PARIS FASHION TYPHOON

January 25, 2006

It is 8:30 p.m. in Paris, the bewitching hour for the Valentino Haute Couture show. My friend Bruce and I are surrounded by the fashion elite as we await the show. It's like a movie but it's not.

The shows usually start 30 minutes late and like clockwork, the models hit the catwalk at 9:00. I am constantly puzzled by the way models strut like baby giraffe who don't know how to walk. It is an odd juxtaposition to the elegance of their Valentino draperies.

The clothes are light and delicate and the collection and presentation was meant to reflect "powdery shades of desert sand with only the faintest hint of color to evoke the sky over the sahara at certain times of day". It did!. Lots of light and white and one solitary Valentino red, which Bruce wants for his birthday. We don't know what he will do with it.

"Project Runway" judge and Elle Magazine Fashion director Nina Garcia watches and scribbles from the front row. Forty One dresses later, and ten or twelve minutes after it began, Valentino takes the runway to rapturous applause and it is over. People love it, kiss cheeks, and disperse.

The party is at the Ritz Club below the famous hotel. Valentino enters to flashbulbs, air-kisses and acclaim. The celebration begins slowly.

The buffet is served and I am going to state this as a fact and sue me or write me hate mail but it is my experience: the French Butt in Line!

I have never waited in line in France where someone did not jam their way in front of me. The line for this buffet was like an endless stream of fashionistas keeping us stagnant and steaming like never-ending placeholders. Scavengers! By the time we made it to the plates we realized why everyone in fashion is so thin - toast points, smoked salmon, string beans and salad awaited us. We were ravenous.

But Bruce and I are idiots. We keep forgetting where we are - France. Yes they butt in line but they also serve a full dinner around midnight. We'd fought so hard for the first course at 11 that we'd mentally moved on by the time the real deal arrived. The meat looked fantastic and in true European style the party really began to kick in late night.

Valentino and Giammetti are great hosts, they know how to throw a party. The models arrive with their boyfriends. We chat with David Furnish, Mr Elton John, who's diamond ring puts Bruce's to shame. We meet heiresses and Princesses and writers and ambisexual Euros who leave the door ajar. All are presented titles stenched in hyperbole, "the richest heiress in Transylvania" or "the most influential fashion writer of all time.". As my friend meets "the hottest actor in French cinema," they arrange either a potential apartment swap or a ruse for a tryst.

I am introduced to a beautiful blond with spectacular (real) boobs and a top that's barely covering them. She's "the biggest TV star in Italy - 11 million people watch her a week". No more description given, or needed, as we begin to engage but we both hear a ticking clock. It's the beginning of "Hung Up". Our eyes meet - we don't speak but we instinctively know we must book it to the dance floor immediatamente. I take her hand and guide her to what is quickly becoming a mob scene as the entire party converges for a mutual disco freak-out.

Dancing with Italy's biggest TV star made me see why she's an Italian Superstar. She owned the dancefloor. By the middle of the song (when the vocals dip for the heavy bass portion) someone had taken off my tie and I'd lassoed her as her top barely maintained it's status as a "top". I contemplated marrying her and moving to Italy to work for and write a blog for RAI.

Our Madonna high took us through several more songs until near collapse. She told me later in broken English about her shows. From what I gather she has two, one is perhaps like Celebrity Survivor and the other is maybe a cross between a sports show and SNL. I don't really know but she's the biggest star in Italy so I thought it best not to insult her for details. I don't know her name but hope to see her on a television or dancefloor soon.

Several of us retired to the Hemingway Bar upstairs at the Ritz. At the table beside us we found Kate Moss with singer Donovan Leitch and several other Euros. To me Kate looked great and it looked like she was drinking Evian. My jaded companion argued his interpretation: a distinct bloat, a fall off the wagon, and a large vodka soda. Several rounds later, as Bruce spills his Bordeaux all over his suit, we shut down the bar and leave Moss' party in deep conversation.

