Gridlock

Tourists, tourists, tourists. I'm making a drop-off up in the Hollywood Hills and I'm really flustered getting the gown out of my car and all, my ass is hanging out of my pants and my clipboard is falling down, and I turn around and there's this TMZ tour bus with these apple knockers with their fucking cameras and mobile phones taking pics of me pulling out a gown with my dick falling out my pants and I got THIS close to screaming, "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"

But I didn’t.

I threw my back out towards the rubberneckers and kept it there until the tour bus finally trotted off, disappointed that I wasn’t about to march over to some celebrity’s doorstep with their clothes.

Truth be told, the delivery wasn’t even famous. Just a barely known film producer’s wife getting her gown for the night’s festivities. People make a big fuss about nothing, even my pants sliding down my hips. Tourists are funny; so many of them behave like boobs who paid their money see a freak show at the carnival.

Sometimes I feel bad about my job and how it looks to “normal” people, and other times I tell myself “this is where I belong” and believe it. I’ve been holding down this gig for about a year and a half already but it felt much, much longer than that.

It wasn’t hard work, it was pretty easy, but it was very exhausting running around and picking things up and then sitting in traffic all day getting to the delivery and dropping it off, repeating the cycle for ten hours straight without breaks. The repetition of it all is what killed you.

When I think back on my first day on the job it all seems pretty ironic. I was heartbroken at the prospect of finally succumbing to become a delivery person. I always thought it was the last resort for dysfunctional idiots who couldn’t do anything else. I was totally broke, flat busted. I didn’t have enough money to buy a loaf of bread and Karol was getting tired of it. She still lived with me.

Whoever tells you money can’t buy you love doesn’t know what they’re talking about. The money was gone and so was her love for me. Every day she yelled at me more and more. Sick and tired of being broke, I finally caved in and answered an ad for a delivery company. I sank to the bottom of the labor food chain. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

Karol didn’t really appreciate my effort taken in relieving my sad financial state. She simply told her friends, “My boyfriend’s a delivery boy”.

Without looking like I was moping too hard I went to the office of Style Runners and filled out all the paperwork. I showed my driver’s license, proof of auto insurance and my DMV driving record of the past five years, all necessary to qualify for the job. After doing so I was told to sit and wait.

I sat there in the waiting room feeling like a total loser, hating my miserable life and the shitty hand Fate had dealt me. My eyes burning a hole down at the carpet feeling shame, it was interrupted by the manager walking up to me with a very large black man in a Style Runners uniform.

“Okay, Tracy, everything seems to be in order. This is Cabernet, one of our best drivers. He’s going to show you the ropes and give you orientation of what we do here. So, off you go and good luck!”

Cabernet shook my hand as I got up. “How you doin’, man?”
“Fine”, I lied.
“You ever driven before?”
“Yeah, I did some drug store deliveries years ago. I kind of have an idea of what I need to do”.
“Good, this shouldn’t take too long, then. Let’s bounce”.

We got in a small car and he immediately radioed in. “Driver 124, standing by in West Los Angeles”, he turned to me and said, “That’s how you tell the dispatchers you’re sitting around waiting for something to do. You never say ‘give me stuff to pick up’, you say ‘Standing by and you give them your location’”.

The dispatcher radioed back in three minutes and he quietly wrote down several locations for pickups. He put the car in gear and began driving west. I thought we were headed to a dumpy area and pick up a bunch of crummy Italian food.

He made a few turns while interjecting a few boring pleasantries.
“Got any kids? Got a girl? My Lakers are letting me down…”

The scenery changed and it changed radically. We moved into Beverly Hills and went up Rodeo Drive. What gives? I thought. Is this a joke?

“Okay, first we’re going to Burberry and then we’re heading over to Cartier to pick up a delivery”. My face lit up and forgot about my self-pity.
He pulled into the Rodeo Drive alley and swung the car into the Burberry parking lot.

We walked down a clean, well-lit staircase to the basement where an attendant stood by a bank of closed circuit cameras and a few rails of garment bags all bearing the Burberry symbol.
“Cabernet!”
“Marcel, picking up a bag and training this new guy here”. Marcel appraised me as if I were some new species let loose upon the world.
“Ah, good luck, my friend”.
“Grab the bag, dude”, Cabernet instructed. I picked it up aggressively.

