How much have I dropped the ball around here? Answer: a lot.
There were promises of a post about my interlude with CariDee English (of ANTM fame) and Jonathan Waud from Make Me a Supermodel 2.
But alas, once my reality stargazing died down (after several Kamikazes), I began to realize any attempt to recap the Capital Fashion Awards would be like when someone insists on telling you about a weird dream they had once. The events are totally relevant and interesting to them. But you, their caged interlocutor, are now left to sit and listen to some wandering, subconscious narrative. And quench the hate-fire within.
So I'm not going to do that today.
Rest assured however that my experience as a last-minute presenter for Best Salon is definitely going on my life's resume. If only for the fact that my co-presenter was--just wait--Bobby Trendy. Yes, that Bobby Trendy.
Fun facts you may not know about BT: he is launching a celebrity dog-walking business; he invested his Anna Nicole money in real estate; he has a firm handshake; he's convinced I should move to L.A. and model, though I'm fairly sure the subtext was that I should just move to L.A. and walk dogs for him. (Which would probably be a pay raise)
And his outfit that night was apparently inspired by by this! Lepore lips and all. (Only slightly regretting my decision not to take him up on the offer for peppermint martinis back at his hotel room. Now there's a blog post.)
Also: I'M GOING TO AUSTIN THIS WEEKEND!
I will be at the wit and whimsy of Ms. Austin Eavesdropper herself (an old friend from the early days of Sactown). If you're not familiar with this fire-haired spirit, read this and fall in love, like everyone else, with Tolly Moseley.
So hopefully a weekend of southern comfort deep in the heart of Texas will deliver some great posts. Or a great post.
Preface: So I covered this for the mag on Friday and have so much to dish but oh my God can't seem to sew together a coherent narrative to save my life. It will come. Eventually. And then you shall hear about the supernova of specialness that transpired.
In the meantime...
If you're 40 and under, you should be coming to the first-ever "In the Mix" networking event hosted by Metro EDGE! I would post the flyer, but the file is being difficult and I'm running out of patience/time/energy/care. So here's the logo:
Metro EDGE is the new young professionals group launched through the Sacramento Metro Chamber of Commerce.
I sit on the communications committee because a) it's good to get involved with organizations and activities outside of work that don't involve my DVR and b) it's a fantastic opportunity to come together with like-minded YPs in the Sacramento region who want to have a hand in the future of the River City.
The event is open to anyone who wants to attend. Meaning you, player (I'm having a Carmen Sandiego moment).
So just because you're not a member yet doesn't mean you can't come and enjoy Happy Hour prices and delicious cocktails at Cosmo Cafe (10th and K). Coupled with smart, informed conversation with some of the city's top professionals, this is a great way to unwind from a long week.
I N F O Where: Cosmo Cafe (10th & K) When: Friday, Oct. 9; 5:30-7:30 Why: Because we're awesome. Also, 10% of all bar sales are being generously donated by the Paragary Restaurant Group right back to Metro EDGE.
Bottoms up, Sac YPs.
Addendum: CC's birthday celebration is this Friday as well. Which basically means that I'll be shedding any and all professionalism come 7:30 and gearing up for the mayhem at Social Nightclub later that evening. Dear Friday, come sooner.
Gone are the hot air balloons! And in like sin is my sweet new logo designed by Sactown's art director, Jason Malmberg. As I fiddle around with HTML and spacing, just think of this awkward phase as I Love and Hate Everything's version of the ANTM makeover. I'll chop some split ends, add a few extensions, play with colors. Cry.
I'm just hoping the final product isn't the blog equivalent of a white-girl weave.
Check the calendar. Because it's officially Autumn. So let's just pump the brakes on this bullsh*t triple-digit heat you're throwing my way this weekend and kindly S that D--shut it down.
As ever, Jon
That said, I'd like to announce a couple things. A) I'm clearly in a mood and B) I'll be volunteering at Soil Born Farms tomorrow for Hands on Sacramento Day. In 100-degree heat!
I'm not entirely sure what the volunteering entails (this one signed us up), but I'm imagining a gardening music montage with inner-city youth, so that's fun. Also, this? But really, I'll probably be shoveling manure.
In all seriousness, it should be a great opportunity to see how a working urban farm operates.
