Paul Witt Wittmore

Men’s Fashion: Modern Classics at Wittmore L.A.

Gentle reader,

While everyone else in the Western Hemisphere is obsessing over what Jay Z might have said to make Solange go all honey badger on his ass, I am pondering more important issues like what the hell and I going to wear this summer now that’s it’s already in the mid-90s in the middle of May. My friend Charles has been working with a men’s shop that he thinks is cool in L.A.’s West Third Street neighborhood for a while now and he has pretty good taste and even runs a style blog called Dapper Dan Man, although I don’t know what the fuck that’s all about since, as I said, his name is Charles.

Heaven Is in the Accessories: Valas Los Angeles

Gentle reader,

Have you heard about this Pinterest thing?  I’d thought it was quaintly used by fair young maidens planning their impending nuptials and “pinning” ideas to their “boards” of bridal gowns, flower arrangements and bridesmaids’ dresses that they’ll tell their closest friends they can wear again but know deep in their hearts that the dresses have to be ugly enough to make sure the bride stands out.  It turns out, though, that, if you follow the right boards, it’s pretty much like gay porn.  Without the sound, that is.  I politely “followed back”—a term I borrowed from Twitter, the other gay porn social media site in disguise—a board from a lovely lady named Jennifer Cox, whom I now suspect of not really being an anatomical lady due to her profile name, “wannabachick70.” Her bio also gives it away, just a bit:

Joaquin Phoenix

REVIEW: ‘Her’ Gets Lost in Translation

Every year since I started reviewing films there seems to be one Oscar contender the majority of critics fall over themselves like drunken Magi to adore that I just don’t get. In 2011 it was The Artist. In 2012, Beasts of the Southern Wild, a.k.a. ‘that bathtub movie.’ This year it’s Spike Jonze’s Her.

Let me state clearly that I’m nowhere near as apoplectic about Her’s acclaim as I was about the other two bugaboos. It’s a sweet film with lots to love about the story, its characters and its message — if I didn’t think that I’d be a psychopath. And it is ever so exquisitely made.

Tory Burch

Tory Burch — ‘The Upper East Side Bitches’ Muse’

Gentle reader,

So, the other day I made it down the street to check out Tory Burch’s new Rodeo Drive flagship that has been under construction for about eighty years.  The scaffolding had finally come down and, as I walked to my car in the suddenly dark L.A. evening, the shop appeared a glittering little jewel amongst the luxury retail behemoths that line The Drive.  It looked a bit like Christmas came early in one teeny spot.

Before you get the idea that I’m gushing, I should probably mention that I’m not a big Tory Burch fan.  None of my clients wear it and I’m not at all familiar with the merchandise up close, though I’ve always assumed that it’s like a more expensive J. Crew. 

West Hollywood Halloween

Streakers and Sluts: Halloween in Los Angeles

Gentle reader,

Most holidays seem to have a spiritual home.  Anyone who’s walked past Liberty of London in December knows that London owns Christmas, probably due to our concept of Yuletide having been entirely invented by Charles Dickens.  Thanksgiving, on the other hand, seems very Eastern Seaboard because of the changing leaves and pilgrims, neither of which are plentiful in Southern California.  Mardi Gras is observed in drastically different ways in three places around the world: in New Orleans it’s about partying; in Sydney it’s about the gays; in Rio it’s all about sex.  On second thought, maybe those don’t sound that different after all.

Me back in the day.

Me back in the day.

It’s hard to say for certain what makes Halloween the quintessential Los Angeles holiday but it probably has a lot to do with the fact that most Angelinos came here to be somebody else. 

Gucci Mens SS 2014

Milan Men’s Fashion Week Spring/Summer 2014: Sporty Spice?

Gentle reader,

As I was chomping at the bit for men’s fashion week to start in Milan, I briefly distracted myself by stopping by the opening of my fabulously stylish friend Caroline Cohen‘s art opening a few days ago at the lovely BoaSoa Gallery just off Melrose in WeHo.  After I got over how stunning she looked in her shimmering gold Hervé Leger bandage dress, I noticed some impressive large canvases lining the feature wall.  Each piece is a mixture of paint and collage and most paintings reference the peculiar mood a particular location like Paris or Bali.  There is enough layering and detail

Viggle Room


by James Killough

“I used to think I had narcissistic personality disorder,” James Tuttle once commented to a post of mine on the subject.  “Then I discovered I just enjoyed being good-looking.”  Tuttle is not just good-looking.  In online parlance he is “VGL,” or Very Good-Looking, which from the early years of hooking up online I have been calling “viggle.”  This is because invariably some total tool who would refer to himself as VGL in his profile is not that at all, and is therefore worthy of ridicule.

If you ever need a dose of viggle, is the place to go. This detail is from a recent Dolce & Gabbana campaign, a.k.a. Me and My Boys (I wish).

Indeed, one of the first rules of online dating is that a guy is rarely the adjectives he uses to describe himself.  “Hot,” “sexy,” “hung” are common enough delusions/mendacious cacas, but my alarm bells sound loudest when some dude describes himself as “sane,” “normal,” “fun,” “smart,” or, worst of all, “cool.” 

Love The Unknown


According to Indian Railways I shouldn’t be writing this.  It’s not like I’ve ever misbehaved on an Indian train, unless you count the time my mother and I were taking an overnight local from Jaipur to Bikaner—which would be a three-hour drive on American roads—and I was hoisting her up to the top bunk of the sleeper, and she kept falling off, and we were laughing so hard she said, “Oh, no, I think I’ve wet myself,” which meant she had to get down and the whole process was repeated again.

No.  The reason Indian Railways doesn’t think I should be writing this is because, according to them, I have been dead for twenty years.

This is, of course, entirely the Raja of Kotwara’s fault.  Creepy bastard.  I’m not talking about the New Raja, but the old one, the New Raja’s father.  I never knew his name because I just called him Raja-sahib like everyone else.  But he certainly knew mine.