High Heeled Wheels

John Fluevog Shoes are known for their offbeat designs and bizarro Hobbit mushroom shoes, but the most exciting development in Fluevog’s designs is the return of the platform shoe, i.e. high heels for men. I reported in an earlier blog (“The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys”) about the Fluevog Perry boot with its blue snakeskin design and 3-inch heels.

It was followed up by the Prince George (pictured down below), Fluevog going even more extreme with a 4-inch heel, and boy is it solid. To date I jumped off a stage with them on, drove my Prius through downtown Los Angeles on a Friday night with them and neither I nor the shoes were damaged.

Egged on, no doubt by robust sales Fluevog followed up these classics with a newer design, the unisex Swordfish Edwardian boot. The Fluevog press release describes it as thus: “An iconic Fluevog line from the 80s, popularized by its distinctive pointed toe shape, The Swordfish has been re-imagined by John into this killer boot. Using tough, aged Texas leathers, tunite soles, instep zippers, straps and buckles, it's no wonder The Swordfish are cherished and collected by Fluevogers everywhere. The Edwardian also includes a 3.5" leather-wrapped Cuban heel that brings the Fluevog flair way over-the-top”. As far as I’m concerned it can never go too way over the top, but then again I’m a graduate of Rodney’s English Disco, Class of 1973.

Coincidentally, last week BBC News ran a piece online called “Why Did Men Stop Wearing High Heels?” The article, written by William Kremer submits the revelation that high heels were originally designed for men in Persia as a form of riding footwear.

"When the soldier stood up in his stirrups, the heel helped him to secure his stance so that he could shoot his bow and arrow more effectively," said Elizabeth Semmelhack of the Bata Shoe Museum in Toronto, Ontario. “A wave of interest in all things Persian passed through Western Europe. Persian style shoes were enthusiastically adopted by aristocrats, who sought to give their appearance a virile, masculine edge that only heeled shoes could supply. As the wearing of heels filtered into the lower ranks of society, the aristocracy responded by dramatically increasing the height of their shoes - and the high heel was born”.

The most notorious wearer of high heels at the time was Louis XIV of France, who was a wee 5’4” and sported 4-inch heels to enhance his physical stature. The article also states that his soles were always red, yup, just like Christian Laboutin’s signature look!

By the 17th Century women in Europe were adopting men’s style into their fashions, and you guessed it, high heels made the transfer. During the Enlightenment men renounced luxurious trappings like excessive jewelry and looking more, well punk rock so their heels got shorter for utilitarian reasons.

According to the article high heels were phased out of society not just by men but also by women, as well, and didn’t make a fashion comeback until, believe it or not, French porno produced in the early 20th Century. Some of this sounds kind of far-fetched, but the truth is always stranger than fiction. And nothing could possibly stand in the way between me and my new high-heeled Fluevogs!

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The fetish club scene has suffered two significant losses in the past few months: that of John Napier,lead singer of Ethyl Meatplow, and James Stone, of the Fetish Ball, which not only hosted leather & rubber fashion shows but also hosted bands like The Cramps and The Specimen, as well.

John Napier’s death was announced on November 11, 2012(11/11, how weird)from a drug overdose. I remember seeing Ethyl Meatplow performing at The Fuck Club and John being the best thing about the show. He had all the most important elements to being a great performer: he was dynamic, funny and always surprising to watch on stage. Plus he did a better version of “Close To You” than The Carpenters, so there.

I also remember John as being a gracious and funny guy. We had dinner together on Santa Monica Boulevard (where else?) and had a lot of laughs. There was none of this bullshit band rivalry or jealousy being served at all, so I have nothing but friendly memories of him, and offer my sincere condolences to his family and friends.

James Stone sadly passed on January 23, 2013, from bladder cancer. His well-deserved notoriety was from promoting all those great Fetish Balls usually held at Parkview Plaza and sometimes at the Hollywood Athletic Club. The Fetish Ball, for people who haven’t gone, is a sort of fetish fair where leather and rubber goods (read as S&M or B&D) were sold by vendors like us and fetish fashion shows and actual goth-glam-trash bands played. James always got us a good spot to sell our corsets, bustiers, bracelets, chokers and extras to all those kinky kids.

We later did a lot of cool business with him when he was a buyer at The Pleasure Chest, the sex store on Santa Monica Boulevard (where else?). He was always pretty down-to-earth and easy to work with, not to mention generous with his contacts for us, a class act all the way. While I’m not given to making sweeping statements like the Golden Era of Hollywood Punk Fetish is over, the lights on the seedy streets of Santa Monica Boulevard and evil Silver Lake will be a lot less bright and glittery than they used to be, and these real gone geezers will be terribly missed.

