No Runway In The Sky

One of the greatest fallacies in the past few years is the idea that people can’t be shocked anymore. Well, probably not by dullard careerist rock stars and bullshit cartoony painters (“Obey” my ass), but the fashion world still has a way of getting people’s panties in a bunch, and that’s where the action is.

Andrej Pejic is a 21-year old model who looks more like Deborah Harry than George Clooney, and it’s bugging even the most liberal fashion fans. Why? Because he models womens wear just as well as menswear. And he hasn’t had surgery or other cosmetic enhancements done. In Andrej’s case, the best woman for the job is a man.

As you can see Pejic looks more rock & roll than anything in years, so whether he’s fronting a woman’s dress or Bowie-T.Rex glammage he looks positively hypnotic. When he’s not looking like an ultra-cool rock star he’s upsetting fashionistas by modeling outfits like a see-through wedding dress for Jean-Paul Gaultier’s collection during Paris Fashion Week. He was also a top model for Marc by Marc Jacobs Spring/Summer 2011 campaign, and also walked down the runway for Jeremy Scott, who really gets around.

Other modeling episodes in recent months have included a magazine cover banned from Barnes & Noble for posing in a see-through dress (no joke) and posing in a Marilyn Monroe tribute that’s more convincing than that Michelle Williams travesty. Another gender-bending feather in his cap was his work in the advertising campaign for Dutch retailer HEMA wearing red dresses and women’s lingerie. Not bad for a war baby born during the Bosnia-Herzegovina massacre.

Andrej Pejic is signed to DNA Model Management (New York), and is registered at 10 other agencies in each country. The Talented Mr. Pejic is ranked at Number 18 in the Top 50 Male Models on websitemodels.com. Well done!

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Another cure to the female model cliché blues is the amazing Ranya Mordanova. Coming from the Russian Federation, she looks Asian as she does European, creating an otherworldly quality in everything she wears. If anybody looks sci-fi, it’s her. The art of presenting fashion isn't only dependent on designers and photographers, but also on intriguing models like Pejic and Mordanova to sell them.

BeepBeepBOOP! BeepBeepYEAH! (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 4)

Griff continued walking down the bright streets of Los Angeles on this particular hot day in August, regarding the leather in his boots splitting open and absorbing the heat beating down on them. He turned the corner towards the shopping center across the street from Farmer’s Market on the corner of Third and Fairfax. He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt which was getting hotter and wetter as the day struggled on.

He liked going to Irv’s Cafeteria, which catered to the seniors in the neighborhood because it was regular, non-fancy food at low prices. Before he could get to the entrance, however, he saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

“Griff, is that you?” a run-down man in overalls and a horn-rims with one cracked lens asked him. Jesus, Griff thought, startled by the sight, it’s my trumpet instructor, Jeffrey Chandler.

“Jeffrey”, Griff stopped dead in his tracks, “What’s up, man? Long time, no see”.
“I know, Griff. Things haven’t turned out so well for me. Listen, buddy, could you spare a few bucks, I haven’t eaten in awhile”.
“Um, sure”, he kicked down five dollars and handed it to him.
“Thanks, pal. I’ll never forget this”, he jammed the singles into his back pocket.
“What happened?” Griff never saw him like this before.

“I lost the apartment, but before that I got robbed, you know. Hollywood, right? They stole my art supplies and shit. Some of my instruments got stolen, too”. Jeffrey solicited prostitutes in the neighborhood and he’d bring them home. That probably accounted for his pad getting boosted. “I hurt a woman, she only wanted to take care of me and I was just bad to her, just bad. I’m an awful man, just awful”. He shook his head, and I noticed he was missing two front bottom teeth.

“That’s bad, Jeffrey. Sounds like you got a tough break, man”.
“Speak quieter, they can hear us”.
“Who can?”
“It might be too late. Oh, god. I gotta get to a phone booth. I gotta make a call”, Jeffrey started pacing around nervously as Mexican and Russian housewives walked by giving him dirty looks.
“Jeffrey, man-“ He noiselessly mouthed words to himself, completely ignoring me.
“I’m going to make a phone call, I’ll talk to you later. Yeah, um, wait-“ Jeffrey not only solicited prostitutes but refused to wear a condom, contracting syphilis in the process.

