post-Glam models

Well this is gratuitous, isn't it? I like to have a bit more interaction with my victims but they were booking to the after party and had no time for meaningful discourse. Also, posing for photos is their job -- chitchat with bloggers, not so much. I'm trying to decide if it would be good or bad to have a very visible job skill, as these two do.  Doesn't it seem wonderfully freeing to be untroubled by lack of familiarity with Excel?  Undoubtedly, they were thinking how wonderfully freeing it must be to not care at all that your hair was verklempt.

gigantic ode to Jean Paul Gaultier

All Jean Paul Gaultier all the time, dude's doing the enfant terrible of French couture from the top of his mohawk/meauhawk/topknot to the bottom of his platform mandals, with stops in between at nouveau tie, skull and buttondown shirt, European man bag and iconic genuine circa 1986 man-skirt.  But the terribleness didn't stop there: homme came fully loaded (ha) with phlegmy French pronunciation and a real willing sense of humor. I made him say ZhunPulGulteeay real fast over and over strictly for my amusement and because it took me a while to realize he was mispronouncing the French designer, Jeen Pawl Gall-tee-air.  Luckily, I have just been to France and was able to interpret the clearing of his throat and nasal passages.

Anyhoo, upon researching JPG and his history of naughtiness, I came across this photo

which explains why he didn't smile in the photo I took of him.  ZhunPul, you old gangsta you.  You can't hide behind a man-skirt in the Twin Towns -- let's hang out!

an item that used to belong to Elton John

If you were going to pick something that's being worn above that used to be Elton John's, duh, you'd pick the guy, right?  Guess what, you'd be dead wrong. Ok ok ok, the hair.  Wrong again.  I will not allow this one-sided fun to continue -- it's the belt!  I know, you're like, no effin way.  Way. Let's get a better look at that famous loin girder...

I don't know about you, but I'm a little uncomfortable zooming in on someone's hernia scar. Oh shit, that's the shirt.  But anyway... Does this make you want to sing Tiny Dancer?  Don't let the sun gooooo down oooon (make your voice go up and down, up and down, up and down) me.  Of course, I had the poor taste to ask how much he paid for this bit of waist material but obviously I was missing the point. It's not about money, sheesh.  This was perhaps an accessory to the writing of Bennie and the Jets.  This belt may have kept up Sir Elton's pants while he waggled his ass around on top of a piano bench. Or held them up at waist level so the world could appreciate his candle in the wind platform shoes.  It's about pop culture my friends.  Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, hello Hennepin Ave.

the Kramer

It could only be accomplished by a professional, right?  The verticality, the ironic bow tie, kinda tight clothes (women's clothes are loosening up, guy's togs are going skinward and all my money is on boy Spanx -- you heard it here first).  Meet Saeid Homayouni, professional hair and makeup artist. He gave me his card which indicates he can be reached at 651-983-0082 and that he is one of the rooms @ House of Gisou.  No doubt,  the employees have a good deal of fun hollering out stuff like, Saeid is in the House... of Gisou! when he gets to work in the morning.  I misunderstood whether he had done hair and makeup for Glamorama and was there to admire his handiwork, or whether he wished he'd done hair and makeup for Glamorama and was there to admire/hate on someone else's handiwork.

familial faces

Your memory, and more importantly mine,  did not fail me -- my favorite Glammer and her daughter! Proving without a doubt that style is hereditary, carried on the Nordstrom gene.  Nordstrom's loves them so very much. How much?  Mom's silvery dress and super slick space age kicks and daughter's fantastic pink crystal clutch that was def used on a vintage episode of Star Trek to unlock a secret door in a gigantic space boulder -- that's how much. A Balmain shoulder pad's worth of love. They walk into Nordstrom's and assistants run to light their Cigarillos. Bottle service? You bet.  A bevy of vassals follow them around with Cristal and Swarovski flutes. 

Remember last year, the fille was wearing a mermaidy flutter of silk and was planning on getting a goshdarn job in the Big Apple?  I'll be dadgummed if she isn't now gainfully employed at a small financial firm in NYC that bears no responsibility for the financial crisis whatsoever.  Win-win! She came back to her natal shores just on the off-chance she'd run into me again. She's upholding the very high style bar she set last year, through a high-tech miracle, matching the bandages de bustier and pumps precisely with lemon lime Laffy Taffy. The whole super elastic bubble plastic with sheer pleated asymmetric  enterprise is straight from some Meatpacking atelier.  I don't remember the name of the boutique as it's been more than 7 minutes since we spoke. See you next year ladies (that's what I say to my peeps at Great Clips).

one of these guys is not Stevie Wonder

Have it your way -- classic white shirt and jeans or your basic spectacular bedazzled scandal, which only works if you're

stacked.