The Rubber and Leather T Chronicles

When you’re discussing fashion you don’t hear the word “mystery” come up very often, but if there was any way to describe my sense of style in the mid-Seventies it was pretty mysterious. I was the kid in high school who wore a leather jacket and jeans on Monday, suit and tie on Tuesday, and just to confound my teachers and classmates wear an industrial shop apron the next. And we didn’t have a shop class in my school!

While my dress sense came off a little confused, it was more eclectic than anything, a teenager’s refusal to be categorized and filed away in the social index of teen cliques.

It was 1976 and the era of glam rock was slowly fading away, my elephant flares and fluorescent six-inch heeled platforms losing their spark. I was looking for something different, and it came in the form of the new phenomenon coming from the United Kingdom: Punk Rock.

I saw exciting pictures of The Sex Pistols and their wild fashions, featuring ripped t-shirts held together by safety pins, tartan bondage pants with buckled straps, and those three-inch soled brothel creepers (again with the elevated footwear!). Since my twentieth birthday was approaching my father asked me what I wanted for a gift, and I asked for a plane ticket to London. After all, it was Bicentennial Summer in America, so what better way to celebrate than to visit our forefathers?

I read that The Sex Pistols had their clothes supplied from a boutique called “Sex” on King’s Row in Chelsea. I made it one of my first destinations for cool rock wear, something to replace my now-archaic Gary Glitter togs.

The “Sex” staff looked pretty wild but so classically British (i.e. very polite) like Jordan, who was great. She introduced me to the head designer and co-owner of the shop, Vivienne Westwood. Ms. Westwood was a very small, delicate woman with short, white hair spiked up high dressed in black leather trousers. She was one of the nicest and friendliest ladies I’ve ever met; for all her punk appearance she was absolutely charming and easygoing, no attitude whatsoever.

I spun around in circles in Malcolm (Maclaren) and Vivienne’s shop looking for something I could wear which would stand out anywhere, especially back home in America. Decisions, decisions!

Would it be the “Cambridge Rapist” t-shirt? No, not my style. Would it be the one with the two gay porn cowboys in a clutch? No, nyet, nope. One last look before I give up, and there it was: the most amazing thing I saw in “SEX”: a black leather t-shirt.

The black leather t-shirt was made of cowhide, not lamb or pig skin, and had thick metal zippers on both sides to help slide the thing on. Jordan recommended I put baby powder inside the shirt to make it even to slide in. One try and I knew I found my Vivienne Westwood original.

In addition to the leather t-shirt I also bought a great silver rubber t-shirt, also awesome, and both sporting the immortal pink label with “SEX” written in big black letters. What becomes a legend most? Clothes like these.

I wore these shirts at the two Sex Pistols shows I attended (the leather at an all-nighter at Islington Screen On The Green and the rubber at The 100 Club). I met Malcolm and tried to get him interested in a band I knew from LA, but he politely declined. They were called The Motels, so I think things worked out well for them, anyway. I also saw Vivienne, who remembered me and noted my new acquisition from her store.

Those days were about so much more than just punk rock: I look back on that summer of leaving my teenage years and entering adulthood with my leather “SEX” original. Thanks, Vivienne. By the way, I still have the shirt and I also now design my own rock clothes, all fabrics, leather a specialty.

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High Heel Realness: Recently I drove to Lucha Va Voom from the wilds of Hollywood to Downtown LA on a Friday night, the only catch being that I wore my new Fluevog Prince George boots that sport 4-inch heels! It was a little scary, not just because traffic was so heavy but that I never drove in heels before. It was a real acid test, but I learned a lot from the experience.

When driving in high heels your heel is already in an elevated position with the sole of your foot bearing down on the accelerator. Just as you walk slowly and carefully in heels you should also be delicate in the application of your sole on the gas pedal. In other words, don't stomp it unless you want to get killed!

The foot should never stray too far away between the accelerator and the brake pedals, because once you get lost it's going to be a bitch getting that grand funk boot back in position. God forbid it could even get caught between both pedals, in which case you need to decide what kind of flowers do you want over your grave, roses or tulips?

Driving in heels should be approached as some kind of fine art, attempted with sensitivity and finesse, and even getting in touch with your feminine side.

A Viva Rebecca Christmas

In keeping with Viva Rebecca’s highly original approach to clothes design and fabrication her fashion shows have employed unconventional models to reflect her unconventional approach to style. In the past Viva Rebecca has used models with disabilities and life-changing injuries to illuminate her original fashion. So, in keeping with the Christmas spirit I present to you a short video of a Viva Rebecca runway show in 1995. Tiny Tim doesn’t need Scrooge to hoist him up anymore because he’s rocking Viva Rebecca vinyl & leather fashions.

