of Bling
A History of Fashion In Pictures (with flashcards for students to study)
How To Pronounce Poiret, Vionnet, and Schiaparelli
The Little Black Dress - Why?*
How To Talk Down To Salespeople And Employees - An Invaluable Skill
The students shall be as putty in my beautifully manicured hands. No, of course I am not going to do any of the actual teaching! I'm far too busy being fabulous to soil myself by hard labor. Interns will be hired from FIT, with a tiny stipend (I deserve most of the money, seeing that I am not only designing the courses, but also selling--er, providing--many of the finer examples of couture to be used as examples.) I have always wanted to feel that I was giving something back.
As long as it didn't take too much effort.
My prayers have been answered!
Off to pour some Krug into Bucky's Waterford crystal water dish,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
* I think at least one philosophy class should be included, don't you agree?
Sunday, October 22, 2006
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.
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Forgive this uncharacteristically sentimental entry, which I promise will not descend into bathos (look it up). But yesterday Bucky the Wonderdog, my miniature pinscher, was nestling in my lap. He would have been purring if dogs purred. As it was, he made little happy noises, barely audible, burying his nose in my hand. I stroked his black silky ears and thought, what a comfort the little fellow is in this mad existence of mine. My nights spent in a whirl of parties, my days spent up to my elbows in fabrics and berating my assistant...it's all too much, my dears, too much. I have a very sensitive nervous system, which too few appreciate.
I HEARD THAT SNICKER, YOU!
Excuse me. The new maid was bringing in my morning Hawaiian kona coffee and croissants. Two days and the woman has already developed a most unpleasant attitude. She even disabled the Hide-A-Cam in her room, and threatened me with legal action if I tried to have it repaired! Hmmmph.
But back to Bucky. Animals have such purity about them. Whether they're loving you or trying to kill you, one always knows where one stands. I adore this little dog, and he adores me. His glossy black coat is soft, his little brown eyes are bright, and his tail wags all of the time. The barbaric practice of cutting off miniature pinscher's tails after they are born...it should be outlawed! I mean, what if people went about cutting off parts of their babies after they were born?
Oh, wait, some do. But not their tails. Yes, I know babies don't have tails, but I'm only writing this on one cup of coffee.
Pour me another cup, you. Milk, no sugar. Now go and set out my wisp of chiffon for the day. I'm in the mood for pink. SCAT! (Haven't learned the thing's name yet, I'll have to ask my assistant when she comes in.)
I shall never FORGIVE myself for giving Bucky to those hideous peasants in the wilds of Connecticut! But Bucky has forgiven me, that is what is important. Selfless love, that is what a dog offers. And the ability to look adorable in funny little outfits.
This is his custom-made raincoat by Dogedesigns in Canada. You can find them at http://www.dogedesigns.com/, they carry a marvelous range of things! Ever so much more chic than Petsmart. I admit, Bucky did bite me pretty hard when I was putting this raincoat on him, he has an aversion to clothes. Ironic, is it not? It is the one thing my assistant simply refuses to do! Dressing Bucky! 'Twas ever thus, they try once and never again. So it is left to me, which is why all of his outfits have Velcro. Otherwise my beautifully manicured hands would look like ground beef. The little dear has such sharp teeth, and can move so fast! I'd be quite proud of his prowess if it weren't for the pain, the blood, and the tetanus shots.
Lest I give a false impression of my dog, please realize that his is a loving nature, as many can attest. When I come home, he simply explodes with joy, wriggling and licking my face. He jumps up and down, until I pick him up, whereupon he licks all the more. Bucky follows me from room to room, hopping up next to me whenever he can and nestling his little warm body against mine. He sulks when I am at the computer because there is nowhere for him to sit. He is just slightly too big to sit in my lap when I'm at the keyboard. As I write this, Bucky is rolled up in a cashmere throw on the Louis Quinze sofa. There is a chill in the air this morning. I have considered having a chair made with a doggie bed attached. And there is a great deal to be said for having something to love, so much.
