Introduction

INTRODUCTION

Why the hell wouldn't you want to be one of the fabulouspeople, the life enhancers, the people who look interesting andsmell luscious and who dare to be gorgeously more fascinatingthan their neighbors?

I recently left my apartment dressed as Queen ElizabethII. Not queen as in corgis and tweed skirts, but queen as indecked out like a giant flashing Christmas tree on the occasionof some totally major state dinner. Accessories? Just a few: longwhite gloves, two rhinestone necklaces, eleven bracelets, threebrooches, six rings, a sash, two dangly earrings, three medals, ahubcap-sized tiara, and a giant pair of bifocals.

As I rode down in the elevator on that sunny spring Satur-day afternoon, I braced myself for the inevitable catcalls andvulgar badinage that common sense told me would erupt assoon as I appeared in the busy lobby of my Greenwich Villageapartment building. Hopefully I would be able to hail a caband flee before some random passerby elected to throw a half-eaten Big Mac at Her Majesty.

Why, you may well ask, had I made myself vulnerable topublic humiliation in such a specific manner? All such questionswill be answered when you read Chapter 12 of the style mani-

Xlll

festo which you are holding in your hot little hands. For themoment, I would like to stay focused on the specific sequenceof events that was about to occur.

Ping. The doors opened. I began to traverse the carpetedlobby deploying the measured, flat-footed gate of Her MajestyQueen Elizabeth II, which is very easy to imitate but nonethe-less won Helen Mirren an Oscar, and might have done thesame for me had I been given a crack at the role.

My doorman approached. I dropped my front door key intomy white purse, clicked it shut and tried to look regal. I waved.He did not wave back.

He came out from behind his little desk and blocked mypath.

(Cricket sounds.)

I looked at him. He looked at my tits. I looked at his eyeslooking at my tits. My tiara flashed in the afternoon sunlight,causing him to wince.

I stood my ground and returned his stare.

It was hard to get a read on his expression. Was he about tocall the co-op board? Had he already pressed a concealed but-ton summoning men in white coats from Bellevue?

(More crickets.)

Finally he spoke. "Do you want your mail now," he asked,"or when you come back?"

(Abrupt cessation of crickets.)

I was too stunned to respond.

I was completely overcome by the profound, global,philosophical, and far-reaching significance of this surreal littlemoment and the thunderbolt of immediate but deep under-standing it had afforded me.

In an instant I understood the utter pointlessness of everbeing self-conscious, the utter poindessness of restraint or

XIV

"good taste," the utter pointlessness of not having fun withone's personal style. I had left my apartment dressed as thereigning monarch of my birthplace, and my doorman seemednot even to have noticed. I now understood the futility of a lifespent asking, "Does my bum look big in this?" Clearer thanever, I saw the pointlessness of a life lived without a dab of dar-ing panache. I understood the role of eccentric glamour.

Eccentric glamour!

Create it. Grab it. Feel it. Be it, and do so knowing that,even if you walk down the street wearing a gold leotard withyour lesbian aunt Sylvia's mauve nylon fanny pack cinchingyour midriff, nobody is judging you. Some people may noteven notice you. Most people will be enjoying you.

Eccentric glamour is your birthright and that of everywoman—and a man or two. Claim it! Own it! As a glamorouseccentric you have carte blanche to do whatever the hell youwant. Experiment! If I can leave my apartment in full queendrag and barely raise an eyebrow, then surely you are free tomake a complete spectacle of yourself in any manner you seefit.

What is eccentric glamour?

Let me answer that question with another question: Whatis glamour?

Glamour is that mysterious, shimmering you-know-it-when-you-see-it quality that surrounds those who stand out from thecrowd. A wicked combo of cheeky attitude and stylistic innova-tion, real glamour is always exhilarating and never pedestrian.

One way to get to the heart of the matter is to dissect fourcontemporary pairings: Mr. and Mrs. Clinton, Paris and Nicole,Posh and Becks, and Miss Piggy and Kermit.

Has gobs of glamour: Bill Clinton, Nicole Ritchie, DavidBeckham and Miss Piggy.

Has less glamour than partner: Hillary Clinton, Paris Hil-ton, Victoria Beckham, and Kermit.

As is immediately apparent from my analysis, glamour is in-extricably bound up with intelligence, humor, and/or accom-plishment. Bill and Nicole win out over Hillary and Paris be-cause they are smarter and more fun. David Beckham radiatesmore glamour than his missus because of his godlike athleticprowess. Miss Piggy and Kermit? Sometimes all you need is afew French phrases and an unassailable belief in your own in-nate fabulousness.

And what about eccentric glamour?

Eccentric glamour—Miss Piggy is, by the way, the overallwinner in this category—is an invigorating mixture of the ex-pected and the unexpected, the habitual with the kooky, theconstant and the kapow!

The basic elements of your personal style are important. Let'scall them your style constants. Whether it's a glossy jet-blackponytail, a saucy beauty mark, a nuclear explosion of natural redcurls, or a penchant for livid green tango shoes, every gal needsa repertoire of well-chosen style constants. Simultaneouslycommunicating and defining your unique identity, these signa-ture flourishes are your own personal station identification. Un-affected by fleeting trends or the whims of fashion, your styleconstants are the glamorous foundations that will remain withyou through thick and thin (literally and figuratively).

So where does the eccentricity come in?

Now take your style constants—those unique gestureswhich your fans and friends have come to associate so stronglywith you—and punctuate them with a spontaneous gesture, ajolt of the unexpected, a rhinestone bucket bag, a pair of maria-chi slacks, a vintage Pucci poncho. Et voila! Eccentric glamouris the happy result.

Do today's celebs possess eccentric glamour? The answer is,for the most part, a giant, resounding no! Red-carpet glamouris, as I will prove to you repeatedly in the upcoming pages, theantithesis of eccentric glamour. Hiring a stylist who scroungesfree frocks on your behalf from top designers does not reallyqualify as "creative expression." And today's celebs are, for themost part, much too chicken, too risk averse, too scared of thatwhat-were-they-thinking page in Star magazine to indulge ineccentric glamour. Naughty, boring, conformist celebs!

As must already be apparent, the book you are clutching isby no means a typical style advice book. There are no before -and-after pictures or snappy lists or kicky bullet points. Mymethods are circumlocutive, to say the least.

On the following pages you will find a mixture of culturalcommentary and personal disclosure, generously seasoned withgushings of wildly dictatorial and reckless style advice. Caution:These provocative tips should not be followed like a recipe.Developing a sense of eccentric glamour means taking yourown path. My role is to mix up the signposts and start you onyour journey.

Not sure which direction to take> No problem. As you willsee in Chapter 1,1 have invented a whole new system to guideyour through the labyrinth of stylistic self-discovery. Accordingto my theory, there are three types of glamorous eccentric: theSocialite, the Existentialist, and the Gypsy. In these three broadand inclusive categories you will find your eccentrically moreglamorous self, you will find the means for self-reinvention,you will find the wherewithal to say no to hoi and resist the tidalwave of porno chic that threatens to engulf Western civiliza-tion.

In addition, these pages are liberally, randomly, and spon-taneously larded with autobiographical humiliations and

XVI1

Introduction

obsessions, including, but not limited to, my obsession withjazzercize and my forays into celebrity impersonation. It is mysincere wish that these tales from my own grody-to-szhooshyodyssey will entertain you as you undertake yours. For ad-ditional inspiration, my scribblings are evenly sprinkled withone-on-one interviews with some the world's most glamorouseccentrics, not including Isabella Blow. This legendary, de-ceased fashion muse is honored in a postscript musing.

Those of you who have enjoyed stories about my earlyyears in my New Tork Observer columns and previous bookswill be happy to know that the dramatis personae of my wackychildhood—key figures in the evolution of my beliefs regardingeccentric glamour—are omnipresent.