We got back in the car and Cabernet told me, “Okay, now record the time you picked up the bag on your trip sheet. That’s it, now let’s head over to Cartier”.
We went over to Cartier, where we had to show ID and sign a few papers. Security was pretty tight there and after a few more hoops jumped through we were finally given the bag with the jewels.

“We’ll have to drop off the jewels first”, Cabernet said once we got back to the car.
“Get your belt on, here we go”. We headed over to Coldwater Canyon and pulled up to a high walled estate. Cabernet got out of the car and walked up to the intercom by the tall gate.

“Style Runners delivering the Cartier”, he spoke into the little talk box. A moment later the gate slid open a few feet and a big man in a suit, dark glasses and an earpiece stepped out and took the bag. He quickly jotted his initials on the trip sheet and Cabernet returned to the car.

“Okay, that’s done. Now we gotta go to Jimmy Choo’s”. On and on it went like that all day, my mood elevating from despair to elation at the romantic delivery jobs assigned to us all day in Beverly Hills.

Burberry, Cartier, Jimmy Choo continued on to Hermes, Neiman Marcus and Yves St. Laurent, picking up from glamorous designers and dropping them off at homes in Bel Air, Malibu and Benedict Canyon. Delivery work, yes, but pretty lofty delivery.

When I got home that night I tried to tell Karol about my new job, but she just goofed around on her cell phone talking to her friends. It was strange; we got along fine for years but overnight she hated me and treated me terribly. There was no explanation or reason why she decided to turn on me; she simply decided she hated me now.

I was happy that the delivery job turned out to be pretty good, but she seriously didn’t give a damn. She was non-plussed by everything I told her and communicating with her became impossible. I truly felt alone. One month later she left ne and moved back to her mother in Canada.

I continued to drive on weekends after that and it turned out pretty well. I made the rent every month and ate alright, so the poverty scene was forestalled again. Delivering cool fashion prevented me from feeling any shame at being a delivery person. I never did shame very well, anyway. I always liked myself in spite of the hate coming out of other people. It never really affected me.

I got the radio call to go to The Montclair Group, a modeling agency near the Laurel Canyon area. They were doing business out of a mid-century modern house in the rustic hills. My GPS compassed me to the house, the upper floor stuck out above a cluster of bushes. I pulled over to the side of the driveway and walked up to the entrance, hit the buzzer and identified myself.

“Come in. I have a few bags for you to deliver to a client in Laguna Beach”, a strikingly beautiful girl with big red hair in skin tight black pants ran around the room, all business, no smiles, nothing.

As I followed her to the studio I saw a dozen thin, stunning girls all dashing about every which way, buzzing around like fireflies. Some of the girls were blond, some were brunette, some black, some Asian, and they were all gorgeous. Thin. Ravishing. Like my hostess they were all very serious and stressed.

“Casey, what time is the photographer coming by with the proofs?”
“Excuse me! Are you delivering the Continental breakfast we ordered 45 minutes ago?”
Severe eyebrows pointed at me.

“No, I’m here to pick up some bags”.
“Tch!!”
“Bailey, did you call Armando?”
“No, Ashley, was I supposed to?”
“Call Armando. Like now. You were supposed to call him like a million years ago”.

As I stood around waiting for the bags more beautiful girls ran in and out of the room, making me feel like I was in a Room of Mirrors at the Fun House with ravishing women all around me. There were no men present at all.

“Are you from Geek Squad?” More severe eyebrows pointed at me. “I need to have my laptop defragged”.
“You don’t know how to defra-“
“Tch! He’s not from Geek Squad”, the Redhead heaved three bags at me. “Okay, here’s the bags. How soon can she get them?”
“Well, Laguna Beach is in Orange County so I’d say about an hour from now, at least, so-“
“GOOD ENOUGH! THANK YOOOOOUUU!”

She practically slammed the door behind me, but it was alright. As beautiful as the girls were, there was something demonically claustrophobic about being in that house. Besides, a beautiful girl that never smiles is as appealing as an ice cream cone with salt and pepper all over it.

“757, holding The Montclair order to Laguna Beach”, I radioed in.
“Ten-four, call clear, 757”, the dispatcher returned back.

