Sunday, January 28, 2007
I have never participated in a meme before, but why not? I don't even know what it is.
Here’s how it works, apparently:
1) Get tagged
2) Post a list of five things about yourself that your blog readers don't know
3) Tag other people
So, five things:
1. My mother burned her, my and my sisters' birth certificates. So, I have no idea when I was born. Because Mama insisted on not aging, I had to remain eleven years old for ten years. (Fortunately, we moved several times.) Perhaps that was why I became obsessed with fashion. Wearing pigtails and frilly dresses looks rather odd when you are tall and busty, unless someone is paying you to do so
2. I have been paid to do so
3. I despise green beans, mixed vegetables, and string beans
4. I exercise, but I refuse to say where, how much, and when
5. I have a doppelganger, a pathetic woman with a name similar to mine, but we couldn't be more unalike. She has been known to perform onstage (ugh), sometimes wearing men's clothing (words fail me).
I gather this creature will be doing a show, "Pointless Rebellion," at some flea-trap on New York's Lower East Side in March. As if I would ever set FOOT in such a place!
I tag Captain Great, Shaz, Maureen, Heather, and Suzy.
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Friday, January 26, 2007
I was reading in the newspaper over the past weeks that those poor anorexic girls are dropping like flies down in Brazil. Brazil, mind, where they used to CELEBRATE the lushness of the female figure! How has society come to this? One of those hideous Olsen twins was quoted this morning as saying that it was her bad hair dye that made her look too thin. Yes, sweetie, and it was having two faces that made that calf look slightly odd. All in the eye of the beholder, don't you know.
Rather than encouraging girls to waste away and die, we should keep the dead ones, and use them. Why keep asking these poor children to starve themselves to death, when we have plenty of deceased models around?
I am fairly certain most of them come from deprived backgrounds, so the families would be happy to be saved funeral and burial costs.
Here is my plan, which is not only practical but could save dozens of young lives in the future:
1) Take one dead young female fashion model;
2) Freeze-dry her, the way people freeze-dry their dead pets, preferably in an attitude of disdain and one arm bent;
3) Lacquer the body, because it might smell under hot lights;
4) Make a runway with a sort of rolling thing, you know, like those sushi restaurants where you grab the little trays off of the rotating circle thing;
An entire fashion show of unliving fashion models, just the way the designers want them. Gaunt, bereft of female flesh, and of course, expressionless. If the designer wants the illusion of living, he can paint the faces in gaudy colors and use a wind machine.
Fashion designers and the fashion industry in general could promote a healthy ideal of female beauty, one that celebrates fleshiness, the slight rounding of the female stomach, a plump elbow, perhaps even the unthinkable...breasts, hips, and thighs. Girls who look like young WOMEN, not starvation victims. Girls who feel GOOD about their bodies, no matter what the shape, no matter what the size, because wherever they look they can find a role model.
I admit, I do not see it happening in my lifetime. But it is something to dream about...
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The telephone call came Thursday afternoon, shortly after I published my last post. A slightly gravely voice was on the phone. It was a lovely woman I know, Myra Chanin, who sees everything in New York and books whoever she can seduce into coming down to WOR during hours when sane people won't step foot into the street. She books "The Joey Reynolds Show," an overnight radio program heard coast to coast.
"Are ya Jewish?" she asked.
"Good. You're gonna be on The Jewish Hour tomorrow night. Be at the studio at 11:50."
Myra's logic escaped me, but midnight found me at WOR Radio, along with a large number of Jewish people. A large number of large Jewish people, I should add, including one rotund fellow who never spoke a word the entire time I was there. Nor did he go into the studio, just sat in the outer office, smiling and eating sandwiches. And Mark, Joey's sweet personal assistant (FAR more competent than mine), a photographer whose work you have seen on the front page of The New York Post, especially if it has recently exploded.
And best of all, a man I adore, The King and Queen of Cabaret, Sidney Myer. Dahlings, until you have seen this man perform "Pheromones," you cannot say that you have Lived.
Joey Reynolds, who is quite trim, is not Jewish, so I am at a loss to explain the origin of The Jewish Hour. Appropriately, a deli catered an enormous amount of lox, corned beef, bagels, and other food that Borat would never touch.
The interview went quite well. A very pretty woman named Goldie DVer explained (off the air) what it means to have a "Jewish ass." (Apparently a pronounced lack of flesh.) According to Myra, Goldie's husband Paul is too cheap to buy her an extra vowel for her name. Curious. And Joey was a complete gentleman, as well as quite amusing. He even asked me about Bucky the Wonderdog, and I told the story of taking Bucky to Marc Jacobs's party.