"A life of eccentric glamour seems like a lot of hard work,"I already hear you kvetch. Good point. Why not wear a muu-muu and flip-flops, grab a bag of Doritos, and watch the paradefrom the sidelines?

First, evolving your own brand of eccentric glamour is goodfor your psyche. Knowing who you really are and dressing thepart—with an air of amused recklessness—is life affirming foryou and life enhancing for other people. When the eccentricallyglamorous you walks down the street, whether you are a wiryItalian greyhound or a lovable lumbering labradoodle, you willfeel gorgeously empowered and you will fill your neighbor-hood and workplace with positive vibrations. Think of it as acivic duty of sorts.

Second, it's creatively fulfilling. Constructing and designinga glamorously eccentric you means understanding and magni-fying the core of your individuality. Your clothing represents achallenging and groovy canvas for self-expression. While thetypical TV boobs 'n' Botox 'n' bleach makeovers force everywoman to look the same—see The Real Housewives of Orange

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Introduction

County—the transformations I strive to provoke in this bookare the very opposite. Honing your style constants, developinga glamorously eccentric look is a creatively and psychologicallysatisfying process because it involves revealing and magnifyingeverything that is unique and idiosyncratic about you. Followmy dictates and you will end up looking like nobody else onthe planet, give or take a tiara or two.

Third, why the hell wouldn't you want to be one of thefabulous people, the life enhancers, the people who look in-teresting and smell luscious and dare to be gorgeously morefascinating than their neighbors?

Now grab my hand. Let us walk together into this bravenew world of eccentric glamour where conformity is the onlycrime and dressing down is the only faux pas.

XIX

CHAPTER 1

Simone de BeauvoirWas Totally Hot

Say no to ho and yes to eccentric glamour

You run into an old acquaintance. You are unable to recallher name. It might be Eva, or maybe Yvonne. You're notquite sure.

You take a closer look. Yes, it's definitely Eva, but she isbarely recognizable. Eva has undergone some kind of gro-tesque transformation. She used to look a bit like Melanie Grif-fith in Working Girl. Now, thanks to her fake hair extensions,fake nails, fake spray tan, fake collagen lips, and fake boobs, shelooks like a cross between Britney Spears, Mrs. Gastineau (themother), and a blow-up doll.

Somehow you manage to refrain from asking her why sheno longer looks like a librarian and is now dressing like a pornostar, and you say, "Goodness me! Don't you look . . . stunning!No, I mean it . . . I'm totally stunned."

Delicately inserting a fake nail into the corner of her fakemouth to extract a couple of errant strands of fake hair—hairthat was previously dark brown and, until recently, belongedto a disadvantaged miss on a faraway continent—Eva tells youshe's decided to "go for the natural look"

Yes, you heard right. She said "the natural look."

Sheesh! Times have changed.

Once upon a time, the natural look meant Joan Baez orAli MacGraw or the thin, pretty one from The Mamas and thePapas, or, for that matter, dear old Mama Cass herself. Bohe-mian, groovy, and eccentric, a natural gal was a love child, ahippie, a free spirit whose idea of dressing up for a big nightout in Haight-Ashbury was to shove a daisy in her hair and daba bit of patchouli on one of her salient features.

Now, apparendy, it means looking about as natural as TheLady Bunny.

As shocking as Eva's transformation is, you cannot shakethe feeling that she looks hauntingly familiar.

Yes! Open the window and stick your head out. Heavens toBetsy! There are identical Eva clones strutting through everyshopping mall. Embracing "the natural look" has, in fact, be-come something of an epidemic.

Many of your peers have opted—with the help of liposuc-tion, collagen, and a great deal of sass—for the Eva route. Theyhave said yes to ho, and as a result they now resemble a bunchof aging Bratz dolls. That boobs 'n' bleach 'n' Botox makeoveris standard for any woman seeking to reinvent herself. This lookis part of the I-don't-want-to-look-like-a-grown-up-anymore-but-I-do-want-to-look-like-my-daughter-who-just-happens-to-dress-like-a-hoochie-dancer movement.

"What's so wrong with dressing supersexy?" I hear you ask.

"Are you some freaky middle-aged prude?" I also hear you ask.

Call me crazy, but I believe that there might just be moreto being a woman than prancing around dressed up like aStepford blow-up doll. Non? In my experience you gals arehighly idiosyncratic creatures whose true essence is riddled withsubdety and nuance. Your sizzling sexuality is only one aspectof a complex and intriguing picture.

Let me digress briefly to clarify my position on the subjectof vulgarity. Simply put, I adore it! A dash of bad taste is a vitalcomponent of eccentric glamour. I realize this may sound alittle contradictory: On the one hand I am inveighing againstan overtly whorish look that has regrettably become the chosenmakeover option for so many women; on the other hand I amextolling the virtues of vulgarity. What gives? Yes, ho style isvulgar, but it is not the vulgarity per se against which I inveigh.It is the conformity. It is the Stepford factor. It is the lack ofpersonal expression. It is the fact that this hideous epidemic ofblow-up dolls is compromising the ability of American womento develop an eccentrically glamorous individual style.

There is nothing wrong, I hasten to add, with maximiz-ing one's physical appeal, but there is a difference—vive ladifference!—between being alluring and dressing like a ho. Or,as Oscar Wilde might have put it were he alive today, "To ex-pose one cleavage seems unfortunate. To expose both cleavagesseems like carelessness."

Eccentric glamour—something Mr. Wilde, with his velvetknickers and floppy foulards, had in spades—is your only defenseagainst the tidal wave of dangling pasties, lady lumps, hoochiehot pants, and skanky halter tops. With a missionary zeal, Iimplore you gals to seek out eccentrically glamorous alterna-tives to the ubiquitous cheapness and tackiness that currendypass for personal style. Remember that porno chic is an evilconformist trend that has the potential, if allowed to burgeon

unchecked, to eclipse individuality and personal eccentricity.

So banish the badonkadonkdonk!

Say no to ho!

Let's go grab Eva right now, shake some sense into her, andput her on the righteous path to eccentric glamour.

Oh! Too late!

We missed our opportunity. She's jumped up on a tableout of earshot, and she's doing the watusi.* She jiggles. Shewiggles. She giggles.

As you observe your old pal, you start to feel a bit left out.There she is clutching a large blue umbrella drink and gettingher ass pinched, and she was always the designated driver, thesensible one who stood on the sidelines at the office party!There's no denying she looks like a big whore, but she's justhaving so much fun that it's hard not to feel a teensy bit envi-ous. And that butt-crack tattoo—apparently she had it donedown in Miami when she was rat-faced drunk—is certainly get-ting her lots of attention, despite the adjacent lipo scars.

Being in Eva's orbit is having an odd effect on you. As muchas you might be completely dumbfounded by her unquestion-ing embrace of porno-chic, this encounter with your old palis making you feel frumpy and frowzy and uninteresting. Shemay be one of the hos, but you are one of the schlumps, whichis infinitely more depressing. You are suddenly seized with thedesire to deschlump and reinvent yourself. Tired of playingAgnes Gooch, you decide you want a slice of the action. Andwhy not? Everybody else is doing it, why not you?

We are living in an age where makeovers and boob jobs areas common as cheeseburgers. "Beauty" is no longer just forcelebs; it's now a commodity that can be bought at the mallor the dermatologist with a flick of your credit card. Transfor-

* Readers who crave a more in-depth understanding of the porno-chic phe-nomenon should read Female Chauvinist Pigs by Ariel Levy.

mation is the mot du jour. You can't turn on the telly withoutconfronting images of blubbering former "ugly ducklings" re-united with their disbelieving families.