I like that they're committed to organic food production and spotlighting hands-on, community efforts at promoting local agriculture. Plus, gardening's fun!
I was going to close this out with some obnoxious kicker about sowing my wild oats and plowin' dat field, but it's been a long week.
Yes, that dark, bi-monthly shadow hath passed. The Oct/Nov issue of Sactown is at the printer and a sickly calm--not unlike a hangover--has settled in the quaking, twilight space that is our office for the remainder of this week.
Which is perfect timing. Because this happened last week on ANTM (the shorties season!):
That comes courtesy of the incomparable Rich at fourfour, btw.
Then this happened in the grand ballroom of the Elks Tower downtown last Thursday:
Which, *feigned surprise* birthed this:
That's right. Yuck it up, chuckles!
No go ahead.
I'll wait...
You good?
Great.
Now let me explain. __________________________
The premise: some local designer named Victor Louis patched together a charity fashion show for himself and invited eight student designers to present mini-collections, too. My friend, Kevin Roux, attends IADT here in Sacramento and was one of those students.
The event was called "One Night in Paris" (yes, like Wonky's sex tape) because Louis was apparently inspired by the City of Lights (groundbreaking) for his latest collection. But a choice quote of his from the Sacramento Fashion Week site should tell you everything you need to know about that:
"Ive never been to Paris; so I wanted to create the beauty of the land in my designs and bring Paris to Sacramento for one magical evening."
Never been to Paris. But creating the "beauty of the land" in his collection. For a magical evening. *Hand to forehead* Also, "Sacramento Fashion Week?" It was a whole three days. That's a fashion weekend, everyone. Not a week.
But snark aside, I guess I'm glad to see someone--however threadbare and tattered the effort--trying to bring some sort of fashion event to the River City. So fine, I guess.
Anyway: me!
So about a month ago, Kevin--who I haven't seen in months--sends me a random text asking if I want to do him a solid by modeling in his first collection. Could be fun, I thought. Plus it would be nice to see how Kevin is getting along on this new creative venture. My only apprehension shimmering just beneath the surface: I've never modeled. Anything, ever.
Now, listen. Here's the disclaimer. I'm not someone afflicted with false-modesty. I don't flutter about with breezy platitudes about how I could never be a model, etc., when I secretly harbor an undying desire to smile with my eyes before the camera. I really don't. I've been lucky enough in my career to have worked with some amazing modeling talent at various photo shoots for the magazine, not to mention top photographers, stylists, artists, etc. I've seen, first-hand, true modeling talent and potential. And as trite or shallow as it may seem, to do what (good) models do takes incredible nuance and skill on par with acting.
I'm just a fledgling writer who happens to be 6'3".
I don't know my angles. Nor do I want to take the time to get to know them. We're indifferent acquaintances at best.
So again, my true reasons for doing the show: A) It could be fun and B) I can help Kevin and C) I can blog about it. Altruism! Mixed with self-promotion.
As a reporter, I've covered local fashion shows behind-the-scenes. I know all about the energy, the anticipation, the creative collaboration. The tequila shots! I've witnessed surprising local talent and vision blossom in the most unlikely of places. I've also witnessed drunk models falling off runways.
Either way, that's a good night. __________________________
So, last Thursday arrived.
We were in the midst of deadline at work, but luckily the show was held in the ballroom on the second floor of the building. I got the semi-reluctant permission from my editors to skip out for a few hours, so at 5:30 PM, I dashed downstairs.
Back stage, natch, was a mad house. Clothes everywhere; dim lighting; Amazon girls teetering around in heels like bleating, newborn gazelles; stage hands moving things and yelling at people; hairspray and makeup saturating the air like mustard gas. Kevin had secured a more private fitting room below the ballroom in what felt like a lost catacomb from the days of Prohibition. I descended.
Now, I guess I always thought that since he had the misguided vision to cast me in his show, the other models would be of similar stock and status as myself (i.e., miscellaneous friends and misfits who happen to be tall). What I discovered was basically a shirtless buffet of languid-yet-chiseled Adonises sporting bronzer, innumerable abs and unaffected poses. And then me. A gangly, judgey blogger slowly realizing he has lost his mind.