We are starved and up to our throats with champagne. It's after 3 and the Hotel Costes is blaring chillout music, lit by hundreds of candles with not a sole in sight. Who are they awaiting? Us, we figure. Can we sit and have dinner in this red gilded perfection? Of course we can, we're told. He eats pasta, I eat an omelette with toasts served sans crust. A little more champagne before bed and a Paris night is over.

MY HAIR SMELLS LIKE SMOKE

January 24, 2006

I am in Paris. The lighting is dim - always generous - and my hair smells like smoke.

Hotel Costes on Rue St. Honore lives in a state of permanent midnight. It is saturated in sweet scented candlelight, blaring mood music and deepshades of red. No matter when, it is forever sexy sexy midnight at the Costes. There's a pool in the basement lit by candlelight and the hotel
has it's own chillout soundtrack for sale at global hotspots. My pal Bruce and I are in heaven there.

We are within walking distance of the Louvre, the Musee d'Orsay, Picasso museum and Pompidou, which has some sort of Scorsese retrospective. We've skipped them all and have been on a mad search for a store we heard about which sells nothing but Madonna-related products.

No trip to Paris is complete without a stop at Colette - a sort of fashion superstore with books/media/knickknacks on floor 0, it's own soundtrack for sale, and hyperdrive fashion upstairs, a la Jeffrey. Where better to be completely insulted and raped of Euros by anorexic homosexuals?! Je t'aime, Colette!

This week Colette is showcasing a full line of apparel from Comme des Garcons covered in the classic Rolling Stone lips icon pattern. Dresses, pants, shirts, and shoes range from hundreds to thousands of Euros.

I can't imagine anyone buying these (Gaudy? Awful) Commes des Garcons fashions but I'm the guy who laughed at those Ralph Lauren shirts with oversize Polos all summer.

"Who would buy those ridiculous Polo shirts with oversize polos!?" I pleaded to anyone within earshot. I spent the summer in a state of boycott - very upset and offended by them. They were everywhere and by the time I went to the US Open and saw every hot tennis fan and ballboy wearing them, I almost folded in line at the onsite Polo store. Shockingly, my pride showed up and told me not to. I will not buy one of those ridiculous shirts, but will I fold and appear at the Project Runway finale looking like an ass in a Comme de Garson Rolling Stones Lips blazer and pants?

I oddly went mad for throw pillows on this trip! I don't know why but everywhere I went I fell in love with a pillow. I made each store owner promise that these were one of a kind Parisian exclusives. The moment I see these in the window of a west village boutique, I flip. I also bought Amy Sedaris a birthday present.

We finally found the Madonna store buried deep in the Marais. I don't
know what made us happier - finally finding it or being home amidst a melange of Madge-A Palooza. They had every limited edition remixed remastered Japanese b-side you ever haven't heard of plus posters, every magazine on which she's graced the cover, vinyl, buttons and more. We
bought posters and will most likely never be able to find the place again.

Bloomingdale's mens fashion director Kevin Harter took Bruce and I to the real epicenter of Paris fashion. It's called Davé, a Chinese restaurant at 12 Rue de Richelieu. Presided over by owner Davé - think an Asian Isaac Mizrahi with a manic laugh, red labcoat and broach - pictures cover the red walls of every designer, model, muse, and A-list star who've hung there. Vogue Editor Anna Wintour hosted Helmut Newton's memorial service at Davé. You don't need a menu, Davé just sends what's good, which is everything.
At the table next to us is Ford Model titan Katie Ford, a very blond and beautiful Avril Lavigne eats spring rolls nearby, and in the corner we spy the beautiful Bravo superstar "Project Runway" judge and Elle fashion director Nina Garcia. Bruce has seen his share of celebs - last November he dirty danced with Madonna (another blog entirely) - but he is flummoxed by the sight of Ms. Garcia. Will she like his clothes or will she dub them "aesthetically not pleasing!"