So why not you?

A large question mark or two appears over your head.

Do you have what it takes to reinvent yourself?

The answer, of course, is a resounding YES!

But do you have what it takes to reinvent yourself withoutfollowing in Eva's footsteps? Do you have what it takes to resistthe pressures to conform to the new slutty norm?

Can you figure out how to unearth and release the self-invented, nonconformist, taboo-busting individual who lurksinside you—and inside every woman, and certain types ofmen—and dive into a sparkling lagoon of style and fashionwithout ending up looking like a tramp?

The answer to all your questions is resting in your hot littlehands.

Before you commission that boob lift and reach for thebleach, you must read this chapter and read it good. I wrote itwith the sole purpose of stemming the tidal wave of Evas. Mygoal is to show the women of America that there is another way!

Gypsies, Existentialists, and Socialites—The Three Roads to Eccentric Glamour

In order to reinvent herself, a gal needs a concept.

If you are looking to reimagine your personal style, youcannot simply head for the local mall and start shopping yourbrains out. You need a good, strong, viable idea. A framework.Without it you will flounder about and, because it is the pre-vailing style, you will end up adopting Eva's trampy look.

Embracing the life of a glamorous eccentric is easier than

you would imagine. The choices are not infinite. When thechips are down, there are, you will be delighted to learn, onlythree roads that lead to the kingdom of eccentric glamour:Gypsy, Existentialist, and Socialite.

At first this might sound utterly demented and insanely lim-ited. It's not. It is, as you will see, merely a fact of life.

The Gypsy is the ethereal, poetic, crafty, artsy, bohemian faceof eccentric glamour. Though stylish, she privileges sensuality,freedom, and comfort over fashion. Think Julia Roberts in hercurrent mom-living-at-the-beach mode.

The Existentialist is infinitely more severe, dramatic, graphicand intellectual than her wayward Gypsy sister. While the Gypsy isall about the flesh, the Existentialist is all about the mind. Thinkedgy. Think beatnik. Think Annie Lennox or Chrissie Hynde.

The Socialite is heavy on the gloss, light on the eccentricity.She radiates old-school glamour. She's lacquered, designer clad,high heel addicted, manicured, elegant, and slightly bitchy.Though more "normal" in her appearance than both the Gypsyor the Existentialist, the Socialite compensates with an irrever-ent and sparkling wit. She is, in many ways, the conventionalcenter of the spectrum, flanked on either side by the Gypsy andthe Existentialist. Think Anna Wintour. Think Jackie O.

Et voila!

A Gypsy, an Existentialist, or a Socialite? Take your pick.

There is no need to feel pigeonholed or confined by thesethree categories. Within each group there are, as you will see,endless nuances and permutations that allow for unlimited per-sonal expression.

Some of you will find that you are a combo platter—theSocialite/Existentialist is, for example, an unexpected andgrowing phenomenon—and a small number of you will bouncearound effortlessly among all three. Such people are rare and

often unusually creative: interior designers Celerie Kemble andKelly Wearstler spring easily to mind. The world's best-knownGypsy/Existentialist/Socialite amalgam is, however, a fashionmodel. Two words: Kate Moss.

Eight a.m.: Kate skips through British customs after a sun-drenched Saint Barth's photo shoot, looking every inch the be-draggled, bohemian Gypsy in denim hot pants, minicaftan, andembroidered pashmina.

Lunchtime: there's Kate in a quirky black Marc Jacobs orBalenciaga ensemble—knee-high black boots, opaque blacktights, minikilt, military-style fitted jacket—having an Existen-tialist chat and a pint of beer with an enigmatic musician friendin an Islington pub.

As the sun sets, La Moss is snapped vamping off to somefancy opening on the arm of Karl Lagerfeld in vintage bijouxand a Chanel gown looking every inch the groovy Socialite.

Miss Moss is unusual. You may eventually skip around likethe stylishly louche Kate, but for now let us concentrate onfinding your home base, your style identity. Let's find the bestfit for your personality.

And, if you really are a total tramp whose main ambitionin life is to lap-dance every bloke within screeching distance,then feel free to embrace porno-chic and continue dressing thepart. Best of luck! May God go with you. Those of you whoare looking to express the full majesty of your essence via yourpersonal style, please read on.

The Gypsy

Are you a hazy, lazy, rustic, poetic, ethereal free spirit? Ormaybe you always wanted to be but were too scared to let loosein case you ended up going berserk on LSD and jumping out

of a window. Have you always wondered what a hash brownietastes like but never dared to look up a recipe online in caseyou end up on some kind of FBI list?

If you always fancied yourself as a bit of a hippie but were ter-rified to go for it, you may be a repressed Gypsy, a Gypsy manque.

Now is the time to find your inner Janice and let her rip.

There is much to recommend the Gypsy lifestyle.

First, it's incredibly romantic. Imagine yourself living in ayurt or, better yet, a bedouin tent. Imagine calling your chil-dren in to dinner by banging a beribboned tambourine on yourhip.

Gypsy style affords carte blanche not found in the struc-tured, uptight world of the Socialite. You can be wild. Youcan be Carmen. You can be tempestuous. While Existentialistchicks feel obliged to imbue everything with solemnity andmeaning, you Gypsies can shriek and bite the air—raaarl—justbecause you feel like it. You can be uninhibited. Imagine your-self whirling around a campfire in a flounced cheesecloth skirt,flashing your eyes, not to mention those vintage embroideredVictorian bloomers you found at the flea market, at a groupof swarthy adoring monosyllabic blokes with gold teeth. Whatcould be more dreamy?

Having generalized and hyperbolized about the Gypsy, letme try to be a little more helpful. Though freedom, comfort,and sensation are key components, the Gypsy lifestyle is morethan just a rehash of groovy '60s counterculture ideas. Withinthis group there are endless variations and genres. Here arefour of my personal favorites:

The Euro-glam Gypsy

A throwback to the YSL rich hippies of the early 1970s—thinkMarisa Berenson or Talitha Getty— the Euro-glam Gypsy is a

show-off who loves ethnic fabrics, finger cymbals, appliques,rickrack, and fringe. Her idea of heaven is to be shot for Voguewhile getting her hands hennaed by a leathery-faced crone insome far-flung, hectic marketplace.

A celebrity example? Jade Jagger is the contemporary queenof the Euro-glam Gypsies. The daughter of Mick and Biancahas built a whole brand identity simply by floating about herhouse in Ibiza rimming her eyes with kohl and festooning herwalls with sari fabrics.

While the Euro-glam Gypsy is at great pains not to appearwealthy or bourgeois—in sharp contrast to the Socialite who,as you will see, often does the complete opposite—she usuallyhas a bit of money tucked away. Fashion models often becomeEuro-glam Gypsies when they pass their sell-by date: '90s gla-mazons Marpessa and Helena Christensen are good examples.These gals have accumulated the kind of shekels needed tobankroll the indolent Euro-glam Gypsy lifestyle.

What does she wear? At the time of writing, Matthew Wil-liamson and Duro Olowu are the Euro-glam Gypsy's favoritedesigners. A major flea market hag, she is always scouring thestalls for a vintage Ossie Clarke or Thea Porter or Zandra Rhodes.

Is she loyal to this style?

Yes, emphatically, yes! Once a Euro-glam Gypsy, alwaysa Euro-glam Gypsy. These gals are lifers. Though she maytidy herself up for funerals and court appearances, it is almostunheard-of for a Euro-glam to become a Socialite. This wouldinvolve having her tattoos removed and bidding adieu to all herfriends, freaks, and acquaintances.

The Isadora Gypsy

The Isadora Gypsy is named after Isadora Duncan, that fabu-lously crazy chick who, at the beginning of the last century,

leaped around barefoot in the dirt waving a piece of chiffonand, as a result, invented the concept of modern dance.