So naturally I went to my one unnecessary defense mechanism in times of awkwardness: humor. I think my opener, as I cascaded into the meat market, was something like, "Oh, guess I missed the shirtless memo!" This was met with polite laughter--the emotional equivalent of a golf clap--before I was told to sit down, strip and get my hair done. At this point, my eyes also met with a bottle of vodka and the realization that maybe I should find other ways to relax besides this "comedy" business.
Which was helpful, considering Kevin had informed me earlier that day that I was to also be the finale look.
In fashion, designers and stylists, when staging runway shows, often structure their catwalk looks to form a type of blueprint--a rough, stylistic narrative often bookended with specific outfits that open and close the line that season. These ensembles basically serve as anchors for the brand and help the designer communicate both the DNA of their collection and their inspiration that season.
Backstage at these things is exactly what you imagine. Chaotic, yes. But there's also a palpable sense of creativity, too. Designers collaborating with artists, models, stylists and producers. Alterations, new ideas, creative camaraderie. There's an infectious spirit to it all. And one that, dare I say, eroded some of the irony armor of a certain participating blogger.
Perhaps in a move at self-preservation, I went into the whole experience with a bit of a smirk on my face. Thinking if I didn't allow earnestness to seep into my walk, if I shielded myself from taking the heavy eye makeup or six-packs seriously, that I could somehow float above the entire scene on my cloud of judgment. Aloof. Unconcerned. Fashionably detached. Safe.
But alas. Perhaps because this was for a friend, or perhaps because of all the creative energy and excitement of the hour, I found myself suddenly very aware that regardless of how I felt, I was about to be prancing down a long, elevated catwalk in front of hundreds of people and flashing lights.
And so, in the altered reality of that dressing room, I became a model.
By which I mean: cut to a scene of me now shirtless, downing several vodka shots out of plastic cups, bumming innumerable cigarettes from makeup artists, and amping up the laugh meter now with jokes about cocaine and not getting out of bed for less than $10,000. To anyone that would listen.
Soon, the frenzied dressing began. Thanks to a last-minute styling decision, I was now being chucked down the runway shirtless in a 3/4-length white coat with leather detailing and zebra print inside the hood. "The lapels aren't quite finished, so I need you to walk with your hands in your pockets and open up your chest," Kevin explained.
Great. The chest that hadn't seen a workout in over a week thanks to deadline. And I would be following a certain model named Charlie who shall heretofore be known as Pecs McGee. Insecurity! Coupled with unbridled narcissism. Yay, modeling! __________________________
I used to hate when I would cover these types of shows for the magazine and have to interview the models about their moment on the catwalk. "Pure adrenaline!" they'd beam. Or something equally as uninspired, like "It's all a blur."
But seriously. As I watched each model disappear through the curtain before me--that diaphanous portal!--a mounting fear reared its ugly head. When it was my turn, when my inevitable cue arrived, I can really only recall the soft feel of the fabric as I pulled it aside. Then a white flash of energy and adrenaline. Autopilot. Walk. Turn. Lights. Backstage. Finale. Applause. Done.
Like some tumbling fever dream, it was over before it began. I was hugging Kevin, congratulating him on a great show. I was high-fivin and backslappin, air-kissin and finger-snappin. But with the performance--the performance!--over, I also felt the bungee-snap pull back to reality. Suddenly, my only desire was to be out of those clothes and back in my blue jeans and flip flops as soon as possible.
I wanted to be back at my desk, fact-checking and copy-editing beneath the dim glow of fluorescent lighting. Where I belong. __________________________
All in all, a fantastical tableau--equal parts hilarious, inspiring and fulfilling.
I left out the part where I made the ironic, internal note to self about there being no mirrors anywhere backstage. But like how elephants can smell water from vast distances, I thought it was hilarious when all the male models suddenly crowded around the only semi-reflective surface in the room (a discarded glass tabletop laid carelessly against the wall), jostling--vying--to gaze upon their own specter-like figures in those last, spinning seconds before showtime.
Hilarious, of course, until I too was caught by my own smoldering, ephemeral stare in that dusty glass.
Smizing back at me with a smokey eye was some earnest d-bag who--if only for a fleeting moment--looked pretty damn good.
My friend Colleen pointed out this gem of an article from today's Bee about Sacramento's ladies of a certain age.