Emma Berg by Emma Berg

A rose is a rose is a rose (I said that) except when it's a long-stem gown that feels like a rose -- petalish and curved and lushly-layered.  I'm pretty sure Emma had a red rose in a vase as a muse, instead of Ines de la Fressange. That way, when the muse got old and nasty and not so amusing any more, she could just chuck that piece o trash and get a new one.  And not have to set the old muse up with a business and an atelier in Paris.  Let's think about the fleeting life of a muse...

ok that's enough.

Now, let's think about whether designers feel like they always have to wear their own work.  On the one hand, it's good advertising.  On the other hand, you've pretty much pulled the rug out of the dramatic pre-event scene in which you collapse on your clothing-strewn floor and whine, I have nuthing to weeeeeaaaaarrrrr, and kind of kick at some nasty Valentino thing that's easily 24 minutes old.  Because all you have to do is maaaaaake it.

locally coutured woman of the Glamazon

It's nurse Nicole!  She's back, she's big, she's beautiful and she's glamming local with a hand-painted trippy romp through the poppies by Emma Berg, emmaberg.com,  and a stalac-tight neck party by Stephanie Lake, stephanielakedesign.com.  I don't like to brag, but I may have had some small part in augmenting the overall pharmaceutical experience by adding a dismembered, fleshy leg and a meaty arm to the photo composition (click on the top photo).  There's an implied threat, like nurse Nicole is about to receive a roundhouse kick to the bustle.  Eight o'clock in the garden of good and evil.  You're welcome.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this Emma Berg gown was hand-painted by Max Lohrbach in a style reminiscent of the exuberance of a golden retriever certain New Guinean rustics before a life-size meal.  Emma said she liked how it turned out anyway.  She reimagined the whole bustle in the front thing and was like,  Just a frickin  Oscar de la Renta minute here -- let's deconstruct the living daylights out of glamor. Let's make it flattering! I say we frame this sucker in black -- are you with me?  And the hallucinogenic garden party that's usually found on the collar and cuffs?  All full and lush  and flowing like an open bar at an afternoon wedding down the back.  Colors that change where there aren't seams? You bet.  It feels ephemeral, like a hasty sketch (see, that's the black part) done by an impetuous art student and later back at her garret, washed over with watercolors (the colored part) before she decided to go to Crete for a bullfight. I summarized that, but I'm pretty sure that was Emma's zeitgeist here.

Oh, and Stephanie Lake just decided to do something small and plain with a shitload of stalactites and ice that doesn't look very dangerous.

pretty in punk

Not 100% sure this qualifies as punk but it made a better headline. Yes my friends, this photo is about compromise for a higher cause.  She was not ready and perhaps was about to say, Get away from me sweaty crone, but I used this shot anyway for the following very good reasons: 1) it shows the asymmetry, like Batman's hot girlfriend, to better effect and, by making the dress look faded and gray instead of black, you can appreciate the draping on the clutch side,  2) you can feel the desperado toughness of a million studded boot harnesses, and 3) in the background, more substantiating evidence of beautiful flowing yards of fabric that are both flattering to the wearers and make me look better when I say Death to fake Leger!  Well, maybe not better, but less deranged. 

My smarmy needs satisfied, I will now post the photo I should have used, the one in which she looks like Kristen Stewart.  But not as repentant. 

guys in ties

I don't care what you say, they're cute and I'm standing by that. One of these dudes is a real rule breaker. I mean, brown shoes? Whoa.

behind the scene at Glamorama

The back of a guy in a suit. Ok, fine.  Once again, this is an audience participation blog.  Activate your digit and CLICK ON THE PHOTO.  Oh, but then these words go away.  Win-win! You may see it as getting blown off by a lot of people at the same time but I like to think of this as a pretty sweet point of view.  Not only are we seeing the exquisite beading and row after row of flap-tastic fringe on Back In Blonde,  but also three people I've shot before on this here blog -- the femme de la fringe, her gamin-haired friend above her arm and, to the right, the model from Art in Bloom getting behind the camera. What an effin composition.

what I said

Remember my blathering about a classier, more creative age in TC Glam?  Examples A and B above.  Shades of Her Duchessness Kate (the theme was British Invasion) with the perfectly fitted frocks, the poppin'  clutches and some kick-ass gams they got at Selfridges.  I jiggled the camera, or my upper arms or something, thus the fuzziness.

teeny tiny hats are interesting!

Yes, they are!  The ladies were besieged by paparazzi, and rightly so.  Here's what I find really interesting and unknowable -- the price of style. The siren on the left paid over $300 for her Monique Lhuillier lace dream (I didn't ask, horrible people, this info was offered up). Her accomplice on the right forked over $12 for her vintage frock. They both look like a million bucks, n'est ce pas? 