Like her namesake, the Isadora Gypsy has a strong theatricalsense and loves dressing up: She wears panne velvet and vintagelace and medievalish robes and turbans a la Edith Sitwell. Sheadores massive rings, beading, and devoree velvet. Her dreamis to find a vintage Fortuny frock at Goodwill. The fact thatthis will never happen feeds her overall sense of romantic disap-pointment.

Regarding her psyche: The Isadora Gypsy is more cultured,better educated, and less trendy than her Euro-glam sister. Vir-ginia Woolf is her favorite writer, olive green is her preferredhue. As a result, she is prone to bouts of melancholy. She doesnot have the reservoirs of happy superficiality that keep theEuro-glam Gypsy shrieking with laughter 24/7. While theEuro-glam is knocking back champagne at Art Basel in Miami,the Isadora Gypsy is far more likely to be found contemplatingthe translucency of an art nouveau vase on the Portobello Roador weeping quietly in the corner of Vita Sackville-West's all-white garden in Sussex, England.

(If you decide, upon reading this, that this is who you reallyare, you may want to leaven the steady diet of Virginia Woolfwith a little distracting Candace Bushnell, just to mix things upa little and keep the blues at bay.)

Contemporary celebrity example? The majority of Holly-wood actresses stick with a Socialite wardrobe. If they ever daredabble in Existentialist or Gypsy style, they are massacred bythe tabloids and hurled onto the what-was-she-thinking page.(See Bjork the Existentialist.) There are a couple of exceptions:Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton have an Isadora/Existential-ist thing going on, which makes them the darlings of the high-fashion monde.

Caution: The Isadora Gypsy is accident prone. She is quitelikely to drown while having an Ophelia moment in a fast-running stream, or, Ike the original Isadora, get throttled whenher trailing scarf gets caught in the wheels of her sports car. Herdeath, though often unexpected, is never mundane.

The Green Gypsy

If sustainability and fair trade are more important to you thanGypsy glamour—i.e., you prefer hemp flip-flops over toweringespadrilles by Christian Louboutin—you may well be a GreenGypsy.

Formerly known as the Birkenstock Gypsy, the Green Gypsyis a fast-growing category in Hollywood. Inspired by Green ce-lebs like Leo and Brad, more and more young lasses—think KateHudson, think Liv Tyler—are looking for environmentally re-sponsible, organic garments. Especially if they are knocked up orjust hanging out at their ten-million-dollar Malibu beach shacks.

Warning: Just because a garment is made of organic cottondoes not mean it has the allure and the sizzle that are part andparcel of the eccentric glamour lifestyle. Try to be ruthlesslyobjective when buying and accessorizing green garments. Donot sacrifice style for sustainability. At the end of the day, aburlap tabard is just ... a burlap tabard. Unless you team yourtabard with a pair of cruelty-free Stella McCartney black patentspikes, you run the risk of looking as if you are an extra in asuburban dinner theater production of The Canterbury Tales.

Psych alert: While the Euro-glam Gypsy tends toward su-perficiality, the Green Gypsy, with her solar panels, her mal-functioning compost toilet, and her constant anxieties aboutthe size of her carbon footprint, is crucifyingly earnest. If youenter this category, please try not to become a dogmatic bore.

The Hollywood Gypsy

The patron saint of Hollywood Gypsies is Ali MacGraw. Youthought I was going to say Stevie Nicks, didn't you? MissNicks, thanks to her love of floaty chiffon and unstructuredchoreography, is really more of an Isadora Gypsy.

The Hollywood Gypsy, as personified by Miss MacGraw, isthe well-scrubbed Malibu version of Gypsy style. In her crispwhite caftans and discreet jewelry, yoga-loving Ali is the accept-able face of hippie, a woman with alternative ideals, a sizablebank account, and no body odor or armpit hair.

As they age, these Hollywood Gypsies can sometimes be-come Socialites. This can elicit accusations of betrayal by theGreen Gypsies who often work at the health food stores oryoga centers patronized by the Hollywood Gypsies.

Let's recap: Gypsy style is, as you can see, a colorful and se-ductive category. I predict that, after reading this chapter, asignificant number of you readers will emerge as committedtambourine-banging glamorously eccentric Gypsies.

The biggest plus for Gypsies of all stripes? Gypsy style, in allits various manifestations, is a great look for larger girls.

Off-the-shoulder Carmen blouses, embroidered taffetaskirts, Victorian piano shawls, and espadrilles, while great ona skinny gal, also work wonders for the chunky glamorous ec-centric. Gypsy clothing is not so much slimming as gorgeouslydistracting. Let me put it to you this way: When your clothingsays, "I'm a flamboyant, vivacious, interesting person!" as op-posed to the less appealing, "I'm a chubby person in drearytentlike self-effacing clothes!" your universe can only changefor the better.

Gypsy decor is similarly forgiving: It is by far the quickest

and easiest to execute. Creating a gypsy lair is a total no-brainer.

Any idiot can take a bunch of saris and staple them arounda room. Any nitwit can make a room look fabulous by addinga couple of camel saddles. How much brainpower does it taketo dangle a few dream catchers and sling a hammock or twoacross your living room? (Is this why so many fashion modelsfavor this style chez eux>)

The biggest advantage of Gypsy decor is that there is noupkeep. It's a very unchallenging style, and once installed, theGypsy abode requires no maintenance or cleaning whatsoever.While the Existentialist is constantly retouching that whitefloor, and the Socialite is flagellating herself with those what-would-Jackie-do comparisons, the Gypsy is gainfully occupiedcasting runes, playing her dulcimer, or generally flitting about.

And it's quick: While Socialite decor is all about painstak-ingly prissy precision and anal-retentive immaculate surfaces,Gypsy decor can be achieved in a matter of minutes just byhurling a few Himalayan rugs, alpaca throws, and exoticallyscented candles into a room.

The drawbacks: Gypsies are far more likely to have radongas in their homes. This is simply because it would never occurto a Gypsy actually to test for radon.

Gypsies are tchotchkaholics. They tend to create an environ-ment that looks like a Moroccan souk. As a result, visitors to aGypsy cave are constantly picking things up and saying, "Howmuch is this?" Entrepreneurial Gypsies are quite likely to startselling things. Others will find this mildly irritating.

Last but not least, because of the cluttered nature of theirpads, Gypsies often find that people have been living with themfor months and they never knew. For this reason, Gypsies arestatistically much more likely to harbor felons, albeit unwit-tingly, than Socialites or Existentialists.

The Socialite

While it is undeniably true that Jackie Kennedy Onassis, BabePaley, and CZ Guest are the primordial slime from which allsubsequent Socialites emerged, today's Socialite is any gal—amanicurist, a celeb, a dog groomer, a bank manager, an anchorlady—who loves a well-cut skirt, a Chanel watch (real or fake),and a crucifyingly high heel. Today's Socialite can be highbornor common as muck.

This is good news for you, the ordinary woman on the street.You do not need money, power, or an obscenely rich husband inorder to embrace the spiffy, manicured glam of Socialite style.Anyone can be a Socialite, even you, because Socialite is a stateof mind.

Of all the three styles, the Socialite has the least amount ofeccentricity. Her style, though culled from the latest fashioncollections, has a classic panache. She herself is not particularlycreative. She leaves that to the Puccis, Valentinos, Oscar de laRentas, and Karl Lagerfelds of the world, or the knocker-offersthereof. She's a follower, not a leader.

But let's not be too hard on her: The Socialite is invariablya scintillating and idiosyncratic conversationalist. While she maylack daring in her wardrobe choices, the glamorously eccentricSocialite has a wicked wit. The humor, poise, and sizzling rep-artee of the practiced Socialite more than compensate for herlow eccentricity score.