“She won’t forgive me, she’ll probably hang up on me. Maybe if you talked to her she’ll listen to you, yeah, that’s it, let’s go find a phone booth!”
“Jeffrey, I gotta go-“ I waved at him, turning away.
“No, come on, Griff, it’ll only take five minutes, seriously”. The sun got brighter and brighter and hotter and hotter.
“Take care, Jeffrey”, Griff broke into a quick walk.
“Griff!” Jeffrey called after him.

Griff woke up on the cold bedroom floor to the odor of his brother Patrick spraying the room with a garlic-bleach compound. He rubbed his eyes quickly.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Gotta clean the place, man”, Patrick walked around the room, squirting away from his plastic bottle. “Keeps the mosquitoes away”.
The last thing Griff wanted to wake up to was the stench of bleach mixed with garlic.
“Hey, you want to grab some breakfast?”
“No, I gotta study”.
“But it’s Saturday”.
“Yeah”, Patrick sprayed away.
“Well”, Griff rubbed his hair around his head. “At least the phone’s plugged in again”.
Almost as if on cue, the phone rang. Patrick ran over and picked it up.
“Hello? Who? Griff? There’s no one here by that name”. He slammed the receiver down.
“Who was it?” Griff asked.
“I don’t know. I have to study”, Patrick put down his bleach spray, sat down and grabbed a book. The king of his castle, the master of his domain, he loudly ripped out a fart that almost penetrated the odor of garlic and bleach. Almost.
Griff threw his clothes on and left the apartment.

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The LA Neurotics, one of the biggest punk bands in town, were playing The Glitter House that night. Griff went by himself to let off some steam and hear some great punk rock. The club was packed and The Neurotics were up on stage playing their toughest tunes, “I Gotta Headache”, “Buzz Buzz Killer Bees”, and a punk cover of Dizzy Gillespie’s “Salt Peanuts”, re-titled, well, you know.

As The Neurotics played their noisy, ear-splitting set young guys were in their most primal hardcore element, skank dancing on the dance floor, bum rushing the front of the stage for five seconds before diving into the crowd. A big mosh circle spun like a tornado in the middle of the floor, mostly guys with a few brave girls jumping into the fray for a few seconds before returning to safety by the sides.

The singer grabbed the mike and hollered, “Buzz Buzz Killer Bees, Stiiinnnnng Meeee!” spitting all over himself like a spastic. “Buzz Buzz, Mom and Dad, Stiinnnnng Meeee!”
The band all wore astronaut-style crew cuts and all looked like Republican real estate brokers from Garden Grove. The guitarists wore pained expressions on their faces as they played which either expressed ejaculation or constipation.

The problem with the show besides the fact that the club oversold the place and posed a serious fire hazard was that The Glitter House normally didn’t put on punk shows, so the bouncers didn’t know how to handle the rapidly growing crowd. As a result they were unnecessarily rough on the kids that jumped around the dance floor.

Griff took the best course of action, which was stand towards the back of the room with his beer and rock his body to the music.

“I WANT TO DEDICATE THIS SONG TO MY PSYCHIATRIST. WHAT A BITCH!” Gussie Neurotic, the lead singer yelled into the mike, the drums kicking in to their theme song, “I’m A Neurotic”. The kids all started leaping and moshing faster than ever. Punk kids dove off the stage and some were crowd surfing, riding on a sea of hands through the crowd.

What Griff saw next shocked him. A spotlight travelled from the band to the crowd, picking out a rowdy kid pushing his friends in the mosh pit. Like a nature film, five bouncers raced into the crowd like lions, grabbing the smallest kid and pulling him out of the club. The spotlight followed the entire thing as if that were the real show instead of the group playing on stage.

“What a bunch of dicks”, Griff grumbled as the bouncers dragged the kid ten feet away from him towards the fire exit, the spotlight following them all the way to the back. The spotlight briefly hit Griff in the eyes, so he cupped them with his right hand.