The wizened gentleman sitting next to me, however, fell out of my favor by immediately telling fat jokes at my expense. His name is Mickey Freeman, I believe, and he did a lot of work in television in the black and white days. As much as I admire the history of Borscht Belt humor, personally I'll take my borscht cold, with sour cream. However, I ignored the man and carried on as best I could. I related my encounter with Eli Weisel (cf. an earlier post, "Some Ghosts Have Too Much Attitude,") and discussed spring trends in fashion.
After it was over, I allowed myself a few delicate bites of lox and some chopped liver. I would not have minded taking a bite out of Joey Reynolds...he really is quite handsome in person. Just another night in my fabulous life.
Here is a link to his WOR site:
And yes, I PROMISE to get those beautiful satin robes listed, size 6X and 8X! After all, Valentine's Day will be here soon.
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog
Thursday, January 18, 2007
I am so sorry that I have not, as they say here, ‘blogged’ for some time. Goodness knows the antics of Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump have caused me to tell my personal assistant to LEAVE THE TELEVISION TURNED OFF, whether I am there or not! It might have been fodder for thought at one time, but tonight I am thinking Very Deep Thoughts. And yes, I have a dreadful headache.
DON’T BOTHER MAKING THOSE SYMPATHETIC SOUNDS, YOU LIAR! I KNOW YOU ENJOY MY PAIN!
Excuse me; my assistant was giving me a laughably bad imitation of a concerned smile.
I’VE HEARD YOU TALKING TO THE MAID ABOUT ME, SO DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH YOU’D LIKE MY HEADACHE TO BE A BRAIN TUMOR!
Ahem. I do get a little short when in agony.
The Very Deep Thoughts were the result of a simply terrifying experience I had the other night. No, it wasn’t seeing Cameron Diaz at the Golden Globes in that hideous white ruffled thing and dyed black hair (some rag called her “statuesque”—the woman is as wide as a hairpin!).
I’ve been down in North Carolina, to visit a friend. And oh, I should have taken my personal Lear jet! When will I learn? Instead, I flew (ugh) commercial, on an airline not to be named.
We were supposed to fly out of Raleigh-Durham on Monday night at 8 pm, arriving in LaGuardia at 9:30. Short version: the plane left at 10:30 pm, did a forced near-crash landing in Richmond, VA, then hours later I was forced to board the SAME PLANE and fly to my beloved New York, arriving at 3:30 AM.
I was sitting in business class, attired in a beautiful Yves St. Laurent suit, but even the cushioning of the business class seats could not conceal the face that this flight was more turbulent than Britney Spears and K-Fed in a cage match. I was drinking the rather bad champagne the airline had to offer, but it did not still my delicate nerves. I took a few Xanax, but still, something felt deeply wrong.
I could not believe my shell-pink ears when the captain announced something was badly wrong with the left engine and we would make a forced landing. And that there would be fire trucks and emergency crews on the ground. The flight attendant told everyone to strap in. I have NEVER been on an aircraft that went toward the ground so fast!
The plane hit the runway hard, as hard as Rosie O’Donnell could bitch-slap Donald Trump. There was a loud scraping noise as the plane careened down the runway. We came to a screeching halt, and then the flight attendant told us we would be allowed to disembark to the airport once they determined it was safe enough.
We passengers sat there for a long, long time. I demanded more champagne to while the time away, but the attendant refused to pay attention to me. Commoner.
With nothing to occupy my attention, I began to think about Very Deep Things.
What if the plane had exploded?
What if it merely burst into flames?
What if I had been burnt and my beauty scarred? Would I still be welcomed at Hype?
How could the world of fashion survive without MOI?
My head began to throb in earnest.
There was supposed to be another plane waiting for us. Ha! Instead, your faithful correspondent was forced to sit for hours in the Richmond, Virginia airport. Believe me, there is no more desolate place than a closed airport terminal, except perhaps the inside of Paris Hilton's head. Before my Deep Thoughts were able to drive me to the brink, I found a copy of “French Vogue” in my carry-on.
Again, my shell-pink ears could not believe that we were told to board the same PLANE OF NEAR-DEATH!
“I demand my money back and a First Class upgrade on the first flight out in the morning!” I thundered at the man making the announcement.
The clod ignored me! I wrote down his name, and believe me, there will be hell to pay at the Richmond, Virginia airport.
I strode back onto the jet, making sure to swipe the attendant with my (authentic) Gucci bag. We made it back to LaGuardia, where, emphatically not dead, I dropped with exhaustion into my limousine. Bucky gave me an ecstatic welcome, which made me particularly glad that I am not dead.
Since then, I have been up to my exfoliated elbows in business, particularly setting up “Haute Cou-Poor” at the Fashion Institute of Technology.
Now that I have told of my Adventure, it’s off to bed. Remember to kiss your dog.
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog
Friday, January 05, 2007
And the winner of The Great Pose Off is. . . Fred. The polls do not lie.