I turned up the air conditioning and pulled out some gum and chewed away, slowly crawling up the ramp to the 405 Freeway. My mp3 player was playing the William Tell Overture by Wendy Carlos and I chuckled at the perky synthesizer music.

Traffic moved fairly smoothly up the 405, better than usual. As I went by I occasionally looked over at the shoulder on the freeway, noticing forgotten shirts and pants lying in a heap. A few miles later there was the torn off bumper, the decapitated fender, and the usual spray of broken glass.

As I drove further down I noticed deep, dark grooves burned into the asphalt by squealed tires, indicating sudden braking or wild last-minute swerves. At first I only noted one every few feet, but then there appeared to be more and more.

Traffic gradually slowed down more and more. The other side of the freeway was grooving at a pretty swift pace, but our side started creeping like a fly in molasses. It was hard to see what the cause of the slowdown was, but it didn’t feel right.

I heard a few sirens blasting behind me, faintly, then progressively louder and louder. Then an EMS truck ran down the shoulder I’d just stared at, followed by two police cars and a fire truck blasting its trombone horn to hell.

We crawled further and had to move two lanes to the left, but I got a good view. It was an accident, and it was a good one. There were four cars slammed into each other, radiator steam billowing out, as well as clouds of black smoke from burning oil. One had spun in the opposite direction, another had its front end completely crushed in, the third had the entire left side bashed in with a driver still stuck inside, and the fourth had its rear fender and bumper town off completely.

The fourth car’s owner was a fat, homely man sitting on the ground crying like a child over his car being destroyed. The car with the front end crushed in was a woman comforting her young daughter, a blanket thrown around the little girl’s shoulders. The man in the car spun around was unconscious behind the wheel. He may have been dead, but I didn’t care. I had a delivery to make.

We trudged further up the freeway through the smoke and steam and burned rubber odors. I hated to break it to The Beautiful Redhead, but I probably wasn’t going to deliver the fashion on time. There are times when Death trumps Beauty.

Menswear Apocalypse

Up until twenty years ago, when the word menswear came up the most common visual brought to mind were very well-groomed guys in suits, safari jackets and houndstooth slacks. Slacks, slacks, slacks, a real menswear word. Repeat after me: Haggar, Jantzen, Bally.

The pantheon of male fashion was Playboy, Esquire and GQ Magazines, manly graveyards of stiff, stodgy non-style. Every fabric was of a barfy earth tone, and on the opposite end of the spectrum when Miami Vice was the rage, colors were so alarmingly explosive, it was impossible to wear something with a modicum of modesty.

And then something funny happened: designers began taking notice of what rock musicians were wearing and incorporated this influence in their designs. Clothes looked more rock & roll in design and colors became freer, not Technicolor goofy as in the past, but tasteful.

With the advent of designers as diverse as Commes Des Garcons, Paul Smith and a few others, menswear became as challenging and as exciting as women’s fashions. Choices in menswear became more diverse, and consequently there is now a larger market with men making these choices, rather than enlisting their girlfriends to make them.

While female models were getting younger and thinner than ever, the whole Paul Newman/Sean Connery looking model was slowly getting weeded out in favor of a new male counterpart. Models like Andrej Pejic, Paul Boche and Cole Mohr were now getting major editorials and runway work, garnering huge followings in the process.

New exciting menswear magazines began popping up like Another Man, V Man, Essential Homme, Numero Homme, Fantastic Man and too many more to mention. These exciting new models could be seen in all of the aforementioned magazines.

As I stated in a previous blog title, “Once Rock Stars Looked Like Models, Now Models Look Like Rock Stars”, and the posted pictures bear this revelation out. Most of the models shown here (Erik Andersson, Dylan Fosket, Val Bird, Jaco Van den Hoven and Karl Byrne) could easily be in a rock band and garner a huge following.

What’s the significance of this? Well, once upon a time rock music was all about the packaging of a band, with cool hair and clothes being an important component. With that in mind, menswear designers have been employing the same strategy to sell fashion to young men, launching bombshells of hard rocking visuals as potent as the first New York Dolls album cover or a Supergrass CD.

The end result is that men of all ages and persuasions can enjoy fashion like they never have before, looking cool without having their girlfriends to run the show for them. This is truly Men’s Liberation at its finest, and everybody wins.