Enough sentimentality, back to business. But one small peeve: I am NOT Bucky's "Mommy". I did not whelp him. I can almost stand the term "companion animal," but don't push it.
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Friday, October 13, 2006
Yes, I needed a very large daiquiri, but I steeled myself and watched the 'Finale Part One' (isn't that an oxymoron? Moron being the operative word) of Project Runway the other night.
Mon dieu. So it seems the Neck-Thing, or Jeffrey, as he is named, did not do the sensible thing with his $8,000 and get a chin implant. Rather, he outsourced his sewing. Naughty boy. Meanwhile, poor Laura, who simply cannot stop breeding, was upset enough to report him to that tall fellow who oozes sympathy. Emphasis on the ooze. I checked the Project Runway message board out of curiosity. Again, mon dieu! Do these illiterate peasants know how to spell? They certainly do not know how to type. In fact, they are as pathetic as my personal assistant--
DON'T YOU DARE GIVE ME THAT LOOK! KEEP TYPING, YOU NIGHTMARE IN LEGGINGS!
Excuse me. As I was saying, are these people all in junior high school? (Public junior high school, I hasten to add.) All of the messages calling Laura obscene names, threatening to never watch the show again if Neck-Thing gets disqualified...
I was going to say, Get A Life, but William Shatner beat me to it, years ago. Damn. The home visits were nice enough, thank goodness Vincent did not make it to the Final Four. And the program was blessedly Klum-free. Although I did not believe for a moment the tall man's comment that she finds kicking people off the show painful at times. If she does, it's painful in a good way, if you know what I mean. The woman should have been a dentist.
Speaking of dentists, I had the oral hygienist give me a thorough cleaning. My teeth are as sparkling as when I first got my Zoom whitening. And my assistant has been interviewing new maids. It's impossible to get good help these days, as my dear friend Foxie remarked.
But I digress. While perusing the website, I was shocked--shocked!--to find out that a size 6 model is considered PLUS SIZE. Are these people deranged? That model was the only one whose knees looked remotely like knees, and not like baseballs balanced on twigs! THIS is what an actual size 6 looks like, my dears:
I have written here before about the shocking trend toward the Dachau look in fashion, and the disturbing rise of the clavicle. (And an ill-tempered clavicle it is!) We women of Rubenesque dimensions must band together and DEMAND that fashion take note of bosoms, buttocks, legs, plump dimpled elbows, and all of those other beautiful touches that make a female...well, female.
One can only be grateful to have missed the 'Everyday Woman' episode. These people must be stopped. Please send in suggestions for ways to take action!
And now to business--here are some lovely fashions I am offering for the normally-endowed female:
Ciao for now,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
ISABELA, PACK YOUR THINGS! NOW! BEFORE I CALL THE IMMIGRATION SERVICE!
AND YOU'D BETTER BE GONE BEFORE I GET BACK!
AND REMEMBER, THERE ARE HIDE-A-CAMS EVERYWHERE, SO DON'T YOU DARE STEAL ANY OF MY WISPS!
Off to the dentist...
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Monday, October 09, 2006
The necklines. Plunging necklines, with nothing to plunge under them! The clavicles, my God, the clavicles! The models were stick figures with the boniest clavicles since Audrey Hepburn (yes, yes, I know she had great style and a lovely accent and every teenage girl who doesn't want to grow breasts adores her).
But dahlings, in later life Audrey CONTINUED to appear in strapless gowns, with collarbones larger than cricket bats! Did the woman have her mirror smeared with Vaseline?? What sort of an example to set is THAT?
As my dear dead friend Lana Turner told me, "It's better to have big Bazooms, because you can always buy a push-up bra." Yes, her phrasing was common, but it was SINCERE. From the heart. A no longer beating heart, true, but a heart nonetheless. (I didn't bother to enlighten dearest Lana on the latest surgical techniques, it might have gotten her upset and she would have vanished into the hereafter.)