We make our way to Nina who is full of enthusiasm and kisses on each cheek. Always well known in fashion circles because of her important job, Garcia is now stopped everywhere by "Runway" fans and she's tickled. What's better is her report that hard core fashionistas - the toughest crowd to please - are mad for the show. We make plans to catch up at the Valentino show, make sure to kiss both cheeks, kiss our new friends at her table on every cheek, kiss Davé on each cheek (and make sure to keep it at that), and head to Maxims.

Maxim is a Paris institution of class and taste where those with class or those who think they have class meet to eat and drink. But we happened upon gay night at the landmark (how'd that happen?) and the
three who'd by day be the youngest at Maxim by night were the oldest. We didn't mind.

The place was empty at midnight and packed by two. When "Hung Up" came on there was a stampede to the dancefloor. Pandemonium. No matter what country - Madonna will make the people come together. It's a given. I asked a French youth what the chances of hearing another Madonna song was. "Zero chance," he spat back. "You're lucky you heard any. Absolutely none, you should go somewhere else if that's what you want."

About an hour later, they played "Hung Up" one more time. Another stampede. More global unity. I spied the nasty naysayer....on the dance floor.

BONJOUR FROM PARIS

January 22, 2006

Runway fever is in full gear as I report from Paris. What - or who - could get me to fly here for a long weekend? One of the few living fashion legends, Valentino.

My travel companion, interpreter, wing man - and one of NYC's most eligible bachelors - is Bruce Bozzi., Jr. Bruce and I made Mr. Valentino's acquaintance last summer (another blog entirely....) in the spot that's on the tip of jet set tongues worldwide, the Dalmatia Coast of Croatia (book it NOW!)

When Bruce and I received (golden, 5 pound) invitations to Mr. Valentino's Paris Couture show (which he will unveil Monday evening at 8:30 pm) there was little doubt that we could miss this spectacular spectacular.

Mr Valentino and his partner in all things, Giancarlo Giammetti, are one of a kind and out of this world. VaVa (that's what his pals call him) exemplifies glamour not only in his clothes but in the way he lives every moment of his life. He's dressed everyone from Jackie to Julia, practically invented the color red, AND late last year called Paris Hilton something along the lines of "vulgar" in the New Yorker! Viva VaVa!

When Bruce and I visited the Valentino workspace for a preview of the show yesterday, we stepped into a fantasy. Valentino is one of few designers who still are in the Couture business and it's not hard to see why few undertake this painstaking lost art. He employs 50 seamstresses identically outfitted in white lab coats. Many have been with the designer for 40 years and all work by hand for months at a time on individual dresses, each one-of-a-kind works of art that sell for several hundred thousand dollars... a piece.

Up close you can see why. The workspace is dressed as impeccably as it's tenant. The Valentino world is sheltered by 25 foot ceilings trimmed in gold in a series of rooms that seem to have been decorated by Louis XIV and Phillipe Stark. Watching the seamstresses iron the pieces - each takes hours to press - is evocative of watching NASA technicians build a spacecraft, which I did on my way to Croatia. Kidding. The dresses are engulfed in white noise, gleaming like diamonds and bright fresh flowers.

The mood is upbeat but feverish and focused. The designer is coming off of a busy two weeks. At the Golden Globes he put several starlets (including Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johannson) on the Best Dressed list. Last weekend he showed his men's collection in Milan and made headlines as two cowboy lovers walked his runway.

Back in Paris models come and go in jeans and Uggs (yes they are still wearing them for comfort and I do not blame them) and are transformed into angelic glamazons.

Once made up, they are tailored, fussed, and fitted by the impeccably outfitted, tanned, and coiffed King himself. A large room awaits with a mock runway, stage lighting, many employees of global origin - men wearing Valentino and women in chic, espresso, and smoke.. With a start, Valentino appears charging down the runway followed by 2 brown pugs calling "Music!"

Runway music blares, the glamazon appears like a strutting sunburst in the most amazing dress you'll ever see, and Valentino and Giammetti sit on the edge of brown chairs studying and directing. They are looking to see how the clothes fit and at the models to make sure they convey glamour, confidence, and some form of happiness (not too overt, this is fashion).

