American Hustler Mert Marcus

Turn That Smile Upside Down: Milan Men’s Fashion Week Fall 2014

Gentle reader,

Now that the dust has settled a bit after this month’s men’s Fashion Week marathon, I thought it might be a good time to look back over what we saw in Milan and Paris on that nine-day run when we’re less inclined to be swept away by the spectacle of the show or spew bile on a collection because we didn’t have a chance to have our morning coffee.

And by “we”, of course, I mean “I.” I don’t expect to be treated like a princess or anything but please don’t make me look at clothes, even my own, before I’ve had at least a gulp or two of coffee.

The general feeling in the industry over Milan seemed to be that everything was a bit sad due to the current economic picture in Italy and that the collections were workable but uninspired. 

Victor/Victoria?: The Menswear Trend in Women’s Fashion

Gentle reader,

All day I’ve wracked my poor brain trying to think of a fresh angle on fashion to bring you.  I thought about it at the gym when I wasn’t calculating how many more reality TV “celebrities” will have to start working out there to outnumber the gay porn stars.  And I thought about it on my hike to the Hollywood sign until I heard a booming loudspeaker ordering silly tourists, no doubt, to stop trying to climb the hill up to the letters.  I swear, they should shoot just one of them and this perennial problem would be solved.  They wouldn’t even have to aim for the head. 

Dolce and Gabbana FW 2013

La Dolce Vita Remix: Milan Fashion Week Fall 2013

Gentle reader,

I’m not sure if you noticed, but there was a little thing that went down a few blocks from our place on Sunday.  It’s called the Academy Awards and they seem to do it every year, like clockwork or something.  I tuned in this time because our friend, the dashing Lawrence Zarian, was working the pre-awards red carpet for ABC and then decided to watch the whole show. 

Jason Wu

Seven Moments from the Year in Fashion

Gentle reader,

I hope you’ve emerged from Christmas relatively unscathed this year.  Ours was lovely, spent with my parents and a veritable army of relatives who descended upon their house at the edge of a tiny Central California town yesterday afternoon.  Fifteen or so of them were aged twelve and younger and the sea of presents that we adults brought to quench the youngsters’ thirst for licensee products threatened to engulf the living room.  Many of us managed to remember which of the little ones loved Disney princesses and who was a big fan of Angry Birds, but the most interesting gift and one that stole the spotlight for several minutes after I opened the box was an ancient taxidermied squirrel clutching a hundred dollar bill.  Um, thanks, Dad.

Scott’s mother and sister joined us there this year for the first time, coping admirably with the crowd of friendly strangers, and when it was all over, my aunt thanked them for “bringing a little class” to the family, though, she continued, “that’s like bringing a cup of water to a forest fire.”  I was once horrified but now find it rather amusing that my relatives see themselves as untamed rednecks when they are actually very polite, articulate, WASP-y horse people, though they may own perhaps a few too many guns between them.

Well, there’s that dead squirrel, too, so my aunt might just be on to something.

Lord Robert Walters Naked

Milan Fashion Week Spring 2013: What the Hell Just Happened?

Gentle reader,

A new show called Secret Princes, about four young princes looking for love, debuted on TLC the other night and I’m sure you’re just dying to hear about it.  The premise is wonderfully simple.  They fly in to Atlanta where they’ll live in a rundown old house, work minimum wage jobs and pretend to be regular guys because, you see, busboys get chicks way easier than European princes.

This might be a good time to point out that, despite the title, two of them aren’t actually princes at all.  One guy is a hunky British underwear model named Lord Robert Walters.  Those familiar with the titled aristocracy will know that the use of “Lord” is murky at best, especially when followed by the first name and more considerably when the guy is an underwear model.  The Honourable Ludovic Watson is also a Brit who isn’t a lord but still outranks Lord Robert on the title scale because his father is a baron, though one never addresses a British baron as Baron X, only as Lord X, which is all rather confusing.  Hailing from a big, bleak-looking country house in Yorkshire, he arrives in the ATL wearing a silly tailcoat, which annoyed me more than it should, probably because I was likely to do the same in my youth when many of my friends were lords and “Hons.,” like those on the show.

