Even though Los Angeles has had its own Fashion Week for several years now, fashion events here tend to be more “goofy” than anything. I’m not sure what the problem is, but the shows are often aesthetically and conceptually “challenged,” wavering somewhere between unimaginative, lazily executed or just plain lame, often with bad hair and bad make-up on bad models who feel very “catalogue meets discount music video.” In other words, the outcome often plays into a stereotype about the city: all glam, no style, no intelligence. When was the last time anyone here left a fashion event and thought, “wow…that show was incredible…”? More newsworthy is when Paris Hilton forgets her purse on a front row seat and leaves the venue (I once returned her purse to her backstage at a Jeremy Scott show, after she left it in the middle of the floor and wandered off. She looked at the purse like she had never seen it before and uttered an, “Umm..oh…ummm… wow…uh…thanssss…”
(Fact: 68% of any fashion event crowd here consists of anorexic white girl clones with messy 2-tone hair, and either a denim mini-skirt with (f)Ugg(ly) boots or worse, jeans with those hideous big cuffs and heels. No wonder so many guys are gay.) It feels like the visible “fashion world” in Los Angeles rests in the hands of a conservative few and to be honest, it’s way past time to raise the ante. Like a Porsche, we’ve gone from 0 to bland in 3.9 seconds. One of the most creative designers living in Los Angeles nearly all-about refuses to show here. And losing Rick Owens to Europe was disappointing, but understandable. (…slides soapbox under bed of nails…)
But, okay, it’s summer. And I never turn down an opportunity to have drinks with friends by a pool. Agent Provocateur presented a line-up of slinky, sexy lingerie in a campy, loosely-narrative presentation called “Confessions of a Pool Boy,” held around the pool at the Sunset Marquis.
pre-show croquet at the Sunset Marquis
She said, “Would you like me to trim a bush for you?”
I was a bit suprised when she headed for the hedges…
A chocolate fountain of youth.
Alia Malley grows younger with each bite.
It felt a little like summer camp, with the pool boy narrating an innuendo-laden story about working at the hotel and the myriad vixens he encountered there (the models).
The sound system was on the fritz and it was hard to hear him.
I quickly grew bored trying to pay attention to his daffy story and instead focused my attention on someone I consider a true survivor: Courtney Love, seated front and center.
She meant to blow this kiss to me.
My mind drifted to memories of seeing Courtney performing live, supinely surfing on the hands of the crowd wearing a ripped up nightie and a gnarly wide smear of lipstick. I remember thinking, “she’s living…,” as she puffed away at a cigarette that she never lost. She finished the last drag just as her fans returned her to stage, right before threatening to “kill the motherfucker” who had groped her who-who out there in the crowd. I’d be mad, too. The sun was bearing down on her during the AP presentation, so Courtney took shelter under the tent which housed the P.A. system, sharing a cigarette with good friend and master event planner, Bryan Rabin, a true hard worker, and warm, charismatic person. Nearly 300 models strutted around in frilly underwear and heels. Then, all the girls ganged up in a circle and fake-whispered to each other. They called the pool boy over and pushed him in the pool. Wow!!! What a total surprise that was!!!!!!
To really push the envelope, we were then treated to a posse of almost-synchronized swimmers.
Name the actress….
thank god, no Ugg boots…
mmm. snacks…
Rose Apodaca Jones, LA bureau chief for WWD
I thought the one on the right was kinda cute, especially since his sweater had moth-holes.
While on the way out of the parking structure, my friends and I got trapped behind Halle Berry, who decided to park her dumb SUV just beyond the parking cashier. However, with three of us yelling from a convertible, “Hey, Halle — move your ass!” – she scooted along.
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I’m off to the beach.
– Dino Dinco