The model struts back and forth for no more than 25 seconds. Some get Valentino's immediate thumbs up. La dolce vita! The room is happy! Others are greeted with a scowl or frown and immediately whisked into the back room for more fittings and I frankly don't know what else. Giammetti tells me that sometimes models do get Valentino's "auf weidersen." He doesn't actually say Heidi's catchphrase, of course -- but perhaps they get his "Ciao!"

20 or 30 minutes later, the whole thing happens again - new model, new dress, new critique. All with care, drive and determination for perfection as the House of Valentino prepares it's next spectacle. More tomorrow!

WILLIE AND DOLLY SPEAK FROM THE HEART

January 20, 2006

While you're watching 2 of this season's big Oscar contenders, listen closely and read between the lines at the significance of the songs that play over their closing credits.

Two of America's most mainstream country legends have provided instant-classic songs for two of the most thought-provoking and boundry-breaking films in history. I'm referring to Dolly Parton - who's song "Travelin' Thru" closed "Transamerica" - and Willie Nelson - with the haunting "He was a Friend of Mine" for "Brokeback Mountain."

I quite by accident (and crazily) met Willie Nelson at a dinner party last month and quizzed him about his ode to cowboy love. He told me that at the time he recorded the song, he'd only been shown the final scenes of "Brokeback" in order to get the context of how his song would play. The motivation worked. His song continues the mood of the film perfectly, coming right after the its tearful ending, as Ennis says "Jack, I swear."

Willie sings: "Every time I think of him, I just can't keep from cryin'. Cuz he was a friend of mine.... He never done no wrong. A thousand miles from home, and he never harmed no one. And he was a friend of mine."

Willie said he liked the movie very much and that the talk on his tour bus had been whether the story of two cowboys in love would play down in Austin, Texas. Judging from red state box office receipts, it looks like folks all over are buying it. (And the great Emmylou Harris is getting nominated all over the place for her great "Brokeback" song, "A Love that Will Never Grow Old.")

Later in the evening he told me with a laugh that he'd written another song about 2 cowboys in love years and years ago with what sounded like a pretty amusing title at the time. I should say that by that point in the night we'd been tippin' back the glasses pretty hard, and - now that I'm sober- for the life of me I can't find the name of the song online. I CAN tell you that it's not "Mamma's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys" or "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" and it doesn't seem to be "Are There Any More Real Cowboys," but maybe it's "So You Think You're a Cowboy!" Man, Willie writes a lot about cowboys!

He also revealed that he's thinking about making a video for the song at a gay bar down south and had offers from some surprising A-list names to appear in it!

Willie Nelson is one cool customer who's bus rolls to the beat of his own supercool drum.

Speaking of cool drums, Dolly Parton is the Albert Pujols of country music - hitting a grand slam whenever she opens her mouth. As if her latest album (featuring covers of "Imagine," "Me and Bobby McGee" and more) still doesn't have me covered in goose bumps, she closes one of the most original movies in years with a beautiful song called "Travelin' Thru" that perfectly conveys the spirit of the film.

In the final moments of "Transamerica," Dolly preaches: "God made me for a reason, and nothing is in vain. Redemption comes in many shapes, with many kinds of pain. Sweet Jesus if you're listenin' keep me ever close to you, as I'm stumblin', tumblin' wonderin', as I'm travelin' thru."

It's not exactly headline news that the Queen of Country loves people who are different, but, having been to Dollywood I can report that Dolly's core followers aren't likely to be rushing to see "Transamerica." When asked about the song, Dolly said "I was proud to be asked to write a song for 'TransAmerica.' It's a remarkable movie that touches you in every single place of human emotion." To date, "Travelin' Thru" was nominated for a Golden Globe and will most likely be up for an Oscar.

I'm not going to go into a microbiotic analysis of what it means that 2 Red State Country Gods/Superstars are preaching acceptance of same-sex love and gender tolerance in the age of American conservatism.

I just think it is pretty damn cool.