THE RACHEL ZOE SHOW: IT'S LIKE CRACK, ONE WHIFF AND I CAN'T TEAR MYSELF AWAY

So, I feel hungover (but I'm not) and I'm sluggish (for no apparent reason), which makes me perfect prey for Bravo's newest crap-tank The Rachel Zoe Project. It's only in moments like this where I'm weak (and lazy) enough not to press "guide" on my remote and pick something more mind expanding.
Like, say, E!'s 20 Acts of Celebrity Love Gone Wrong or I Want To Work For Diddy.

Anyway, the show centers around stylist to the stars, Rachel Zoe running around like an emaciated chicken with her head cut off. She rants and raves about designer gowns, accessories and she's a triple Virgo (which makes her a massive pain in the ass).
She has satan's spawn itself--an elitist, melodramatic peroxide blond named Taylor---as her assistant, and a cute little gay guy named Brad, who's just lamb meat for the wolves.

One day working with Taylor would have me running for the hills. I'd rather work the go-go pole in the deep south than have her micro manage my way through a pile of shoes.

I had an ill-fated run at a fashion magazine---working for a string of neurotic women who let the nail polish fumes get to the their head---and watching this mess just takes me back to that little office with the fashion closet. I've watched a lot of diva-like behavior on TV, but there's absolutely nothing that rivals the world of clothing racks and mascara.

Nothing.

CARMEN MARC VALVO REINVENTS THE SQUARE

While working my first job in New York City—a fresh off the boat intern at a boobs-n-beer laddy magazine— I suffered through many an awkward "networking" lunch under the trees in Bryant Park.



Several months later (okay, 36, but who's fucking counting) I put on my big girl shoes and was, once again, awkward under the trees in Bryant Park.

But this time instead of bullshitting my way through a conversation about David Foster Wallace's influence on contemporary literature, I bullshitted my way through a throng of black-clad PR girls and watched a bunch of models wear Carmen Marc Valvo's Spring 2009 collection. (I prefer the latter. PR girls and all)

The collection was based off "the simple square." Which meant, if you don't have a love for checkerboard skirts than you're shit-outta-luck. As Valvo said, many of the pieces contained "long lengths of patent leather or organza ribbons" which played "hide-and-seek through graphic lace." The squares of fabric "counter balance the rigidity creating a synergy between structure and movement."

And who said fashion designers can't paint with words!

All the gobbedly goop about the square is fine and dandy, but my favorites were the drapey, Grecian-inspired gowns in colors deviating from this particularly white-heavy spring. There were two gorgeous champagne dresses and a softer pea-green that just seemed to float in airy bunches down the runway. Simple, but far from boring, and girly without being cloying.

Ben Chang, a photographer I met at that ill-fated Brooklyn Royalty show, was hired to take pictures backstage and mercifully gave a country bumpkin like me the golden ticket invite. All is well in the world of Fashion Week if you clutch that saintly envelope. I swear some people would hand over their first born.

I know it's silly, but I always feel too smiley and good natured at these types of things. I need to work on channeling my inner Victoria Beckham.

JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE UNVEILS FASHION LINE FOR MANLY WOMEN



I'll get right to the point, gentle reader. I've been cultivating a rather sick masturbatory obsession with Justin Timberlake for the better part of a decade.

I've gladly eaten up every cheesy thing he's churned out since he rocked the dancing, gay poodle look in 'NSYNC.

When I heard he was unveiling a fashion line—William Rast—I was skeptical.

J. Timb's made some fashion blunders but seems to have gotten it together as of late.

However, knowing his affinity for buff women, I was wondering what kind of lady styles he'd sign off on.

After a quick little looksie at his Spring 2009 collection I quickly found out.

MANWOMEN!

Aside from a few tacky frocks, the women walking in the William Rast show looked like the hillbilly, hipster version of the lesbians who hang at the dyke bar below my apartment.

Billowy flannel shirts, ill-fitting denim cut-offs, slicked back hair—Jesus, what did he do? Compile a Samantha Ronson look book as inspiration?

Don't get me wrong. I am in no way against an androgynous look. Rag and Bone did a smart and stylish collection of neutral pant suits, girl-ties, and boxy button-ups, that managed to maintain snug, feminine fits, cleverly paired with sky high heels.

Now, I know J. Timb didn't have an urban setting in mind for his redneck collection. Judging from his faux-artsy marketing campaign, he wants a roughed up, Southern, just robbed a mom and pop convenience store, small town crook look.

Whatever.
I won't be buying any of his crap, but he looks damn hot all bloody, sitting in an old jalopy.

BREAKING NEWS: Condé Nast employees and fashion designers are liberals



The Daily told us the sun will rise in the east and set once again in the west, when it published Monday that all but one of the politcally-minded donating Condé Nasters are Democrats!

Of the $51, 215 donated to both parties, $50, 883 of that hard-earned editorial cash is pumping up Obama's campaign, while only a measly $332 is buying John McCain a free lunch.

The Daily continued to baffle, shock, and surprise when it unveiled similar stat for fashion designers: of the $92, 777 given $76, 977 lies in the healthy Democratic pocket where $15, 800 in the Republican's.

So who are these backstabbing Judases (with the gall to enter the same building as Graydon Carter and pin fabric on runway waifs) who want gay marriage banned, abortion reenacted, and a never-ending Iraq war?