And here's the best thing about her, the Socialite is theworld's leading patroness of la mode. Whether shopping atStrawberry or Chanel, she supports fashion designers by spend-ing an enormous amount of money on clothing. And, as abonus, she abhors the slutty ho trend. The Socialite attractsmen by cultivating her allure, not by flashing her breasts orjumping in and out of chauffeured vehicles sans panties.

Despite the commitment to that old-school Jackie Kennedymanicured glamour, it would be a gigantic mistake to assumethat white chicks have some kind of monopoly on Socialite style.The fact is that ladies of color constitute a huge chunk of theSocialite demographic. Please recall, dear reader, the incidentwhere a certain black billionaire megastar/entrepreneur wasbanging on the door of the Hermes store in Paris at closing time.

It's not just Oprah. A vaste number of African Americanasare motivated by the Socialite desire to look spiffy and niftyand swanky and turned out. The black Socialite wants to weara Dolce & Gabbana suit with a white fox fur and a giant pair ofDior glasses, and who can really blame her? Socialite style, withits emphasis on polished designer glamour, makes perfect sensefor an African-American chick from a hardscrabble background.Not every stylish black woman is a ghetto escapee, but the galwho is will always tend to recoil from the raggedy-ass hippiestyle of the Gypsy. Having seen more than her share of grunge,she finds it alien and annoying.

The Existentialist approach, as you will see, is just as ir-relevant to the black Socialite as Gypsy style: Even though shemight buy freaky artwork from an Existentialist artist, the blackSocialite has zero interest in looking kooky or conceptual her-self.

Celebrity examples? Mary J. Blige is a label-lovin' Socialite.So is Foxy Brown. So—when she's wearing her ladylike Marc Ja-cobs outfits—is Lil' Kim. Yes, ladies of color have the Socialite'sunapologetic stop-at-nothing passion for designer clothing.

If I were a chick, I would probably dress Socialite, with atop note of Existentialist. Having been born into postwar aus-terity—I spent my early years in a two-room walk-up with nokitchen or bathroom—I share the Socialite's antipathy towardany style that disingenuously attempts to riff on downward

mobility. Why dress poor if you are not? Why dress down whenyou can dress up)

Performing a colonoscopy? What to wear?

Skin tone aside, Socialite style is ultimately about confidence.Unlike the Existentialist or the Gypsy, the Socialite dresses tocommunicate power and competence and order. Socialite styleis, therefore, the best style for professional women.

Let me rephrase that: Socialite style, with its carefully craftedcocktail of minimal eccentricity and designer fashion, is the onlystyle for professional women.

Dressing for work has always been a minefield of complex-ity and symbolism. There is a codified language that changesfrom milieu to milieu. Fashion, your personal style, can eitherblast you through the glass ceiling or hurl you on the unem-ployment heap. Certain styles can annihilate credibility in someprofessional situations and enhance it in others.

For example: When a lady doctor is advancing upon youwith a needle or a probe of any kind, you expect that personto be wearing clean, well-cut garments from the conservativeend of the Socialite spectrum such as those designed by RalphLauren or Ann Taylor. A medical professional can destroy everyounce of confidence you have in her simply by wearing thewrong blouse or shoes. Nobody, and I really do mean nobody,wants a colonoscopy performed by an Existentialist lady in anavant-garde Comme des Garcons humpback dress. No gal inher right mind wants corrective eye surgery performed by adirndl-wearing refugee from Haight-Ashbury. Gypsy and Exis-tentialist are no-nos for health-care professionals.

The profession of law has similar constraints: Nobody wantshis or her will drawn up by a Gypsy wearing armfuls of Mor-

rocan bracelets and a plunging Roberto Cavalli leopard-print,silk-chiffon minicaftan.

The bottom line? Eccentricity must be kept at a minimum,or credibility will suffer. If your profession entails an iota ofresponsibility for the health or finances of others, you mustminimize your visual quirks. You can freak out on your owntime, but when you are at work you must adopt the Socialitestyle or die.

Dermatologists, it should be noted, have a litde more carteblanche than other medics. The new emphasis on Botox andother cosmetic beauty procedures has dragged these gals outof the mundane world of ingrown hairs and pus-filled abscessesand into the stylish world of Lanvin and Prada.

Though still confined to the Socialite category, dermatolo-gists can be a litde more flamboyant and fashion forward thanother professional chicks, without the loss of any credibility. Adesigner-clad derm—in this season's Vionnet or Ricci—is as-sumed to be a wealthy and therefore successful and thereforeaccomplished person. As a result, the top skin peelers in Amer-ica—Dr. Pat Wexler, Dr. Lisa Airan et al.—frequently appear onthe best-dressed lists alongside hard-core label-addicted Social-ites like Marina Rust and Victoria Traina.

Yes, I said addicts.

Of the three groups—Existentialists, Gypsies, and Social-ites—the Socialite is the most likely to develop a severe fashionaddiction. (Gypsies, as you can well imagine, are associatedwith other types of addictions.)

Though crisp, clean, and unimpeachably chic, the Socialitecannot go for twenty-four hours without buying herself a newfrock/bag/blouse/stiletto. She is an unapologetic label queen.If fashion was glue, every Socialite would be lying in the gutterlike Laura Dern in that movie Citizen Ruth, desperately huff-

ing her brains out. The Socialite is perpetually high on designercrack.

The level of fashion addiction may vary in degree, but thereare a number of behavioral traits that are consistently found inall Socialites.

Ixnay on the Gypsies

Though socially adept, Socialites are not particularly comfortablearound Gypsies. The worst thing that could happen to a Socia-lite is to be forced to live with a Gypsy. This would be the equi-valent of asking Anna Wintour to live with Stevie Nicks. Thesmell of sage and the general sloppy unpredictability of herroommate would drive the Vogue editor in chief totally bonkers.

Socialites fare little better alongside Existentialists. Becausethey are disinterested in avant-garde fashion, Socialites find Ex-istentialists bewildering and annoying. The Socialite is a Dior,Tuleh, Prada, Pucci, Chanel, Tory Burch, Blahnik, Ralph Lau-ren, Louboutin, Lilly Pulitzer kind of a gal. While Socialites be-lieve that Paris is the fashion capital of the world, Existentialistsare exclusively focused on Belgium, and occasionally England.

The fact that Brit designer Hussein Chalayan once buriedhis collection in his backyard for a few weeks, prior to showingit to the press, while delightful to the Existentialist, is appallingand horrible to the Socialite.

Miss Manners

Perpetually terrified that people will think she's an uptightbitch, the Socialite overcompensates wildly. Not only is shecharming and funny, she is also surprisingly and effusively po-lite. Like the late neat freak Joan Crawford, she compulsively

sends flowers and is quite capable of penning a thank-you notefor a thank-you note.

Fairy1 wands

Socialites, it must be acknowledged, are invariably quite prissy.No Socialite would ever allow herself to have a cruddy bath-room. Furry toilets and moldy backsplashes, though part andparcel of the Gypsy lifestyle, are profoundly unacceptable to theSocialite.

Even the most quotidienne Socialite prefers to touch as fewthings as possible with her bare hands. This is why she putsLucite wands on her drapes. God forbid she should have totouch anything as unworthy and lowly and disgusting as cur-tain fabric!

Allied to the wand, but no less important to the Socialite, isthe extension. I refer to the telescopic doodad that adds severalfeet, and a great deal of savoir faire, to your cobweb remover orfeather duster. Highly recommended for dwarf Socialites.