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Today's Fashion Tip:
Cowboy boots are being worn by women in large metropolitan cities in the Northeast, often with short flirty skirts. Bear in mind: unless you are under 18, you will look less like Daisy Duke and more like Daisy Duck.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
We are back in New York in my fabulous Central Park West apartment. Bucky has been rescued from the doggie spa, where his toenails were trimmed but NOT painted, an omission I will remind them of. I like to have Bucky in a French manicure, it looks SO stylish on naturally black nails. My hostess in North Carolina, although a woman of great style and taste, does not care much for dogs.
I had the (mis)fortune of tuning in to "Project Runway" last night. My dears, is this Fashion In The True Sense? I think not! Is this how we want to encourage the next generation of designers? By disemboweling them on the tube? Heidi Klum, who reminds me of nothing so much as a sadistic Nazi commandant in drag, has ruined the sunny, happy image I had of her from those glasses ads in shop windows.
Not that the other fashion phonies surrounding her were any better. They'd all sell their mothers into prostitution if they thought it would get them a network deal. Perhaps they already have?
The gleam in Ms. Klum's eye as she surveyed the formerly disgraced contestants (that strange female hippie and the angry old queen--yes, I know he's married, but spare me) walking out in confusion, and the other designers grabbing each other's lapels and looking as if they'd soiled themselves--well. Our Ms. Klum was having a high old time.
Doubtless she spends her private time torturing mice at the bottom of wooden barrels: "You. First you are in. Then you are out. But now you are SQUISHED!" I pity her children.
And the clothes--mon dieu, the clothes! If that strange little blond accented female--Oolee, I think her name was--made one more colorful flowy boho dress, I was going to throw myself out of the nearest window. Laura Bennet, the preggers one with the ostentatiously dyed red hair and razor cheekbones, did lovely things, even if they were all painfully derivative of styles past. However, she does live in New York City, so one must forgive her mistakes and move on.
But who was that THING with the tattoos around his neck? Does he have the faintest idea of how that will look when he is a chicken-necked oldster? (Oh pardon me, people like that don't tend to grow old.) All it did was draw attention to the fact that he could use a chin implant. Not the intended effect, one supposes.
Call me mad, but the fashions that Michael Knight made...with the exception of that long purple dress that belonged on a female extra in "Shaft"...were quite marvelous. He has a real respect for the rounded female figure, and when was the last time you saw THAT quality in a fashion designer?
Must dash - I have many splendid things to list. Halloween has turned out to be very busy at the Bounteous House of Style, so I have to keep listing! First I have to locate my assistant, who sneaked out of here while I was dictating this into my personal recorder for transcription. Probably on the floor of my closet sobbing again. I do wish she wouldn't do that, she tramples my gowns.
Here is some of what you will find:
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Dahlings, I am in beautiful North Carolina, where the weather is simply too luscious for words. Rather like moi. Blue cloudless sky, perfect temperature, and so many trees! It is quite startling how many trees they have down here. Miles of them.
"But what," I hear you ask, "is a cosmopolitan to the core such as voux doing in the land of the deeply in-bred?" My dears, I traveled here to visit the most adorable man who has an ENORMOUS...
Basement full of vintage clothing. Now clean your minds out with soap.
Beautiful things, classic things, and also some rather horrendous things from the 8Os that I recoiled from touching. Racks and racks and racks. My assistant gave some ridiculous excuse for not traveling with me (family emergency indeed--is her mother's quadruple bypass surgery really more important than preventing me from touching anything dusty? So I brought a box of latex gloves. I simply THRIVE under duress). The proprietor was simply too divine, waiting on me hand and foot, and a font of information about his wares. And one suspects, heterosexual. Always a rarity in this business, and such a pleasure to run across.
I came away with some fascinating items which I will be listing the instant the limousine deposits me at my fabulous New York home.