*********************

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the late, great Craig Lee, my former comrade in punk rock noise. One of my earliest memories was when he and Alice Bag approached me about joining The Bags on saxophone. I was flattered, but I didn’t really think there was a place for me in their band; it seemed pretty complete to me. I went to see them perform at The Whiskey A Go-Go just to see if I could mentally place myself in their songs.

Craig played good punk guitar and he did this odd Harpo Marx routine as he played, making these cross eyed wild Harpo Marx expressions. It wasn’t that weird if you think about it, because around that time Ron Mael was doing a Charlie Chaplin thing in Sparks and Rick Nielsen was exhuming Huntz Hall in Cheap Trick, so Craig was probably getting into the whole slapstick rock look.

At any rate The Bags were tearing it up, but I just couldn’t hear my squalling saxophone fighting itself through their sonic skronk. As a side note, my horn playing is very loud in general and many singers have a major chore singing over my sax playing, so it would have been a constant battle, anyway. Unfortunately they took my rejection personally, which wasn’t the intention, but I ended up playing with old Craig a few years later.

In 1980 I played in a band he put together called The Boneheads which also sported a gaggle of scenesters including Robert Lopez of The Zeros (aka El Vez) and Elissa Bello of The Go-Gos. It wasn’t a band that took itself too seriously, which I really enjoyed. We sounded like a cross between The Contortions and The B-52’s, very Alphabet City + downtown New York. Craig wrote most of the material, sang a lot and I thought he did a great job.

I ran off a little while later to play with someone else, but I saw Craig again nine years later at a show. It would be the last time I would ever see him, and he was unnaturally friendly - he had a tendency to be abrasive with me in the past. I didn’t know that he had medical problems, so I had no idea he was so close to leaving us.

He said the funniest thing to me. “Andy, you know, you really ought to be a writer. That’s your true calling. That’s what you really should be doing. I bet you’d be so good at it”.
Looking back, not only do I now agree with him, but there’s a touch of clairvoyance in that remark that only the dying can see. I’ve never forgotten that advice and I have even more difficulty forgetting Craig after giving me that message. That’s a send-off message I will take to the grave with me.

Smell Check 2012

If I can toot my own horn I just want to say this is the fifth year I've written my annual "Smell Check" blog post, and the scents gets smellier and more adventurous with each passing year. Some designers have made it perfectly clear they don't give a hang whether this cologne makes you smell too girly, and I say fuck-eeennnn ay!

Christmas is coming like a money magnet on wheels so if you're looking for a way to spend your money on your man and make him smell good, too, here's my perfume smelly Two Cents:

L'Homme Libre (Yves Saint Laurent): "The Free Man" smells like citric attorney smell verging on raid insecticide. By the way I'd like to know who green-lighted the cityscape behind the model. It looks like Manhattan after Hurricane Sandy hit it. How about something a little more exciting and upbeat? You're only trying to sell 4 million units of mediocre odor.

Sexual Pour Homme (Michel Germain): Cheekily advertised as "Passion inducing aphrodisiacs", I didn't exactly org over the scent however I did find it rakishly impudent in its blending of honey, cinnamon, scandalwood (sic) and cardamom. I think I smelled cardamom (???). Tres sensuale. BTW, this smelled better than Sexual Fresh Pour Homme. Vive la difference.

Mont Blanc Legend (Mont Blanc): Mont Blanc is known for making quality pens and watches. Their fragrance is okay for guys who like to watch THE GAME, play POKER and smoke CIGARS and think Las Vegas, "Frank" and strippers are faboush. I will not elaborate.

Euphoria (Calvin Klein): One of Calvin's muskiest efforts yet, okay in my book, I like a good musk husk on me. The container kind of looks like a liquor flask, and hits flavorful notes of Chilled Sudachi, Ginger Pepper Cocktail, Raindrop Accord, Cedar Leaves, Black Basil, Sage, Brazilian Redwood, the ubiquitous Patchouli, Suede Note, and Amber. Whew! Calvin wins again, damn it.

Mark Ecko Blue (Mark Ecko): Cologne makers are rockin' the accent marks like I haven't seen since the hoary days of Heavy Metal. Ecko with an accent grave over the "O". What did I think of it? Stay away from bees when you wear this or you'll turn into a pin cushion.