While The City Sleeps

Sometimes you have to put your money where your big mouth is. Rebecca and I were making cool fetish clothes while guzzling black coffee, listening to the Bad Brains, Minor Threat and slopping on so much barge cement that the fumes would drive stylists out of our workroom/apartment in a horrified frenzy. Corporate America was equally horrified by my looks and wouldn't hire me on a dare - until the blessed Northridge earthquake - so I became Rebecca's sexy dude assistant.

Our money making line was fetish-related outfits made of leather or vinyl. We made bustiers, spiked corsets, chokers, hot pants, bracelets, cat o' nine tails, harnesses, even thongs. We sold to Japan, New York City (Patricia Field of "Sex and The City" fame), Georgia, Texas, the great Midwest, Canada, even the movies: our chokers were used in "Batman Forever", worn by Drew Barrymore and Debi Mazur. Several boutiques on Melrose carried our clothes and accessories. We were way out there!

One store that carried our clothes was called the Tasty Store, run by Phil Rubin, a hipster Phil Silvers who looked and talked like Sgt. Bilko himself. One day he called Rebecca, and said-
"Becky, you guys make the kinkiest clothes for my store. Tonight The Chateau is having a big Fetish Fest and we got a table to sell our stuff there. Let's go and make lots of money!"
We couldn't just go in flannel and sell kinky clothes - we had to dress for the occasion. Rebecca wore a cool pink vinyl outfit and I wore Black vinyl pants, a purple vest and a fishnet top, with a leather top hat and burglar mask. I looked wicked.

A name like the Chateau recalls images of an old castle somewhere, but in fact it was a run-down warehouse in the middle of the industrial section in the Valley. Yeah, no drawbridge or moat. We walked into a tired looking office wrapped up in formica and cheap carpeting and looked into the small offices, ahem, "dungeons" as we walked by. I saw old men that looked like Tim Conway licking the boots of some goth-damaged dominatrix.

We set up our table in the loading dock, er, "torture playground" in the back of the building. laying out our cartoony-looking fetish goods, we sat back as S&M fans male and female examined our sinister stock.
Some beer-gut slave would stroke a bracelet and then ask Rebecca if he could have a "session" with her. Before he could finish his question she would blurt out a hasty "No". Session = some slave pays a master to kick him while he licks her boots. I told Rebecca to take the money. They would nervously glance at me as I quietly seethed in my leather top hat and burglar mask.
"Doesn't he say anything?" they would meekly inquire.
"No", answered Phil, "He's too evil to speak!"
The slave would quickly slunk away.

Some chipper old timer with the most dapper looks came up to our table with a cheap pet store choker on. He wore bifocals and a well-trimmed mustache. He wore the ugliest t-shirt of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark with the inscription "Yes, Mistress" scrawled in cheap crayon over it. In cultured tones, he said, "Hello! You look like musicians. You know, I'm a songwriter, I write my very own songs and plan on making a record called 'Yes, Mistress'. My t-shirt will be the album cover".
Oh my god.
"Would you like to hear one of my compositions?"
"Sure, why not?" asked Rebecca. I couldn't answer, remember, because I was too evil to speak.
"I call this one 'How Much Is That Slave In The Window?'" he very proudly announced.
"How much is that slave in the window?
The most submissive slave in the cage,
He loves his dear mistress - a black widow,
He craves every drop of her rage".
He sang this tune in the highest voice, like a small choir boy castrati with the most syrupy tone I've ever heard. The only punishment experienced at the Chateau was trying not to laugh at him.
"Wow, that's really cool!" said Rebecca, as she lifted up the fifth of bourbon we had smuggled in.
"Oh, my!" he twittered. "Would you like to hear another one?"
"No thanks", said Phil coldly,"The contest is about to begin".

Indeed it was. There was a Master and Slave contest and it looked like a dog discipline class. The fattest women I've ever seen squeezed into the tightest leather thongs, cellulite stretching over, under, sideways, down pulling leashes attached to necks or muzzles or even tiny male peepees, the men as slaves with heads shaved and flabby on all fours like dogs. The contest had the doms making their slaves heel, beg, roll over and other tricks Fido takes for granted. We really had to grab our smuggled bottle and hit the sauce during this event!

By the end of the night we made a small chunk of change, no bonanza because S&M creeps are notoriously cheap, but we ate like real people for a week. Then the Northridge Earthquake hit and I got hired by the City of Los Angeles Housing Authority and made office money, no boots and gloves from Monday through Friday.