She can kick your ass

Don't let the old-fashioned politesse deceive you: The Socialiteis tougher than you think. If an Existentialist PETA supporterhurls a soy-cream pie at her because she is wearing a chinchillashrug, the Socialite is quite capable of slapping her attacker up-side the head with her studded Fendi baguette.

The Existentialist

Existentialism, for the ignorant reader, was a philosophy devel-oped by Jean-Paul Sartre in midcentury Paris. The basic idea

was that life did not make any sense at all and that everythingwas chaotic and contingent. Insights into the utter meaning-lessness of it all came in bursts of what Monsieur Sartre callednausea. Like most French people, Jean-Paul was something ofa misanthrope, declaring famously that "hell is other people."

The Sartres, with their angrily belted outerwear and grumpyexpressions, were not the most fun people on earth. They did,however, give birth to the beatniks, who begat all subsequentsupercool, edgy style movements: punk, grunge, downtownchic, etc., etc. Even the black-clad fashionistas of the '90s owetheir look to Jean-Paul and Simone. Merci beaucoup! This isthe edgy, belligerent, provocative, creative, innovative face ofeccentric glamour.

"What's so glamorous about smelly beatniks or menacingpunk rockers?" I hear those readers of a more conventionalSocialite orientation ask, to which I reply, "As per my introduc-tion, any useful definition of the word 'glamour' now goes waybeyond that boring gold standard of manicured beauty laiddown by the original Hollywood studio dream factory dur-ing the last century. Yes, back in the day, Marilyn and Liz hadglamour, but so did Gertrude Stein and JFK and Ernest Hem-ingway and Giacometti and Dorothy Parker."

Still not getting it? Don't reproach yourself. A large part ofthe glamour of glamour comes from its extreme elusiveness.

Now let's get back to those glamorous Existentialists.

Though the smallest group, the Existentialists are the mostcreative and eccentrically glamorous of the three categories.While the Socialite rarely instigates trends, the Existentialist doeslittle else. She radiates edginess. While the Evas of this worldadorn themselves for the delectation of the opposite sex, the Ex-istentialist dresses for one person and one person only: herself.

Prominent Existentialists include Carine Roitfeld (editor in

chief of French Vojjue), Chrissie Hynde, and British art provo-cateur Tracey Emin.

There are no A-list celeb Existentialists. Jennifer Connollyand Charlotte Gainsbourg are about as close as it gets. VanessaParadis (Johnny Depp's crumpet)? She vacillates between Exis-tentialist and Euro-glam Gypsy. The contemporary Hollywoodred-carpet look is dominated by Socialite style—the antithesisof everything the Existentialist stands for.

She's an angry rebel who eschews the superficiality of con-temporary culture. If she is unfortunate enough to catch anyof the frothy fashion Oscar coverage on TV, the typical Exis-tentialist experiences a strong desire to join the Taliban. If shewere ever, by some bizarre serendipity, to find herself on thered carpet, and Joan Rivers asked her, "Who made your dress?"the Existentialist would either go into a tortured explanationof the designer's concept or shout, "Some poofter!" and keepwalking.

Yes, Existentialists are a tad scary.

Gypsies are often frightened by them, and with good rea-son. While the good-humored Gypsy loves to run throughthe woods barefoot and sell toe rings to passing hikers, theExistentialist is busy on the shady side of the forest gatheringpoisonous mushrooms while plotting the overthrow of thegovernment.

The Existentialist is very creative. Whether managing an artgallery or designing unbuildable buildings a la Zaha Hadid (amajor Iraqi Existentialist), she is intent on using her provoca-tive sensibility to change the world. While the Gypsy is sensualand organic and quite ditsy, the Existentialist is more rigid,intellectual, and Ayn Randian.

Don't worry, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to em-brace your inner Existentialist. And you don't have to wear a

monocle or become a German Expressionist-collecting lesbian.(But don't rule it out.)

Agonizing about whether or not you are an Existentialistis a bit of a waste of time. The truth of the matter is that youeither are or you aren't. It is highly unlikely that you are a sim-mering Existentialist trapped in a Laura Ashley flounced frock.

This does not mean that there is no volatility in this group.Some Existentialists transition out of this group as middle agelooms: Courtney Love has made the switch from Existentialstyle (wacky baby dolls and tiaras) to Socialite style (sleekdesigner gowns). Angelina Jolie is another example: She hasrelinquished her Goth garments and sadomasochistic styling inorder—at the time of writing—to shill for the Socialite houseof St. John knits!

Though society might discourage women from adoptingthe independent non-male-appeasing stance of the Existential-ist, I do not. I positively insist on it. Even if you decide that youare a card-carrying Socialite, the unpredictability that is integralto the development of eccentric glamour definitely requires asoupcon of Existentialist style. Example: New York style iconAnne Slater—a beacon of Socialite style in her vintage GeoffreyBeenes and couture Ruccis—never leaves the house withouther bizarre giant blue-tinted spectacles and massive Kazukocrystal bracelets.

Though it is a much more homogenous group than theGypsies, Existentialist stykcan still be subdivided into four cat-egories: Gamine, Gauche, Garcon, and Ghoul.

The Existentialist Gamine

This is the sweet face of Existentialism. She is Audrey Hepburnat the beginning of Funny Face, a bookworm in black ballet

slippers, black turtle neck—the Existentialist style constant—andblack toreador pants.

As with the other genres of Existentialist style, the Existen-tialist Gamine exudes intelligence. Her severe appearance sug-gests that she is interested in the world of philosophy and ideaswhile simultaneously challenging the self-indulgent glamour ofSocialite style.

Note that I said "suggests." Herein lies the magic of theExistentialist style. It's the perfect combination of mystery andimplied intellect. In other words: There's nothing quite like ablack turtleneck to suggest an inner life, even where there maybe none. The Existentialist Gamine is, therefore, a great lookfor gals like Paris Hilton who are perpetually accused of beingdumb as planks and need to add a dash of gravitas to theirimage. Paris, if you are reading this, please stop dressing like an'80s bunny girl and give existential style a whirl.

The Rive Gauche Existentialist

The elder sister of the Gamine Existentialist, this is a great lookfor gals whose ripening figures no longer fit into those toreadorpants.

Like Simone de Beauvoir and Simone Signoret, the RiveGauche Existentialist is often named Simone, or maybe she hasa weird spelling to her name. Cathy Horyn (note the spelling)of the New York Times is a great example of Rive Gauche Exis-tentialist style. A beatnik and a thinker, she's severe, intimidat-ing, and quite mysterious. In her black Lanvin trench coat andher Alaia leather kilt, she always manages to look like a memberof the French Resistance.

While the Rive Gauche Existentialist's clothing is basic andsimple, her hair is more complex: Cut a la Bettie Page, it fea-

tures short, rounded bangs and shoulder-length side tresses.When she gets older she may go whole hog and wear it ina braid crown, a la Simone de Beauvoir, aka Mrs. Jean-PaulSartre.

The Existentialist Gargonne

Courageous, self-invented women have always done it. Gar bodid it in the '30s. So did Marlene. Punk girls did it in the 1970s.Pat Benatar did it in the 1980s. Madonna did it in the 1990s.I'm talking about boy chic. Butching it up. Dressing in drag.Suiting yourself.

F-to-M cross-dressing is strange and mysterious. The ef-fect is not quite what you might expect. It would be logical toassume that the wearing of men's clothing might well detractfrom a gal's femininity. This is not always the case. It can oftenbe the opposite. Elegant man drag, as worn by the ladies men-tioned above, enhances rather than detracts from the femininityof the wearer.

For reasons too obvious to state, this Existentialist Gar-conne look is big with certain gay women: Ellen is the bigcelebrity proponent of this style. Paradoxically, she looks muchmore girly in those nifty Sammy Davis Jr. suits of hers than shewould if dressed in a ruched crepe de chine prom frock.