One must keep one's horizons broad by leaving even such a wondrous place as Manhattan occasionally, and getting in touch with the peasants. I did that by attending the Dixie Classic Fair, an experience which will have my creamy skin crawling for years to come. When I tell you that the best looking attendants at the fair were the swine in the livestock shed, and I do mean the pigs, you will know what I mean.
At every turn, my senses were assaulted by bad taste. While I was garbed in a beguiling sundress, large yellow picture hat, and moderately high-heeled sandals, all about me were women in ill-fitting lace trimmed camisole tops and bursting short-shorts, and men in witty t-shirts such as "I Don't Have A Drinking Problem. I Drink, I Get Drunk, I Fall Down. No Problem!" or "My Teammate In Duke Lacrosse Raped A Girl And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt." Riotous, I tell you.
No hair-do was too outdated to be worn by either sex, although the women had the slightest edge, between the peroxide and the backcombing. Plus, many of their "menfolk" wore duck billed caps, some hilariously decked out with fake (I assume) dog poo. Although from the general lack of personal hygiene, it could have been real. Perhaps even their own.
Maybe putting poo on display is a code among these people: "Look what a big'un I did this morning! Gotta love them biscuits!" Who knows?
I took refuge in the agricultural shed, where a tall old man named Virge attempted to take advantage of me near the Large Vegetable exhibit! He was a fairly large vegetable himself, cooing idiocies through his few remaining teeth: "You're a Yankee, but you're not a damn Yankee. You're mighty fine, come on, rub those mamas against me." I tried to struggle in a dignified way, not wishing to give a bad impression of the North.
When fortunately Virge's wife Suzi, a square woman with a block of white hair in a Quacker Factory knock-off, clocked her husband on the back of the head with a sample book of "How To Make Desserts With Honey." I quickly made my escape and ended up in the poultry shed.
To digress: when I was a wee (well, not so wee) girl, I was attacked by a duck at the Central Park Zoo. I thought it would be an excellent idea to take one of her ducklings home. Mother Duck differed, to the tune of using her beak and sharp talons. My nanny beat the feathered terror off with an umbrella. But to this day my flesh crawls at the sight of mallards. There were no ducks in the poultry shed, but the sight and smell of all of those feathers...UGH.
Speaking of people who look like ducks, what is that skinny bitch Nicole Richie up to these days? I knew her adopted father, in the Biblical sense, in his salad days. He must be so embarrassed by her. If you speak to him, let him know all he has to do is pick up his Razor and give me a jingle. Once you've had semi-black, you can never...well, actually, that's not true. Sorry.
Excuse me, my hostess is calling me to late supper...later, dahlings.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
It's getting so that if you turn your television on in the mornings to anything but Turner Classic Movies, you are taking your very life into your hands!
My topic today is Rosie O'Donnell's behavior on "The View." It is at the tip of everyone's tongue (especially if they are women who like to dress in extremely masculine clothes and pomade their hair). The woman must be stopped. Yesterday she attacked Joy Behar. Now, Ms. Behar dresses abominably. But she is tres amusant and seems like someone it would be enjoyable to have a glass of Scotch with. However, Rosie said of her, "It's this witch I can't stand." Now if that isn't the pot belly calling the kettle black I don't know what is. Ordinarily I would defend one of my large-size sisters, but really, Rosie must be stopped. Does one need to spend one's mornings looking at an enraged bull-dyke in primary colors? "The View" is rapidly turning into the late unlamented "The McLaughlin Report."
The only woman angrier than Rosie O'Donnell is Mrs. Cheney, which is why the latter is assiduously never shown. Come to think of it, neither is her husband, but no matter. Rosie's eyes absolutely SIMMER with rage, dahlings. Perhaps some medication is in order, and I don't mean for moi in this instance. Now, why is Rosie so angry? She is famous, married to a lovely woman, has a number of children and more money than George Bush. Not choices that I would make (except the money and fame), but honestly.