Griff walked closer away from the fire exit as he knew what was going to happen next. More punk kids got pounced on by the huge bouncers and dragged out the back, the spotlight following them all the way to the exit as it did the first time.
“This is so fucking stupid”, Griff tore the label off his beer bottle. “Who cares if we ever play here? This place sucks”.

“AND NOW, OUR LAST MASTERPIECE – ‘COUGH COUGH KAFKA!!!!’” a racing barrage of distorted guitar began “Cough Cough Kafka” and the place went crazy. Kids were jumping around even worse than during “I’m A Neurotic”, the sound was deafening and the room was stifling hot with bodies of people pressed together. It was so crowded it was hard to relax.

A spotlight then hit the mosh pit and the bouncers all ran into the crowd like linebackers at a football game, which is probably what they did before they got jobs at The Glitter House. They all jumped a skinny punk kid who tried breaking free from them, but they grabbed him by the arm. He kicked one really hard and slipped away. They then shoved everyone out of the way and all dogpiled this kid, five jocks on one spindly punk kid. The spotlight then showed the kid getting dragged out of the club in a choke hold. The kid’s face was turning shades of blue and purple as they dragged out of the fire exit.

“That’s enough”, Griff cussed as he went out the fire exit. Coughing to get some air back in his lungs, the kid was cornered by a circle of huge bouncers. Griff rushed at them.
“Hey, what the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?” Griff yelled at them.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, ASSHOLE?” a big black football monster yelled at him.
“Leave the kid alone! What is this shit? He was just goofin’ around”.
“DO YOU WANT SOME OF ME, ASSHOLE? DO YOU????” the bouncer screamed in his face.
“He’s not bothering anybody! Quit fuckin’ around with everybody, you fuckin’ jocks!”
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BEFORE WE JUMP YOUR ASS, MOTHERFUCKER! STUPID WHITE BOY!” He shoved Griff while the other bouncers were thinking about jumping him instead.

Caught with their pants down, the bouncers simply ripped the kid’s drink bracelet off his wrist and shoved him away. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t ever come to The Glitter House again!”
It was a minor victory. That’s all we have left.

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“Thanks for letting me sleep over”, Griff smiled at Pierre, remembering his offer to let him share his apartment. “You’re a stand-up guy”.
“Bro, this is gonna be awesome!” Pierre laughed, “You won’t be sorry!”
Pierre’s place was actually nice and clean for a guy who did hard drugs. It was a classy Thirties art deco apartment in Koreatown with ceiling fan lights and a friendly gold Abyssinian cat. The furniture was in good shape, and after awhile Griff deduced that Pierre came from a good home and probably didn’t pay a cent for anything.

“Yeah, so where were you staying at? Your brother’s place? Was it harsh?”
“He was totally harsh. He just got out of the Army and slept with a gun under his pillow”.
“Hell, he sounds like a drug dealer!”
“Too uptight”, Griff sat back on the couch as Pierre turned on the TV. There was a special on Jim Morrison. “Oh, it’s him”.
“Make yourself at home, man”, Pierre said. He walked over to this dresser and pulled out a dime bag, grabbed some matches and sat down on the sofa. A beat-up spoon and syringe were on the coffee table.
“You don’t mind?” Pierre asked. “This shit doesn’t freak you out?”
“Not as much as garlic and bleach”, Griff responded as Pierre laughed, cooking his works on the coffee table.
“Hey, I tried to call you today, and this guy, your brother? Man, he hung up on me”.
“He was busy cleaning his gun”.

The works finally cooked, Pierre hummed “Light My Fire” as Jim Morrison crooned in the background. He tied his arm with a necktie his Mom bought him for Christmas and plunged the needle in a rapidly collapsing vein. He loosened the tie and laid back. “Oh shit!” he gurgled.