Amber Pour Homme (Prada): Touted as "a rich, complex amber intermingles with the clean, fresh scent of barber's soap". I think I smelled some tabac, too, always a winner in my book. Macho without being numbskull obvious, I liked this a lot. Amber Pour Homme Intense, on the other hand, totally lost me because it added patchouli, bergamot and vanilla to the mix, smelling like an olfactory car crash. What a mess!

Burberry Touch (Burberry): This is the vanilla-cum-bubblegum scent that expands if you sweat, but I'm getting nauseous just thinking about it. Burberry make great clothes but their colognes are underwhelming.

Spicebomb (Viktor & Rolf): I don't care what this smells like, any cologne bottle shaped like a hand grenade about to explode looks awesome. But if you want to be a baby about details, here goes: Bergamot, Grapefruit, Cinnamon Leaf, Pink Pepper, Lavandin, Chilli, Saffron, Elemi, Vetiver, Balsam Fir, Tobacco Accord, White Leather Accord. I don't even know what "Balsam Fir" or "Elemi" are supposed to smell like but I'd give this one a go anyway because leather and tobacco scents are on board. So am I!

Terre D'Hermes (Hermes): Hermes takes a break from making pony saddles and pocketbooks to give you this manly cologne. It smells like leather - what a surprise! - and burnt wood. If you're a fireman you'll either love it or it'll remind you of work. Back to the riding crop drawing board for you, Hermes.

Serge Noire (Serge Lutens): If I combined the finest smelling incense, the tastiest curry dinner and dynamite sex it would be Serge Noire. Even if you're not from Morocco you'll probably cave in to this musky Mediterranean melodrama.

My taste in colognes isn't for everyone, but even if you don't agree with my opinions always test a cologne before you buy them. A lot of people buy these things because they're popular, throwing caution to the winds as to whether they're actually nice to breathe in. Make a point of testing these things before you drop $75 on them. Sephora has the best testers and no irritating sales people breathing down your back (Hello, Macy's!) so you can make your own decisions. You'll be glad you did, Stinky.

"A Salty Dog" - Procol Harum (1969)

It all happened one beautiful Sunday afternoon in Beverly Hills. I walked into the Burberry boutique to view their fiendishly fashionable Prorsum line, and the first thing that hit me was “The Wreck of The Hesperus” by Procol Harum booming over the Burberry speaker system. So sweepingly cinematic, it brilliantly complimented the dramatically beautiful and quintessentially British Burberry fashions in the boutique. Matthew Fisher’s airy vocal melodiously drifted through the room, making us all feel as if we were out to sea, singing the maritime lyrics of Keith Reid:

“We’ll hoist a hand, becalmed upon a troubled sea

“Make haste to your funeral”, cries the valkyrie

We’ll hoist a hand or drown amidst this stormy sea

“Here lies a coffin”, cries the cemetery, “You will surely see”…

Majestic English horns blew fanfares while Robin Trower’s guitar conjured an endless seascape as 1,000 strings laid a melodious pattern of sheer ardor. I almost forgot I was supposed to be looking at the new Burberry Prorsum line.

It’s been an eternity since music had the power to transcend its environment, but then again I haven’t owned “A Salty Dog” in years. Although I enjoyed “Shine On Brightly” I forgot how unique “A Salty Dog” was, one of the great albums that never really received the attention it deserved.

Procol Harum released their third album in 1969, an album so eccentric, a much too British maritime-themed album that it turned American listeners away. 1969 was a year for outrageous album covers, i.e. Blind Faith, Trout Mask Replica, and the great Blodwyn Pig cover that still disturbs people, etc. “A Salty Dog” featured a take-off on the Player’s Navy Cut cigarette box; rather than show a respectable English sailor a shaggy gob of indeterminate origin wearing a cap with the name “Herod” stitched on top. That got my five dollars in a flash. I thought it was cooler looking than some ugly naked girl holding a toy plane, really.

Most of the tracks on the album are dirges, the most notable one being the title track, the lyrics articulating feelings of hopelessness on a restless and poorly charted sea. While the keyboards and strings play staccato minor notes, Gary Brooker sings mournfully,

“Across the straits, around the horn: how far can sailors fly?