(Although there have been some rumors that the poll was rigged by jealous vintage sellers out to sabotage my burgeoning modeling career. Don't let anyone know you heard it from me.)
However, in truly gentlemanly fashion, Fred pronounced that we are "co-winners"!
Because, after all, The Great Pose Off was my brainchild. And because we brought so much joy with our little contest to the great unwashed out there in Ebay-land. In fact, one seller, who goes by the ID of majickal_moon* created a picture of Fred and me with the Great Pose Off Trophy:
(I admit that I do not expect this to do me any good where A Dress A Day is concerned. But one cannot have everything.)
Fred has won my admiration, which is not easy. I admire very few people, among them President Clinton and Dita Von Tease, for the wonderful way she takes care of her poor handicapped husband. And of course my dear dead friend Lana Turner, who offered to pose for me, until I had to break it to her that generally speaking, dead people do not photograph well. They go all ectomorphic or protoplasmic or whatever that word is for "gray and foggy."
In the meantime, to business. For the discriminating buyer, I have some delightful items in my shop.
Soft Brown Faux Fur Coat, New With Tags, size 3X:
Satin Wrap Robe, size 8X, in gold, red and burgundy:
Long Blue Stretch Velvet Dress, 3X, and Vintage Milk Glass Bead Matinee Necklace:
NECKLACE: In My Store
I must hie myself off to bed, after taking a hot scented bath (using the fragrance specially created for me by wee Sarah Jessica Parker). I wish you all a good night.
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
*One suspects this ID has something to do with dancing naked at night, hmmm?
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
I would have written earlier, but I have been lying on the divan with a cold cloth over my head.
Imagine my shock when browsing through the Internet earlier today, I looked at one of my favorite sites, A Dress A Day, written by a lovely woman named Erin. Well, I thought she was lovely. Hmmmmph. In any event, my profound shock at seeing MY OPPONENT, in full regalia, with the title, "Have You Met Fred?"
Have I met Fred, indeed! At this very moment I am still recovering from a night of posing the likes of which will not be seen for a long, long time.
Yet here I sit, dictating to my personal assistant, who works my fingers to the bone, having slaved to bring Fashion in The True Sense to the bourgousie, unknown, surrounded by an uncaring world.
And this--this arriviste gets an entire post to himself! Has Erin ever acknowledged my existence? No! Oh, the heartbreak of it. To know that because I don't look funny in a dress, I am cast aside in favor of those with hairy legs. 'Twas ever thus, dahlings.
Bucky is giving me a soulful look. He Understands, in the way dogs do. I am off to cuddle with him, because he doesn't care if I look funny in a dress or not.
Elisa The Obscure and Bucky the Wonderdog
Monday, January 01, 2007
In the last few minutes of the old year, I must tell you a tale. A tale of courage, a tale of genius, a tale of magnificence. All of it mine, of course.
There is another seller on Ebay, a man who presumes to dress in womens' vintage clothing. I believe this gentleman thinks that he is amusing. Perhaps, in a sordid way. However, my delicate sensibilities were so offended at womens' clothing being thus mistreated, I set out to beat him at his own game.
No, I did not have a sex change.
Instead, I challenged the man to a POSING CONTEST on Ebay, which is going on as I write this. I knew that, even if I am not a professional model, I could outpose this poseur, if you will pardon the pun. Normally I shrink from publicity, unlike, say, that tight-faced pr slut Madonna. But if I was to do this properly, I would have to let the spotlight shine on my creamy white skin.
We chose two forms of vintage auctions. One is called "indie boho emo," which seems to mean "ugly 70s clothes bought at exorbitant prices by teenagers." The other is called "rare couture," which needs no explanation, n'cest pas? In the titles we put the letters GPO, for "Great Pose Off." (I would have preferred something more literate, but one mustn't confuse one's buyers.)
The auctions started in the wee hours of Thursday night, and instantly became phenomenons far beyond what anyone expected (except me).
The reason your faithful correspondent is telling you this is so that you, dahlings, have the opportunity to Vote For Me, because a Vote For Elisa Is A Vote For Vintage In The True Sense.
Here is what you do--go to Ebay, with as many of your Ebay IDs as you care to use, go to the Vintage Clothing Category, and search "GPO" in Womens Vintage Clothing. Or, to make it simpler, you can click on the link to my store, Elisa's Bodacious House of Style, and find my auctions there. On my "About Me" page is a link to the poll, hosted by Trophy Girl Vintage, bless her.
In the spirit of fair play, I should inform you that the man is question sells under the ID shop4youby4me. But I know you will vote for moi.
Because a man in a dress is funny, and that is such an unfair advantage. Strike a blow for women everywhere, and Vote For Me!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Elisa & Bucky The Wonderdog