Dr. Done Right

She doesn't like to count her chickens and lay on the MD title yet, as she still has to pass her exams, but in this case it refers to her certified ability to rock a romper.  Clothing seems to lose relevance on the Cote D'Azur in favor of vast seas of uncovered skin,  so it was kind of exciting to see a happy mixture of well-designed limbs and pretty clothes.  She and her mum, who is going to make me some homemade curry next time I'm in London,  were going back home for the closing ceremonies of the Olympics.

This is the one and only street (pier) style photo of the whole coton-picking trip and it was taken by my capable assistant with his iPhone.  Let's recall and be angry all over again and send a freakin Bentley's worth of hostile thoughts to my worthless camera.  I'm big on impotent raging.  Nevermind that I would not have had the balls to actually inflict my surgically unenhanced self and my very impressionistic French language skills on impossibly chic people who operate meaningfully on a thimble of coffee.  

Let's look at what's going on around Dr. Done Right, above.  We're standing on the pier of the port of Monaco. Princess Grace may have stood here. To the left, a sailing vessel with lights strung in the rigging has a party in progress, or maybe a  condominium sales scheme,  in which older conservatively dressed couples boarded the boat and a guy dressed as a captain rolled up the gangplank and the captives were plied with likker and subjected to frenzied African drumming and encouraged to rend their clothes and join the love pile.  The big white thing that looks like a WalMart is an American tourist a yacht. The lights of Monte Carlo (which is just the casino, not the country, sheesh) are coming on via hundreds of liveried vassals, or maybe Hapsburgs, shining special Grimaldi-crested flashlights on strategically placed heaps of diamonds.  Every hour, they toss out the old diamonds or give them to Karl Lagerfeld and get new ones.  The bump above the almost-doctor is her hair. And above that, Italy.  To the right is some cement, and righter yet is the Mediterranean Sea. Only minutes before this photo was taken, on the other side of the little wall with the lights in it (so Monaco-ese!), I had shed my lesbian sandals and my American inhibitions and slipped into the mysterious sea, the great Nebraska-like expanse of my chest causing nary a ripple.  Barely a nipple. C'est la vie.  Or as the French say,  What the hell, it's dark.  Princess Grace said that.

long cool drink

I am the tiniest bit afraid of how cool this woman is. Glam-tied.

j'me back!

And I got a nasty case of Frenglish. I employed this dialect all over the French Riviera as a gesture of good will and received many gestures in return. Mais oui!  International diplomacy accomplished with my ass hanging out. Which is how it's done in France. 

Above is a photo I did not take of Vielle Ville Monaco, Les Rocher, which may be loosely translated as Place Of The Most Celebrated Facilities Management Folk In The World.  Except For The Ones Down The Plage At Hotel Du Cap Eden Roc. They paint all those trees and wash the rocks every jour. I did not take the photo because my camera broke one day into this outlandishly picturesque holiday (merde!) and because, duh, I was in it. You're going to have to zoom the bejeezus out of the shrubbery to the left of the medieval crazy-ass Escher-esque rocher/castle because, after hiking along a perfectly manicured 3.6k walkway etched into the cliffs above the crystalline bluegreen sloshing on the rocks Med with stone steps cut into the cliff at various points for the purpose of dipping into the sea ala mermaid with pool ladders built into the rocks so I didn't have to wonder how the hell I was going to get out after executing a pretty sweet canonball on the way in and looking at villas built excitingly at the very tip edge of a 500 meter sheer cliff while floating on my back like Grace Kelly, which is to say, elegantly -- after that, Prince Rainier and I brought our picnic fixings in a plastic sack to an out-of-the-way battlement part way down the wall facing the sea (above) and parked it on a bench. Just our royal selves, salty, sandy and sublime, and some preserved canons watching the sun go down on wavelets and yachts. Pretty effin idyllic. As we had forgotten the Swarovski crystal goblets, we emptied our water bottles and decanted the vin de pays (from June, a very good month!) into them.  Just as we were knocking back a toast to la bon vivant, a family of tourists -- mom, dad and two teenage daughters -- pale, lumpy, footsore and uncomfortable in dressy clothes with creases still in them they'd bought to visit schmancy Monaco stumbled on our back alley bistro.  The look of horror, the shielding of the daughters, the tight-lipped and silent hurrying by with eyes averted!  They came all the way from Draining Whitlow, bought new clothes and expected to show the girls how the quality live in the glistening world of Bugatis and tans, and what's all this?  Coupla damp-assed degenerates swilling rocket fuel from dented water bottles!  The Prince and I, we tried to be friendly. Raised our plastic vessels and hollered out, Bee-en ven-you Monaco! Have an effin bon jur! They obviously did not speak French.

I'm going away for a while

Eight to ten months, with time off for bad behavior.  Standard sentence for shag rockers.  Actually, ha, this is the very photo I was trying to find for point of reference for my stylist but I couldn't come up with this photo so I did the deed myself.  That's my story and I'm sticking by it.  Power to the impatient!