I do hope it is not her weight, which after all she has always worn beautifully. She is comfortable with her body. If anything, I would put her in clothes that emphasize her size and her sexual preference. Do away with the bulky blazers and black underlayers! Choose beautifully tailored menswear with plenty of cleavage, wingtip shoes, and bold jewelry. We are talking silk blouses in those bright colors she loves, and perhaps gray pinstripes in a cashmere/linen blend. Now, don't you think that would make the poor woman feel better?
That's my advice to ALL of you, dahlings. Celebrate who you are! Even Bucky sulks if I put on his plain black harness...he much prefers the Burberry. But not the Chanel, he tends to be a bit overly macho. But that is how miniature pinschers are.
Speaking of celebrations, I shall be listing more beautiful things today...silk dresses, silk blouses, coats...every piece of clothing a celebration of you. As long as you buy it, of course.
Ciao for now,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
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.'
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Saturday, September 23, 2006
I am SO SORRY that I have not written further about Fashion Week! All of you poor souls are slavering for my opinions on all of the shows I went to, whether by invitation or sneaking under the tent folds.
Some of the shock and awe I experienced can be explained in one picture:
There isn't enough tulle in the KNOWN UNIVERSE to make these emaciated drug addicted children look like women in any sense. You could get razor cuts by shaking their hands. And they were everywhere at Fashion Week, dahlings, staggering down the runways. At the Behnaz Sarafpour show, there was so much room room between Natasha Poly's thighs you could hear the wind howling...or perhaps it was the horrified spectators. The Luca Luca show, where the fashion was as redundant as the label's name, bony knees and gaunt arms were the order of the day.
As a shall we say, robust female, I was deeply disturbed by the prevailing notion that to be fashionable is to look like you've been rescued from Auschwitz. Or like a bobblehead doll. Even such steadfast purveyors of beautiful clothes such as Vera Wang and Carolina Herrera used these stick figures.
I made sure to sit in the front row of every show, blatantly eating chocolate. And enjoying the moans of hunger from the models as they passed before me. Hana Soukopova nearly leapt off one runway and attempted to seize the Toblerone from my hand, dahlings, before her harried handlers dragged her off screaming in some foreign language. I think she was saying, "Give me some food! Or some more heroin!"
But enough about that. I shall be selling some divine Halloween costumes at my Ebay store, Elisa's Bounteous House of Style, in sizes from Small* to Extra-Large, with an accent on the Extra. Do come take a look!
Ciao for now, dahlings,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
* Small as in stature, not as in anorexic.
Monday, September 18, 2006
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.
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Do take a look at my store for Real Fashion
Saturday, September 16, 2006
That wonderful Isaac Mizrahi just pronounced that "Fat Is The New Black." On national radio, no less!
I have been promoting this idea fashion-wise ever since I was a buxom young lass. At last, society has caught up with moi.
Fashion Week has been quite, quite the experience, as I might have written before. One designer's show could have been titled "Attack of the Skinny Teen-Agers," as a parade of bulemic heroin addicts in 5 inch heels stumbled down the runway in evening gowns meant for women twice their age and size, with that glazed look one associates with continual hunger and drug abuse. There were a number of paramedics outside the white tents at New York's Bryant Park (yes, I know it's near the Fashion District, but it's so...midtown). They dashed into the backstage areas periodically, signalled by frantic designers, to administer emergency doses of protein powder and methadone.
All for now. I shall celebrate Mr. Mizhari's pronouncement with a banana split (Kahlua makes an excellent substitute for hot fudge, dahlings). It almost makes me forgive him for Target.
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I'm so sorry I didn't finish the tale of my Adventure, but that man from the foundation almost talked my shell pink ear off! He has some RIDICULOUS idea that the fashions have to be “practical.” HA. When was fashion ever practical? Did Dior think practical when he designed the New Look? Were the British being practical when they introduced the mini skirt? Have the Japanese been practical when they design anything? If the proletariat want practical, I say, give them blue jeans, not Balenciaga.