The Daily wondered aloud, possibly Oscar de la Renta, who reinvtented the anti-cleavage for Laura Bush and Cindy McCain?

Ixnay—de la Renta and his wife each donated $4, 600 to Hillary Clinton.

CHEAP ASS WAL-MART SHIT: BROOKLYN ROYALTY?





I dipped my toe in Fashion Week's hoity tioty extravaganza and stumbled upon a show that fits where I do in the fashion world: a low rent ho stroll in the penthouse of some apartment building where the elevator's broken.

My friend Alex swore this Hot Topic-goes-to-the gay-beach-club line was the new Rag and Bone, so I sweat up 12 flights of steps (the most cardio I've done since 2006) and was greeted with Brooklyn Royalty's messy Spring 2009 collection of gaudy designs, shapes, swirls and swooshes.

While some pieces—silver moon pants, tacky wife beater with neon tulle— might be the picture of elegance in some cultures, I'm more of a classic-color-and-cut-that-flatters type of a girl. Michael Kors and Nina Garcia would've had a claws out hissfest had designer Bob Bland been a contestant on Project Runway.

No matter the heinous things falling out of my mouth right now, rest easy that karma gets me in the end. Each morning I open my closet to four or five worn outfits and three pairs of Payless Shoes.

It's like a refrigerator with only Kraft Singles and moldy bread.

I do manage to mix it up a bit, though. Today I wore last Tuesday's dress and tomorrow I may mix and match Friday's pants with Thursday's shirt.

SHIT-TASTIC!


For those out of the artsy loop, Andres Serrano etched a name for himself back in 1989 with Piss Christ, a photo of nothing (but evoked strangely everything) more than a plastic crucifix lodged in Serrano's own piss.

This classy work caused quite the stir amongst conservative, religious types (shocking!), but also raised the kind of esoteric questions that pop up every 30 seconds or so in the art world: where do we draw the line between "the interests of artists in freedom of expression" and "the hurt such works may cause to a section of the community on the other."

Well, not to be written off as a one piss pony, Andre Serrano unveiled his latest shit show. Literally. A collection of 8 by 6 feet framed photos of shit at the Yvon Lambert Gallery in Chelsea.

While the photos themselves are pretty ridiculous (Horse Shit, Holy Shit, Rabbit Shit, you get the idea), the genius in this show's opening night was in it's audience.

The swarms of skinny-jeaned Queens and sack-dressed, messy haired ladies who declared it all, "Brilliant!" while glaring more at each other than analyzing the work.

Almost like a scene out of an art world Zoolander—just cut and paste Will Ferrell's Maguto for Serrano, replace the Derelict campaign for Shit—and you got yourself a whole new parody.

But, you know, maybe it was something in the wine. Because after two glasses the Seas Candy-esque display and the varying shades of brown began to look more compelling.

"Did you see that piece of corn lodged in Holy Shit? Check that out!" or "What about the leaves in Bull Shit? Isn't that something!"

Alcohol: the cause and solution to all life's problems.

LOW THRESHOLD FOR TACKINESS


Mike Huckabee got his panties in a twist last night at the Republican National Convention.

In response to the media's obsessive coverage of Sarah Palin (uh, she's a 44-year-old woman with less experience than Obama, what in God's name did he expect?), he said the reporting has been:

"tackier than a costume change at a Madonna concert."

Madonna really has softened in middle age—she's just a normal 50-year-old woman with an inane amount of Botox, gyrating in a leotard. Where's the tackiness?

SIDE STEP ME—BUY IT



Throw a rock hard enough and you'll hit an aspiring New York City writer who thinks they're the long lost love child of Dave Eggers and Maya Angelou (let's pause for a moment and ponder the awkward sexytime between those two. Thank me later.).

They're usually graduates of some overpriced MFA program, roam the streets of Williamsburg to find "inspiration" and feel itchy and wrong unless they're discussing structuralism and semiotics (loudly) at cocktail parties.

But sometimes you want something a little less self conscious and more genuine (pssssssssttt...the author was mentioned in Gawker....) So I advise you double-click, shell out the same amount as 2 Manhattan drinks (your abused liver will thank you), and help support a writer who had the gall to actually self publish his work. Go to hell Simon & Schuster!

Reading his poetry and short stories—mainly focusing on urban bed hopping and pill popping— will conjure the same feeling as going out for cocktails with your gay best friend, minus the go-go boys and the lost dollar bills. Trust.

9021-OH, IS THIS SHIT STILL ON?



I really wish the geniuses over at the illustrious CW would let this tired zip code rest in peace already.

Some things are just better left dead: Cloned dogs, a movie remake of The Women, New Kids on the Block.

You get the idea.

While watching beautiful, rich high schoolers cavort in expensive cars, live in mansions with gorgeous 30-something parents, and fly to San Francisco in private jets will never really get old, even the most dazzling of cliches needs a little je ne sais quoi to get me through 2 (fucking) hours.

And I searched for a whiff of low brow Aaron Spelling brilliance in this trite, banal mess, but all I saw was cheap, knock-off Target brand imitations.

However, two drunken, faux-literary finger snaps for the show's tech-savvy Adrianna for naming her blog "The Viscious Circle." Oh, how Dorothy Parker of you!

p.s. It's nice to see Joe E. Tata—the Mr. Belding of Beverly Hills—riding out his one big break for as long as his wrinkled fingers will allow him to fool with coffee makers and french fries at The Peach Pit.