A twisted path, our tortured course, and no one left alive…”

“We sailed for parts unknown to man, where ships come home to die,

No lofty peak, nor fortress bold, could match our captain’s eye…”

Ironically, while many of the songs allude to distress and despair aboard the ocean blue, the lyrics also define the despair of drug addiction. “The Devil Came From Kansas” reflects these feelings:

“There’s a monkey riding on my back, he’s been there for some time,

He says he knows me very well but he’s no friend of mine…”

“For the turning and the signpost and the road which takes you down,

To that pool inside the forest in whose waters I shall drown…”

While Gary Brooker leads a monkish sounding choir chanting the chorus, Robin Trower’s blistering metal guitar screams over a tattoo of tribal drums, setting this anti-Wizard of Oz fable in a tail-spin with descriptions of “a dark cloud just above us” and “for the sins of those departed and the ones about to go”.

The lost-at-sea analogy as drug damaged casualty is also expressed in the blues dirge of “Crucifiction Lane” (dig the pun):

“Tell the helmsman veer to starboard, bring this ship around to port,

And if the sea was not so salty I could sink instead of walk,

In case of passing strangers who are standing where I fell,

Tell the truth: you never knew me, and in truth it’s just as well”.

In spite of the fact that the tempo to every song is slow like the languid waves of a calm sea (with the exception of “Kansas” and “Hesperus”) there is enough sonic seafaring to keep the record from sounding like one monotonous moan. I don’t know why I set this one to the side, but I’m glad it’s back on my deck. And to think, a trip to Burberry Beverly Hills made it all possible. I wonder what they’re playing tonight?

All lyrics (c) 1969, Keith Reid (Onward Music)

Clothes Make The Manchild

Men, dudes and boys of all ages: If you don’t want to dress like you’re going to a rap concert and have no interest in looking like one of the Rat Pack (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and those other assholes), then read on. The stores listed below are clichéd but if you dig hard enough you’ll find something original and snappy looking.

H & M (8580 W. Sunset Blvd) = H&M is sort of the IKEA of clothes. Just like IKEA sells fancy, expensive-looking furniture at rock bottom prices H&M sells tres chic, expensive looking boutique garments at low prices, too. I liked the men’s department a lot. I bought a sexy purple hoodie that unbuttons all the way down my chest. I’ll be wearing this until Santa Claus packs up his Cadillac for his one-nite tour. The only beef I have with H&M is the sizing of items. There were a few things I tried on that seemed pretty irregular, so sizes never seemed terribly consistent. The service was friendly without being overbearing or snooty.

John Varvatos (8800 Melrose Ave) = John Varvatos is one of the best men’s designers working today, his designs are smart, sophisticated and imaginative. When I walk by his boutique window I usually stop and check out his amazing suits, shirts, shoes and bags. I think its’ great that men finally have a designer that doesn’t soak you into hyper macho (Ralph) or hip-hop overload (Tommy). Enough with that! On the minus side, of course, is that the clothes in his store are so insanely expensive that it’s more of a “museum”. If it’s any consolation, here’s a tip: Varvatos suits occasionally go on sale at Macy’s (over 30% off!), so so do your browsing at Varvatos and your spending at Macy’s. For once the middle man has made himself useful.

Urban Oufitters (7650 Melrose Ave) = Urban Outfitters is a funny place. Three reasons why:
1.They sell books here! How come Borders doesn’t sell hoodies? Oh yeah, they’re a book store! Duh!
2.The majority of the guys that come here look as lost and bored as they do at a Victoria’s Secret. Hint: maybe the clothes should be fitted for men’s bodies, not emo-stick bods.
3.In spite of it all I loved their socks, and any store that sells cool socks is nutty. “Nutty Outfitters”…I dig the name. Lose the books, suckers.

Al Weiss Men’s Clothing (1006 Wall St) = Located in the heart of the Garment District, this establishment has friendly staff that remember you (and your size) three years after your last purchase, the cheapest place to get a suit anywhere (prices as low as $175), and the selection is excellent. I love this place!