Pierre ran into the bathroom and quickly threw up. “That’s some pretty pure stuff!”
The Abyssinian cat walked up to him as he laid back on the sofa.
“Pure stuff, huh Thunderball?”
“Thunderball? Your cat’s gold. Why don’t you call him Goldfinger?”
“Goldfinger? No way. That’s too obvious. Hey, I saved some for you. Have a taste on me. I mean, seriously bro”.
“No, man, I don’t do that stuff".
“Ahhhh, it’s casual. Hey, are you gonna talk to Mykela for me? She’s so hot”.
"Pierre, you know, about Mykela-"
"I know...I'm trying to stay clean for her...but it's hard, man...I got to make her proud of me..."

Thunderball jumped in Griff's lap as he stroked his furry head. His golden slitted eyes looked at Griff and then at Pierre, noting that he was now passed out. Jim Morrison was on the set screaming his head off in his leather pants and big beer belly.

Griff walked over to the kitchen and sat down by the dinner table. He saw Thunderball jump up on the window sill which overlooked the parking lot below. Griff leaned over the table to grab a cigarette, reach for an ash tray, light up and then looked over to the window sill.

The golden cat was gone.

I Don't Care What The Neighbors Say (every good boy DIES FIRST Chapter 3)

Only the most fertile imagination could find some semblance of beauty in the endless row of cubicles at the law firm of McTeague, Woodward & Teller. One of the clerks Griff knew referred to his cubicle as his “house”, which always made him chuckle. Sometimes he wished he could burn his house down.

It’s hard work trying to look like something people might find socially acceptable. Poorly groomed in an attempt to look like everyone else, Griff bunched his normally messy hair back behind his ears, strands spilling out; his suit needing ironing barely keeping his shirt tucked in; his belt so old the leather had cracks all over the cinch; his dress shoes could use some updating and the laces were broken and retied in places. He was a good clerk, though, quick, efficient, and reliable.

He stared at the clock that told him it was still 3:45 in the afternoon, another one hour and fifteen minutes to go. It was a Friday so there was still hope in the monotony. He had to catch Mr. Teller before he left so he could get his time card signed. He lightly knocked on Mr. Teller’s office door with his time card in hand.

Teller looked up from his paper work and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Griffith, come on in. I’ll bet I know why you’re here”.
“Yes sir”, Griff handed him the time card.
Teller perused the card and signed. “You mean to tell me you actually expect to get paid for doing this stuff? Really?” Griff gave off a fake laugh.
“Any big plans this weekend?”
“Not really”.
“You playing any big rock shows this weekend?” Teller handed Griff his time card. “You know, we have a rock guy in our stock room. Yeah, what’s his name? I think it’s Roberts, yeah Roberts, has a rock band of his own. You may want to meet him. Have a good one, Griffin!”
“You too, sir”, Griff ambled away.

Out of morbid curiosity Griff walked by the stock room to see rock man Roberts. He saw a thick-set guy with a buzz cut cutting open boxes of stationery singing along to George Benson’s “On Broadway” playing quietly on the radio. “Badoo-Ba-Ba, Doo-Doo-Way-Doo-Bah” Roberts scatted along. Griff quickly walked away trying not to laugh. Roberts rocked the house.

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Later that night Garbage Truck were breaking in their new guitarist, a third one named Bradley. They rehearsed at Action Studios, a condemned old motor lodge with cars parked in front of the rooms. Each room were torn up empty spaces that held nothing but a PA system with battered monitor speakers and an old, greasy, soiled sofa that was three years overdue for the garbage dump. With barely sound-proofed walls and bare light bulbs hanging low, every room looked like a crime scene. All that was missing were the chalk marks of dead victims on the floor. The hourly rates were cheap but there were many interruptions from street people barging in or stray musicians looking for the wrong band or asking them to move their car.

Bradley, the new guitarist, thickened the band’s sound now that there were three rather then two guitars blaring away. It was a huge sound bordering on some misbegotten symphony. He had the songs down pat, a good sign for a new player. Griff taught them a new song called “Lazy And Crazy” which the guys picked up quickly. After running through the song for half an hour they kind of just stood there.