A tip for butch lesbians: Why do so many of you ladies,when faced with the compulsion to express your masculinity,opt for redneck/lumberjack style?

Girls! Instead of going whole hog and transforming yourselfinto an iiberbutch construction worker, why not play the Exis-tentialist Garconne? I for one would love to see more gay galsopting for Ellen's nifty tailored look. If I were a lesbian and Ifelt the inclination to butch it up a bit, I would like to think

that I would adopt a dandified version of masculinity. Proustianfop, anyone?

Looking for a nonlesbian example of the ExistentialistGarconne? Diane Keaton is single-handedly carrying the flagfor this look among straight celebrity women. Her tailoredEnglish public school chic—more Waugh than Rat-Pack—is soat odds with the prevailing West Coast blow-up doll aestheticthat fashion pundits think she is insane and put her on thosewhat-was-she-thinking? pages of the tabloids. Fortunately, shedoes not seem to care and continues to groove on her innergarconne.

Vive La Keaton, the eccentrically glamorous Existentialistfashion rebel!

The Existentialist Ghoul

Paging Nina Hagen, Lene Lovich, and Siouxsie Sioux! ExeneCervenka! Ariella Up! Diamanda Galas! This is the most ex-treme genre of Existentialist. These are the kind of womenwho, in previous centuries, were burned at the stake.

Adopting this kind of scary look—Gothic maquillage, elec-trocution hair in vivid colors, historicist costume with sado-masochistic accessories—really limits your social interaction tothose who are dressed exactiy as you are and is therefore rec-ommended only for the very young.

Existentialist Ghouls have become quite rare. At the timeof writing, Amy Winehouse is the only contemporary exampleI am able to conjure. Only a genuinely unconventional gal canpull it off, and these are increasingly thin on the ground. I hadhigh hopes for both Avril Lavigne and Ashlee Simpson. After aballsy finger-throwing start to their careers, they both had Hol-lywood makeovers, revealing their innate conventionality in the

Simon Doonan

process. It is my sincere hope that, with the writing of this book,I may prompt a few young ladies to follow La Winehouse—we're talking style, not self-destructive behavior—and take thiscourageous route.

Go Forth and Shop

Once you have designated yourself—Socialite, Existentialist,or Gypsy—all aspects of your life will become simpler. Youwill know not just which frocks to buy but also which scentedcandle or panty is the right one for you.

The whole process of shopping now becomes amusing andpositively cinematic. In fact, you would do well to think of it asa movie production wherein you have two star credits: femalelead and costume designer. You are Edith Head and GloriaSwanson. Having abandoned the role of insecure, nervous,sweaty ingenue, you are dressing an important star who has herown iconic look. Yourself!

You will be selecting garments that match your new senseof self. Your shopping trips will lose that dreadful dishearteningrandom feeling. You will no longer be frantically chasing trends.You will no longer be making desperate attempts to understandthe current fashion scene and see where you fit in. Instead youwill be cherry-picking from the racks with a very specific man-date. And you will always find what you are looking for. TheGypsy/Existentialist/Socialite system of eccentric glamour iseternal. It's classic. While the fashion scene will always quiver,shift, and evolve, you will remain a constant: There will alwaysbe plenty of clothes for you.

Don't forget the constant and the kapowl As well as lookingfor new and innovative items—those unexpected jolts of style

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

I spoke about in my intro—be sure to stock up on those styleconstants that form the basis of your look.

Hey, Gypsy! When that appliqued vintage dirndl skirt is toogrody and stained to wear anymore, hit the flea market andfind another. Or open your handbag and buy a new one fromMiu Miu or Dries Van Noten. Your rottweiler ate your Peru-vian poncho? No sweat. There're plenty more where that camefrom.

Hey, Socialite! Has your lavender shantung Prada brunchcoat lost its je ne sais quoi? Replenish! Replenish! Replenish!Maybe a chartreuse Dior one this time?

Hey, Existentialist! Your black cashmere turtleneck has goneall nubby under the armpits. Guess what? They just got a newdelivery at Uniqlo! Buy three and rotate them.

The best part about my method is that it gives you self-reliance. Once you have your category, you are set for life. Nostylists or sycophantic designers for you! Even if you had thewherewithal to hire Rachel Zoe or L'Wren Scott, outsourcingthe reinvention of your personal style is out of the question. Alife of eccentric glamour means you expressing yourself, as op-posed to you slavishly following the dictates of another humanbeing.

This is not a burden. Au contmire! Eccentric glamour is ahuge opportunity for creativity.

But be patient. Regardless of which style you adopt—Socialite, Existentialist, or Gypsy—it may take a while to hityour stride. Enjoy the ride. There is no rush. You are a work inprogress.

Don't allow yourself to get disheartened. And above all,do not, as so many women today are doing, start gratuitouslyflaunting both your cleavages.

Say no to ho! Say yes to eccentric glamour!

"The Highland Hospice charity shops

that dot every village in the north of Scotland

are where I live out my Miss Marple comes

to Warmington-on-Seafantasies."

PROFILE

TILDA SWINTON

Ethereal thespian, cinematic sensation, and fashionmuse responds to the Eccentric Glamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

One of my son's Aertex* shirts, his father's corduroy jacket, adaisy chain, a Vivienne Westwood kilt, and no shoes.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

Putting a name to the condition: possibly only when you askedme to participate in this folderol, but I did have an inkling fairlyrecentiy at a Nine Inch Nails concert when I was stood on inthe mosh pit by a hobnail boot and realized that I had forgot-ten to change out of the toweling slippers from the hotel.

Were your parents horrified?

Given that my general father could chew the hind leg off

* Aertex: Aerated fabric often deployed in UK school uniforms.

Simon Doonan

Lesage* about the best ways to tissue-wrap gold frogging, Inever reckoned they had a leg to stand on.

Are you prone to mood swings?

No, but don't tell anyone . . .

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

Naturally. Being broken into mockery at an early age by threebrothers, I learned early to bear those wounds with greatpride.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

Possibly a wool Hubert de Givenchy Pierrot dress—meaningit has a diamond print like a Pierrot costume—that is so lovelythat even the fact that it reeks of mothballs—and could that beold lady pee?—won't stop me wearing it.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

No need to trade. I happily cultivate at least two entirelyseparate and distinct and yet mix 'n' match perfecdy integratedlives. I'm finding it hard to work out which could best be de-scribed as glam eccentric and which dreary conformity. TheHighland Hospice charity shops that dot every village in thenorth of Scotland are where I live out my Miss Marple comesto Warmington-on-Sea fantasies. Invariably more enticing inevery way than the drudgery of the high chrome road.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When it is perpetrated with the aid of a solemn looking glass.

* Lesage: Legendary Paris-based house of couture beading and embroidery.

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

My fearless and sensationally chic (pronounced "chick") grand-mother and my nine-year-old daughter.

Do men think you are hot?

Of course they do—whether they admit it or not.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

The death knell: witless good taste.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

In a shallow grave of sand, done up to the nines in a hugeflowery chiffon dress stretched out like a sail on a beach in theHebrides, pecked to pieces by birds.

CHAPTER 2

A Small Quantity of Spit

Guarding your self-esteem,not to mention your maquillage

Ding-dong! It's 1963.I am eleven years old and an Avon* lady is standing onour doorstep.

I stare at the Avon lady with a look of starstruck awe. I amdelirious. I am beside myself. I have lived a life of quiet des-peration, longing for this day. I've seen these women on TVand in my mother's magazines and dreamed of the day whenone of them would ding-dong our front door, even though wehave a door knocker.

