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