Lucky Brand Jeans (189 The Grove Drive) = Take a look around and you’ll notice LA’s gotten pretty lucky. If I want to go bowling I’ll go to LUCKY STRIKE, if I wanna get drunk I’ll go to LUCKY BALDWIN’S, if I want to jam a burger in my face I’ll go to LUCKY DEVILS, etc. If LA’s so damn “lucky”, why is everybody so angry? Maybe it’s because all these “lucky” places are so damn expensive! Shit! There’s a depression goin’ on, all you “lucky” fucks. Lucky Brand Jeans fit like a glove and are extra comfortable. They make me look like I’m gonna get, you know, !LUCKY! tonight and every night. Love the pants, hate the prices. Keep yr. peepers open for sales. If you really wanna get ***LUCKY***!!!

Macy’s Mens Store (8500 Beverly Blvd) = You can’t beat Macy’s Mens Store for killer guywear. There’s always a sale on Calvin, Ralph and Tommy, the holy guywear trinity. Macy’s house designer Alfani is also excellent, their shirts and ties rock the world. You won’t find a larger or swankier clearance rack than the one here, and there’s none of that Ross Irregular crap either. Make sure you check out the enormous cologne counters there, too. The selection can spank Sephora’s ass around the block. After you buy up all the cool guywear go to the top to the kitchen section. Great plate and bowl combo sets at prices that go to the mat with Bed, Bath and Beyond and win. Macy’s makes Beverly Center halfway bearable, and that’s something to talk about.

Lords (8783 Beverly Blvd) = One of the cardinal rules of clothes designing is when you enter another designer’s showroom to look at their work you never tell them that you also design clothes, or they’ll freak out. (They’ll think you’re spying, Shhh.) So we went to the amazing Lords showroom like Uncle Jed and Granny “weeelllllll-doggying” everything. And we weren’t acting. There was some serious fashion swinging around here:
1.Men’s dress suits in glittered material with bell sleeves.
2.Military style jackets with bondage straps and tailored sewn-in pleated vests.
3.Gorgeous waxed leather trousers with pleated strips.
4.Red leather hoodies, and much more!
For the girls:
1.The most elegant quilted ski-coat, complete with sewn-in scarf and fashion fishtail at the bottom.
2.Glittered handbags with electronic videogames sewn in.
3.Rabbit fur capes dyed pale pink.
There was a very stylie coffee bar towards the front with fattening bon-bons for people who can’t fit into the skinny clothes. The sales staff will coerce you into modeling their fashions and walk the runway in their store, so make sure you have your alpha panties on.
P.S. Everything in there is over $1000, so care bear punks stay home.

Burberry (Cabazon Outlet) = One second you're pointing at the Burberry ad in GQ Magazine, chortling over the emo fops with their messy long hair (like me) and their severely thin suits, and the next you're at the Cabazon outlet - "just passing by", as it says in the Monopoly board game - checking out their foppishly thin suits. My salesman Alistair was a dapper old Irish/Scottish/Welsh gent and hooked me up most brilliantly, setting me up with not one, but two, severely Burberrian suits: a gorgeously gunmetal grey suit and a devilishly delish pinstripe number. He warned, "The trousers are cut very thin, you know". I tried them on and it was a perfect fit, making old Alistair's eyes gleam brilliantly. As he rung my purchase up he spoke about Coachella, Paul McCartney, and Leonard Cohen, aging hipsters don't die - they sell sharp freakbeat outfits. The deal was amazing - two suits cut down to 50% and a $1,100 sale slashed to $500. Imagine running around the desert with two beautiful English suits designed to fit my severe, mod body. What a wonderful world!

American Apparel (802 N. San Vicente Blvd) = One of the most prominent sights in West Hollywood is the tiny Pandora’s Box building that is American Apparel on SM & San Vicente Boulevard. And what a Pandora’s Box it is: if more than ten people show up they’d have to call the Fire Marshall. It’s a cute, charming little store that has more minuses than plusses. On the plus side the friendly emo boys who work there actually play some good jams, good enough to almost make me ask them what tunes they were busting, but I woulda felt silly. On the minus side the men’s underwear looked just like JC Penney’s y-front patterns. File under “underwhelming”. If there were nice sweaters or tops they didn’t run anywhere near under $60, absurd given you could get equally or better stuff from H&M or Urban O for way less. On the plus side their socks were awesome so I didn’t walk out empty handed. I had to keep those emo boys gainfully employed so I bought two pairs of foxy sox.