Back to my Adventure. I got out of the taxi, pulled a strange piece of paper off of the back of my suit (it must have been something on the taxi seat…ugh…I should have used a private car service), and rang the bell. The couple that live there was unpleasantly surprised to see me, as well they should have been. I towered over both of them, simply quivering with righteous rage.“GIVE ME BACK MY DOG,” I said, my eyes boring into the husband’s. He flushed and invited me in.
My dears, the interior was a nightmare of Ikea and Target! I mean, they had a Thomas Kinkaid painting over the couch. Painter of light, indeed. After I had settled myself delicately on some Swedish thing passing itself off as a sofa, they proceeded to ply me with cheap Chianti and Philly strawberry cream cheese (served in the container) and crackers.
Then they told me:Bucky had loosed his collar and run away, apparently because he missed me.
I couldn’t believe my ears. They said it had happened days ago, but they had been too heartbroken to tell me that my darling little dog had disappeared into the woods of Connecticut. Probably to be devoured by a raccoon, or worse.
My heart cracking, I let out a wail of grief—and was answered by a storm of barking! BUCKY!
I dropped my Chianti and Philly smeared cracker on the floor (no great loss, the carpet was white shag), and leapt to my feet. Which is no mean feat when you’re wearing stiletto heels! “Bucky, my precious, Mummy is coming!” I cried out, and ran out of the living room in the direction of the frantic barking. My incredibly keen hearing discerned that it was coming from upstairs. How could I have ever thought his barking was piercing?
There was a huge pile of dirty laundry at the top of the stairs, but I vaulted over it, to be confronted with Walt Disney wallpaper and pink moldings. Faint from the décor but determined, I followed Bucky’s barking to a bedroom door where he had been shut up, and yanked it open. BUCKY!
He hurled his tiny, wiggling self into my arms, and at that joyous moment of reunion it didn’t even matter that he urinated down the front of my Yves St. Laurent suit. We were Together.
But then I turned, and heard the sound of the unspeakable couple coming up the stairs! With my free hand, I grabbed a handful of soiled laundry and HURLED it into their faces! Fortunately, it was dirty underthings! And not dainty wisps, I can guarantee you that!
Blinded and gagging, they fell back down the stairs!I ran down the stairs, past the couple trying to extricate themselves from the compost they called underwear, and leapt into the taxi.
“FLOOR IT,” I screamed at the driver. He had been amusing himself with a copy of “Barely Legal” and didn’t anticipate my sudden arrival into the back of his automobile. But to his credit, he dropped the magazine and gunned the motor, even though I assume his fly was open. (I was not about to look over the driver’s barricade.) We flew out of the driveway, spitting gravel. I kept my head down until we were back on the highway.
So, THAT, my dahlings, was my Adventure. Bucky is laying in his little marabou trimmed handcrafted artisanal dog bed as I write this, and all is well with the world. Except for the hired help. Where IS that lazy maid with my chamomile tea?
I shall write about Fashion Week a bit later today. For now, all I can say is...ugh. If I wanted to dress like an anorexic teenager, I'd have my jaw wired shut.
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
I am going to ignore that comment on my previous post. Let's just say that I have the employment agency on speed dial. One cannot trust those foreigners...
AHEM. But back to moi, a personage of far greater importance than someone who cannot appreciate the finer things in life, even though she has the privilege of dusting them.
About my Adventure, the effects of which I am still feeling, sensitive soul that I am…
As far as I was concerned, it was time to get back my darling Bucky (a pure-bred Miniature Pinscher of impeccable background, if a bit too inclined to lick his private parts when I am entertaining). I had threatened the upstarts who had him with legal action, and their response was too vulgar for me to retype here. I didn’t appreciate the poor dear until I had the damnable Japanese puppy…sometimes, as the song lyric so eloquently put it, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
So, yesterday I took a taxi out to Connecticut, to confront these nouveau riche riffraff. I was garbed in an impeccably tailored I-mean-business suit by my good friend Yves, and stiletto heels to further emphasize my height. I told the taxi to wait for me, because I had a feeling this was not going to be pleasant. Little did I know…
Oh, drat, that’s the cell phone. The representative from the foundation where we are setting up “Haute Cou-Poor,” what can he want NOW?