Apparently, the River City's single women in the 35-64 age demographic outnumber their male counterparts by nearly 20,000--the only metropolitan area in the West to do so.
So I learned that.
And also this: MiX Downtown offers over-30 patrons a "Dirty 30" card that allows them front-of-the-line privileges. Like an amusement park! For old people.
Also, this choice observation of one Christina Ragsdale, a 53-year-old divorcee: "Then she shimmied around the bowling alley in an exuberant, laughter-filled dance."
Thanks to Sarah and Rachel of TwinSoup for the shout-out on Twitter this morning! Good running into you ladies at Luxe for Life last weekend.
Update: More terrible cell phone pics! This time, from what I snapped at Luxe for Life on Saturday. The event was held in an oven airplane hangar at the Sacramento Executive Jet Center. Open bar, free food and teal and white colors lent a Tiffany's feel to the night.
I've been pretty busy lately, with precious little time to fritter away on the interwebs. As such, I haven't had much of a chance to dream up some glittery recap for you about last week's Hair Wars competition at The Park.
So in my delusional world, the next best thing is: grainy cell phone snapshots!
What happens at 4:15 is pretty much how I want to lead the procession down the aisle at my future wedding. Repeal Prop 8, if only for that dream to supernova into existence.
Speaking of dancing, here's a terrible pic of the poppers and lockers (!) that performed during Deeda Salon's runway presentation.
They were pretty damn good. Very ABDC. And a hell of a lot more interesting than the actual haircuts that Deeda chucked down the catwalk.
I seem to remember architectural buns pulled tightly above the right temple. Um, followed by blunt-cut extensions and bangs? Then more popping. And then Harlowe-esque waves.
Meh.
My fellow judges (one of whom was Leigh Groban with The Bee--a hilarious Southern Belle with one of the best bitch faces I've ever seen) seemed to quickly jot down their scores with little fanfare. I, ever the nerd, decided to include constructive criticism in the form of passive-aggressive written comments: "You obviously didn't have much time to curl the hair for the last section, so no worries. I guess."
Fortunately, last year's winners Rowena & Takashi took the stage shortly thereafter and showed everyone why they are the reigning champs.
Again, these pictures are terrible and hardly do any of these ensembles justice.
But if I had to describe the mood for Rowena & Takashi's well-executed presentation, it would be something along the lines of McQueen meets Galliano meets blind albino zombie. In a bonsai space garden.
There was also a Taiko drum involved. And black guys, in blackface, holding lances with Japanese calligraphy flags.
There were also seven free drink tickets per judge.
So at that point, a Topsy Tail would've garnered a standing ovation. From me at least.
Shockingly: I'll be back at this week's show. Hopefully with a better camera and dishier observations.
I judge the State workers power walking through downtown in their pantyhose and white tennis shoes. I judge the frazzled mail lady, screaming into a cell phone at her offspring. I judge the color of that dress, the fit of those jeans. I judge the mockingbird and his aching, chaotic dirge at midnight. Or the self-important hipster in a red, white and blue wrestling singlet. I judge children.
This isn't something new. It just happens, naturally. Like the beating of a heart, the curdling of milk and the indifferent, moaning churn of the seasons. I'm just wired that way--my mind a whirling dervish of snark and sarcasm probably masking a deep self-consciousness and crippling insecurity.
Me!
Well, someone took their crazy pills.
Because I've been asked to be a judge at this week's Hair Wars competition at The Park Downtown. Go figure. You can find more info here, but the premise is simple: two salons compete in runway-like pageantry to see who out-weaves, out-cuts and out-styles the other.
The competition started back in June and runs every Thursday through September 3rd. The top salons face off at the finale, but only one will be crowned hair apparent for 2009. (Knee slapper right there, folks--these are the jokes.)
This week, Rowena & Takashi (last year's winner) and Deeda face off. So come check it out! At the very least, look for my plus one and me putting our drink tickets and side-eyes to good use. This should be memorable, especially considering that CC was falsely accused of pickpocketing there last weekend. Yeah, pickpocketing. Like it's a f*cking market bazaar with snake charmers and she's fleeing scimitar-wielding castle guards.
The flyer, if you please:
How's this sound: First stranger to saunter up to me and say you saw this on my blog gets a free drink.