Bert, Bobby, Trev and Bradley stood with their guitars strapped on while Ricardo sat back behind his drum kit. Griff always spoke to the band through his microphone.
“Bobby, what did Betty Frost say about us?”
“She said we’ll never play her club again”, Bobby frowned.
“What the hell?” the guys asked.
“Why?”
“She said we played too long”.
“Did you tell her to bite your wet spot?” The guys laughed.
“Oh, and she also said we played too much feedback. She said something pretty corny, it was like, ‘Feedback doesn’t rock, it’s just noise’. Something like that”.
Griff started chanting, “Feedback doesn’t rock, it’s just noise, feedback doesn’t rock, it’s just noise”. The other guys picked up the chant, mumbling loudly like Cavemen over and over, “FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE, “FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE, “FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE”, Ricardo pounding a monotonous drum beat in time with the chant, and the three guitarists and bassist turning their axes against their amps and emitting ear-shattering squeals of brain-cracking feedback.
“FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE, FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE”, Griff chanted over the PA system.

The rehearsal room door opened a tad, and Rip the studio owner poked his head in looking puzzled. The band stopped.
“Hey! What’s going on in here?”
“Um, band meeting”, Griff said.
“Right on”, Rip split, closing the door.

“Where were we?” Griff asked the band. Ricardo busted out a surf drum beat and the guitars squealed again.
“FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE, FEEDBACK DOESN’T ROCK, IT’S JUST NOISE”, Griff chanted over the song of doom.
Tiring of this awful song for two minutes, they stopped.
“Hey, Griff, we should do a ten minute version of this song at the next Devil’s Den gig”, Bert quipped.
“I think we’re toast at the Den”.

A harried heavy metal dude poked his head through the door. “Does anybody here own a ’76 Caddy? You’re blocking my ride, I gotta bounce!”
“Ope, that’s me”, Bert threw his guitar down and ran out the door to move it.
Griff looked at the guys minus one guitar player.
“Let’s take a break”.

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After rehearsal Griff went to The Tribal Room for a few drinks. It was mostly a bar with a bandstand in the back and was darker than most watering holes. A man needed a flashlight just to find his wallet to pay for the strong drinks. At first he saw a girl that looked familiar sitting by the bar, and as he came closer she turned to him.
“Hey, Griff!” It was Mykela.

“Hey, Mykela, what’s going on?”
“Oh, just decompressing. Terri, set up some Jager shots for me and Rock Star here”.
“This must be a special occasion, or are you just glad to see me?” Griff asked as he picked up the 12-step chip she wore around her neck. Terri the bartender laid two shot glasses in front of them and poured.
“All of the above”.
“Aren’t you afraid of being seen here?” He picked his drink up.
“Are you kiddin’? Terri won’t talk, would you Terri? Anyway, this place’s darker than a monkey’s bunghole”. She knocked hers back.
She signaled Terri to pour two more.
“I feel kinda guilty about this, what the hell?”
“It’s cheaper then heroin and a lot safer, too. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know”, she shrugged.
“Keep on comin’”, Griff joked.
“Yeah, right, keep ‘em comin’”, she laughed, signaling Teri for more shots. “Make me laugh, Griff”.
“We’ll never play The Devil’s Den again”.
“What, Betty Frost? That old cow?”
“She said we played too long and made too much noise”.
Mykela almost gagged on her Jager shot. “When was punk NOT supposed to be noise? Well, join the club, she never even booked us”.
“No shit”.
“She won’t book girls in bands. Doesn’t even want to hear us. Always cards me at the door, when she feels like letting me in”.
“That sucks”.
“You don’t know the half of it! She asked me to be her sponsor!”
“Bullshit!” He knocked back another Jager shot. “Say, what do you think of George Benson?”
“George who? You’re drunker than I thought, you’ve had enough!”
“Yeah, you’re right. Careful driving home, I gotta bounce, as the heavy metal guys say”.
“Thanks for the laffs”.
“Thanks for the drinks. It’s been real”. Griff trudged slowly through the dank lounge to the creaking barroom door. The night time city streets were bright by comparison.