Later, dahlings. My apologies for calling you hooligans. The intolerable strain I’ve been through made me momentarily lose my tact.
No sooner had I opened a copy of the National Enquirer (my maid's, not mine), I discovered poor Anne Nicole's son had passed away at age 20. Of a massive heart attack, in a hospital, no less. I will refrain from speculation in honor of the dead. Poor Anna Nicole. I sense a VERY large box of Ding-Dongs in her immediate future.
With all due respect,
I had the most EXCRUCIATING adventure yesterday! But I am still trembling, and ever so fatigued, so the telling of my escape will have to wait until later today.
For now I have to have my maid draw a hot bath (no, not with a pencil, you hooligans), and soak in the tub with my custom-made lavender fragranced soap that Sarah Jessica Parker created just for moi...it had a little SJP monogram on it, until it got washed off.
Sarah's a lovely little person, very little, in fact she frequently gets lost when she stands behind Salma Hayek or Anna Nicole Smith in crowds. But with Anna Nicole, who wouldn't? Not that I should speak ill of one of my sisters in bosomhood. But Anna Nicole is even more common than my assistant, and that is saying something.
Until later, dahlings -
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sorry, no time for chit-chat. I'm busily filing a lawsuit against those parvenus who have Bucky and refuse to give him back. It seems he has not bitten any of THEM. Give it time, I say, give it time.
You might like to know that I am wearing a cunning little--well, not SO little--wisp of rose chiffon, this time trimmed with sable. It's vintage (of course it has been thoroughly cleaned, or so my assistant assures me), so it still has the little heads on it. Very cunning, so animalistic, don't you know. And when I get annoyed, I bite one of them, and it can't bite back. One head is nearly chewed off, but that's all right. I'll toss it in the trash with my other used wisps.
Do you know, two weeks ago I found my assistant rummaging in the trash to pull out my wisps? I suspect she sells them on Ebay...part of what dahling Ebay CEO Ms. Whitman calls "the clutter.” Very elegantly put, if I may say so. The Japanese puppy is being returned to the pet store by my personal assistant even as I type this myself. She tried putting an alarm clock next to it during the night, but the idiot used an AM-FM radio alarm clock and it went off on a rap station at 5 AM! MY GOD! I thought I would lose my mind, dahlings. Stupid beeyotch, if I may borrow a phrase.
For those of you who inquired privately about my thumbs, as long as I do not do my own text messaging for a while, I shall be tip-top. And, of course, taller than most of you.
While she is returning the puppy, I must do my own typing (ecch). This keyboard is sticky. Filthy beast probably never washes her hands. That would explain a few things. Never mind the details. It's sultry, hot and damp here today in fabulous New York City. Very much like myself. I only have a minute before I must dash to look at some rare Japanese pottery. It's supposed to be ornamental, but I am far too delicate of constitution (if not of build) to eat off ordinary plates. And if it doesn't survive the dishwasher, so be it.
I went to MySpace and looked about. Oh, dear. I admit, I have not heard of most of the musicians they were yapping about. My taste runs to Mozart, and I only met him once at a séance. He was quite rude, to my disappointment, and insisted on trying to put his hand up my Harris Tweed skirt. Not only that, I couldn't understand a word he said (fluent though I am in French, the little gibbon spoke German or Austrian or one of those strange Teutonic languages). One woman of my acquaintance mentioned going to school with some strange person named Jello Biafra! What were his parents thinking?
But as for Mr. Biafra, I will say that once I returned home unexpectedly and discovered my last personal assistant dancing in my office, while "Too Drunk To F*ck" blared out of my Bose radio! Needless to say, she was fired on the spot. And NOT rehired. Talk amongst yourselves...I also have a secret errand that I dare not write about, but will apprise you of the details if successful. I shall be shrouded in mystery...and Yves St. Laurent.