Secret Princes

L to R: Salauddin Babi, Robert Walters, Francisco de Borbón, and Ludovic Watson

The other two seem to be actual princes.  Chubby, smiley Prince Salauddin Babi of Balasinor comes from western India where he lives in a big compound he’s named the Garden Palace when, from the looks of it, it should really be called the Drywall and Stucco Palace.  There’s also Prince Francisco de Borbón who seems pretty American save having an enormous crest on his jacket and fully staffed houses all over the world.  Oh, and being descended from the royal houses of Spain, France and Germany.  It seems like this could’ve been the perfect Battle of the Eurotrash Douchebags, but these guys are all very cool and I’m looking forward to seeing what happens now that they’re settled in.

My Future’s So Bright: Milan Men’s Collections

Gentle reader,

I finally caught a few minutes of the new VH1 series Mob Wives Chicago over the weekend and it seems to be mostly about the short, mean-looking one named Pia running around and causing drama with all the other cast members.  The episode I saw started with the one who looks like an old Snookie and the tragic kinky perm one meeting up in a sad coffee shop to bitch about the rest of them.  Then midget stripper Pia hangs out with spacey Christina in some rooftop garden and decides to go visit the blonde with the Real Housewives extensions at her optical shop.  As you can imagine, that doesn’t really go well especially after it becomes apparent that the stripper and Real Housewives chick’s boyfriend go way back.

Mental Head Circus


by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

At the risk of disappointing you, I’ve had to take some time off from watching television.  Work has been insane with the Private Sale going on and there have been lots of things I’ve had to attend in the evenings, as well.  For example, Scott and I went to see Kylie Minogue at the Hollywood Bowl on Friday night.  It was probably the gayest night of my life.

Kylie's Beauty Tip No. 2167: Always carry a Photoshop artist in your purse. Beauty Tip No. 2168: Never stand up. Reclining on your back takes off ten years.

I’d expected long before that it might be quite the gay affaire but, when I “checked in” on facebook, which I’m trying to do more frequently so that my stalkers can have the most up to date information, my friend Garrett in New York immediately commented, “The bars in WeHo must be empty because every queen in L.A. is there!”  He was right, and not just L.A.  It was as though the West Hollywood, New York and San Francisco Pride Festival organizers decided to cut costs and have everyone just show up at the same place, same time.  That time was now.  On the road leading up to the gates, Scott and I each said, “Oh, hi!” with that semi-surprised look that you have when you unexpectedly run into someone you know so many times I thought our faces might get stuck like that.

It's Hammer Time


by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

Hello from the gentle winds of Palm Springs.  When I say “gentle winds,” I mean there should’ve been a fucking storm warning issued for the 92264 tonight but, otherwise, it’s been quite lovely here.  Even though the winter polo season is finished and I’m not hitting a little ball from a running horse up and down a big grassy field, I can still sit by the pool and have dinner at the Riviera Hotel with Scott and his mum.

I was on the fence about whether to write about this week’s Celebrity Apprentice or the action film Thor, which I’ve just seen at the Mary Pickford Multiplex in nearby Cathedral City.  Multiplexes and Mary Pickford seem to go together about as much as Cathedral City and me, which is to say we don’t.  The first time I remember being in Cathedral City —it was in the Target parking lot before we knew Target was chasing the gay dollar and then using it against us — I remarked how it seemed somehow different from Palm Springs.  Scott’s mum said, quite matter-of-factly, “Well, James, you know that Cathedral City is where the help lives.”  That made so much sense.

How do your nuts feel now, dude? Can you feel them at all? Hemsworth before (left) and after the Testosterone, Nandrolone Decanoate, Stanozolol, and Anastrozole, a.k.a. The Thunder Cocktail.

In the end, NeNe kind of scares me so I’m going to go with Thor.  Aren’t you glad?