Truthfully,  me and the little kumquat are going to the goshdarn French Riviera for 144 hours.  How do you say Hold the anchovies -- they make me gassy  and  Yes, they are real, and thanks for asking  in French?  Aw revwar gangstas!

Marcy's Glamorama

Remember Marcy from last year who brought me in off the street with a FREE ticket to Glamorama?  Of course I was expecting the same old one free ticket ($75 value) and, you won't believe this, but Marcy found me again and offered me TWO free tickets! I was stunned and am never very good at thinking on my feet so what came out as "Uhh" was meant to be "Thank you SOOOOO much Marcy! Your karma cup overfloweth! I love you and I'm already married but can you come over for Thanksgiving?  Don't worry about a thing, I'll get the turkey loaf!"  And then, in lieu of $150, I hugged her, forgetting that my back was all sweaty.  Sorry Marcy.  Long story short, I did go in after assaulting several other latecomers, but the lights were down and the usher couldn't find the right seat so I parked it in the back of the theatre/theater and never saw Marcy again. Which may be just as well because when Karmin invited all the mofos in the audience to get up and shake it, I did.  Had a little routine worked up.

The identical twins above decided to look different for once through their divergent interpretations of Glamorama's theme,  British Invasion.  One, and I'm not saying which, opted for a literal translation with artful draping and clean modernism and shining Zena body armor -- an obvious nod to Margaret Thatcher.  The other twin went subtle.  I know theirs was a carefully crafted message about the current Corgi crisis in England, but dang if they weren't a fun bunch.

Read my Brits -- she's An American (see, because of the amazing photo composition... ok, you have to click on the photo so I make a particle of sense)  But seriously, nothing says jolly good show like green eyes.  Don't worry,  the eyeliner is removable. 

Y? Because we like you!

Mickey says, wear bedazzled shorts. And smile at special needs people so they feel good about themselves. As far as they know.

my cover models, this time for real

Their beauty was lost in my blather.  This time, the respect they deserve.  Blogger will not allow this photo to be large enough to capture their smarts, their sense of humor.  Right on sistaz!

let the Glams begin!

Glamorama 2012, an annual occasion to reflect on not only weighty questions like What is this thing on my chin? but also, What is glamor? and What is the tipping point, so to speak, between these heels and my blood alcohol level?  The theme, British Invasion, didn't seem unduly limiting -- most celebrants were able to subtly blend the Union Jack, knickers and bangers and mash into their bedazzled tableau.  The one overriding nod (damn, I am on fire) to Britishness was hats. Hats bloody hats. While it would have seemed easier to just mess up your teeth or carry a Corgi, many Glammers went the extra mile and popped a crowning glory on the old melon.

Even as I spray you with spittle about hats, above I post two women with hair on their heads. I am a big fat liar!  With the credibility of Michele Bachmann!  But enough bragging. These two are my cover models for a deliriously upbeat (some would say, heavily medicated) annual report on the State of Glamor in the Twin Towns. (Those with exclamation point intolerance should take this opportunity to bugger off)  Fake bandage dresses have loosed their strangle hold!  Crotches were mostly covered! There was not a single tragic store-bought balloon bursting incident! Creativity flowed like jello shots! Draping! Sometimes not jowls!  Men! Straight men! Men with Elton John's belt (even I cannot make this shit up)!  People over the age of 30 leading active productive lives! Some of my favorite Glammers from last year (who are even now being treated for PTSD)!  Things are looking up, my bit-covering friends! There's a style renaissance, a scraping of the clay from our eyes, though quite a bit of mascara remains.  Behold!  We see and know in a biblical sense that Marc Jacobs has been to one too many street fairs!  We know that those heels came with a g-string and pasties but we weigh that against the Rule of Thirds, the Golden Means of Aspiring Architecture, that declare it a good idea to jack the trunk up about 6 inches, concurrently boosting our qi. Oh enough.

I'm extremely happy to present the above Glam poster women.  Fun, game, gorgeous and unarmed! I look for that in a street style subject.  They were there classing up the event and representing Edina-based La Bratique (labratique.com) foundation fitting service. Two things happened when they told me about Bratique -- I turned my eyeballs on their tatas like they were going to start singing Yankee Doodle, and they scanned the Nebraska-like plane of my chest. Cross check and prepare for takeoff!

covered on Hennepin

Muslim is the new black! Goes with anything! Just joshin with u. But I do like the mashup of hip hop and head scarf.  Our man of the cloth covers out of respect and humility. He's from Memphis, so he doesn't know about Hennepin on a Friday night. I counseled him to avert his eyes from the licentiousness he was about to encounter but, bravely, he strode on into the valley of darkness. After talking with me, he figured he'd weathered the worst of it.