House Of A Thousand Mysteries

In 1995, former Mystery Science Theater host Joel Hodgson had a program called “TV Wheel” which featured a weird skit about a guy called Vick Lawston who manically plugged a magic/joke shop catalog. There was also a freaky chimp puppet called Pumpernickel who screamed all through the skit. To many younger viewers it was absolute dementia, but to the Baby Boomer dudes out there it was a fresh breath of nostalgia.

Because there really was a guy called Vick Lawston who advertised his magic catalogue in the back of comic books in the 1960’s, and, yes indeed, he had a crazy monkey mascot called Pumpernickel. The catalog was called “The House of A Thousand Mysteries” and it was the coolest book you could ever own. Even if you didn’t have enough money for the magic tricks or joke shop pranks, just the bitchen illustrations in the book were worth the price of the damn thing.

Vick Lawston’s magic shop operated out of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and his catalog (50 cents – cheap) was jam packed full of tricks and pranks, at least ten per page, and this thing ran for close to 175 pages. While the cover of my catalog has a 1966 copyright date a lot of the photos of Vic and drawings in general look a lot closer to the Forties.

The catalog could be enjoyed as a stand-alone book with its depiction of rubbery men with faces like jackals either fighting baldness or obesity, while all the magicians depicted inside were unbelievably handsome, dashing and/or sensually exotic. All magician’s assistants were stunningly sexy goddesses of erotic pulchritude, but before Mom could accuse us of viewing smut, Lawston would toss in Pumpernickel to keep it all clean and boyish (hyuk!).

Many of the magic tricks sound like names of punk bands: Magic Producto Box, Ghost Card Trick, Enchanted Cards, St. Peter’s Lesson, The Obedient Silks, and Razor Blade Trick, to name a few. Sounds like the line-up at CBGB’s in 1976!

“House of 1000 Mysteries” was completely aimed at little boys, focusing on the two things they love the most: magic tricks and monkeys. The only thing I ended up ordering from the catalog was a book called “Houdini On Magic” by Walter B. Gibson. “Houdini On Magic” was a compilation of manuals written by the great magician on various tricks, escape routines, and his thoughts on the whole séance and spiritualism racket. If the name Walter B. Gibson sounds familiar, it’s because he was also known as Maxwell Grant, author of the legendary “Shadow” pulp series.

While I don’t purport to be an expert on magic and probably never wanted to be a serious magician I couldn’t forestall the seduction of mystery and saucy humor Vick Lawston presented to us feverish kids in the Sixties, and for that he’ll always be enamored as trash-culture titan extraordinaire, monkeys and magic and all.

Comme des Garcons Fall/Winter 2012 Paris Fashion Week

Even before it takes time to have the post-Christmas blues it’s time for fashion’s major designers to present their latest collections at Milan and Paris Fashion Week, which both showed last month. All the poop on Milan Fashion Week zoomed right by, but it’s never too late to give you the full skinny on Paris Fashion Week.

Before I go any further, I need to give credit to The Fashionisto, a great mens fashion website, for reporting all the amazing highlights at Paris Fashion Week. If you’d like to see more from them, here’s their URL: http://thefashionisto.com/

While many designers showed their collections at Paris Fashion Week, I personally enjoyed six designers in particular that I thought were the most outstanding. I liked the collections from Hermes, Agnes B (who knew?), Lanvin, Yves Saint Laurent, Dries Van Noten, and Kris Van Assche. My favorite one and the most idiosyncratically rock & roll was Japan’s own Comme des Garcons.

The Comme des Garcons Fall/Winter 2012 collection was resplendent in bizarre punk Edwardian waistcoats of clashing plaids, polka dots, occasionally draped in waist coats, capes and pleated skirts. Designer Rei Kawakubo forsakes the dandyism of a Galliano or Westwood by investing a more hard-boiled glam/punk appearance to her models, all the way down to Keith Richards/Ron Wood/Jeff Beck wigs.

While the other designers showed sartorial elegance with printed fabrics from Dries Van Noten, brilliant tailoring as usual from Saint Laurent and soft leather outerwear (Hermes doing what they do best), CDG knocked me out the most this season. Wouldn't it be great to see a band dressed like this for a change?