These emissaries of beauty seem to me to exist on a mytho-

* Note to the good people of Avon and all their customers: The incident I amabout to relate took place almost half a century ago and was, I am quite sure,far from representative. The Avon of today is a wonderful dynamic companydeserving of nothing but unqualified respect. In other words, please don'tsue me, good people of Avon. I would ask you instead to look upon thisanecdote as a bit of glamorous and eccentric free promotion.

logical level. They are deities. They offer a promise of glamourto the unglamorous. What could be more godly than that?Like wandering apostles, the Avon ladies arrive uninvited atpeople's houses, bearing gifts and dispensing life-changing ad-vice about beauty and skin care.

I am palpitating. My mother is already the most glamorouswoman in our street. Imagine how insanely more fabulous shewill be after getting beauty tips from a bona fide Avon lady!

Something about this Avon lady gives me pause. Themiddle-aged woman who is now standing before me, beads ofsweat accumulating on her powdery mustache, looks nothinglike the brittle beauties I have seen in the Avon ads. She isbuilt more like a peasant laborer than a spokeslady.

I decide that this is a good thing. Even at this young age,and despite living in a household with two mentally ill people,I am a cockeyed optimist, especially when it comes to mat-ters of beauty and style. Rather than be turned off by herappearance, I opt to see it as a positive indicator. Clearly thisless than attractive Avon lady has been ordained because ofher incredible expertise rather than her looks. It seems safeto assume that her beauty tips might be twice as magically ef-fective as those dispensed by a more lovely Avon lady. At theend of the day, she's an Avon lady and that's good enoughfor me.

My mother Betty is in the kitchen. She is re-creating arecipe that she has clipped from a ladies' magazine. It seems toinvolve studding a large hunk of ham with a rainbow of fruitsand vegetables using colored toothpicks.

Food is going through a very strange phase. Though thebarbaric mudlike British cuisine is still the norm—shepherd'spie, bubble and squeak, gravy, overcooked greens etc.—Betty'smagazines are making strenuous efforts to toss a bit of col-

orful joie de vivre onto the dreary postwar landscape. Vividpresentation and psychedelic garnishings are now de rigueur.Nothing emerges from Betty's kitchen without the additionof tinned pineapple chunks, chopped Jell-O, maraschino cher-ries, or sliced tomatoes. After years of being shot in black andwhite, food has now switched to Technicolor.

Though she does not yet know it, the same is about to hap-pen to Betty.

"Mum, quick! It's urgent. A lady is here to see you!"

"Oh, Christ! Now what?"

Betty Doonan rolls her eyes, sighs, exhales, and puts downher cigarette. This entails placing the burning object not in anashtray but rather standing it in the vertical Cape Canaveralposition on the window ledge in front of the sink. Here it willslowly smolder until she comes back to reclaim it, or not.

This is a disastrous wartime habit, which Betty Doonan hasnever managed to kick, but it gives her the air of a film noirheroine. There is a rationale behind it. The vertical cigaretteburns slower than one that is placed at the conventional forty-five-degree angle in an ashtray, allowing the smoker to extendits life span. Betty's complex life—working two jobs, cookingfor lodgers and crazy relatives while maintaining a high quo-tient of eccentric glamour in her personal appearance—makesit extremely difficult for her to keep track of all these smol-dering fags. As a result, they are to be found in every room.It is nothing short of a miracle that she has never burned thehouse down. This is due, no doubt, to the presence of flame -retardant chemicals in the filter.

In her white skirt, white blouse, and cork wedges, Betty,the only glamorous eccentric for miles, strides toward the front

door. She has that God-I-hope-it's-not-the-police-calling-about-your-uncle-Dave-again look on her face.

The visitor is not a policeman. Betty is momentarily re-lieved.

"Afon callink!" pants the Avon lady in a voice that is theantithesis of American perkiness and reveals that she is not onlywinded but Polish.

"Can I help you?" says Betty, sounding slightly posh.

"No, but I sink I can help you," says the Avon lady with anair of confidence that takes Betty by surprise.

The Polish Avon lady begins her spiel. After a brief overviewof the pure undiluted majesty that is Avon—all spoken in thatdeadpan Eastern European voice—the Avon lady begins toelaborate on Betty's shortcomings.

"Your makeup, she is very old hats," says the thickset visitor,sticking a large patent leather court shoe inside our front door.She is an imposing woman with a dramatic sweeping Carvel ofchampagne blond hair. She has elected to further compensatefor her unfeminine physique by wearing a pink sweater set.

"Thanks a lot," says Betty Doonan loud enough so thatmy blind aunt Phyllis can hear. Phyllis often stands in the hall-way and listens when Betty shoos away Jehovah's Witnesses orBoy Scouts. Occasionally a haunted-looking gypsy lady bangson the door and tries to sell Betty clothespins. When Bettydeclines, the gypsy lady always curses her and spits into theprivet hedge near the front gate.

Phyllis is always very amused by this. Phyllis is Betty's bestfriend and favorite lodger: Betty takes pleasure in entertainingher with her droll wit and her cheekiness.

"I vill update you and make you look like Leez Taylor."

Phyllis supresses a chuckle.

"I don't want to look like Liz Taylor," says my mother, who

spends a great deal of time and energy trying to look as muchlike Lana Turner as possible. Betty's look is pure 1940s. This ispart of what makes her stand out from the other housewives.While all the other Doreens and Mabels are sporting the ro-coco perm of the 1950s—think Queen Elizabeth—Betty is stillwearing her hair in the Bette Davis in Now, Voyager upwardscroll. Impregnable to new trends, Betty has found a signaturestyle and sworn allegiance.

Phyllis titters while toying with the ears of Lassie, her SeeingEye dog. She is enjoying watching her bossy best friend beingtaken down a peg or two.

I am in full agreement with the Avon lady. It's the 1960s.It's time Betty started swinging and waved good-bye to herhigh hairdo. Some of my friends at school have commentedunfavorably on my mother's overpainted Crawford lip line. It'stime to get with it.

"I could do so much viz you . . . ," says the Avon lady co-quettishly.

"I suppose so . . . ," says Betty with an unfamiliar compliantair.

"You shall have a/k// consultation!" says the Avon lady.

I jump up and down with excitement.

We all repair to the living room where the light is deemedto be optimal for Betty's transformation.

Panting heavily, the new arrival removes her pleated rainhood and plastic raincoat and hands them to my mother witha regal air.

The Avon lady looks around our living room as if inspectinga crime scene or scouting location for a seance.

"Please lie down," she says, pointing to an armchair, andwe realize that what she actually meant to say was, "Please sitdown." Aunt Phyllis giggles audibly and picks up her knitting.

Betty sits, crosses her legs, of which she is justifiably proud,and adjusts her bracelets. An air of tentative anticipation lightsup her face. The Avon lady pulls up an occasional table, whirlsa protective plastic cape around Betty, and begins to unpackher various products and applicators.

"First let me give you some advice from zuh heart," shesays, adopting a tone of momentous woman-to-woman sincer-ity. "Never ever never leave ze house wizzout ze pancake!"

"Oh, no! I never wear pa—"

"Call me Irene," says the Polish Avon lady, pronouncing it"eye-ree-knee," as she begins sponging thick pancake of a tan-gerine hue onto Betty's face and neck. She uses a vigoroussmearing motion that distorts Betty's face.

My sister and I begin to titter.

Lassie thinks the Avon lady might be harming Betty and letsout a few barks.

"Vatch it!" says Irene to all three of us. She seems to haveno fear of large dogs, or anything else, for that matter. She for-bids us to look or comment until the whole transformation iscomplete. We bury our heads in Lassie's fur.

"Much better!" says Irene, leaning back to admire herhandiwork, "Your skin vaz pale. You need ze warmth. Nowsomething for attracting ze mens! Rouge!"

The notion of combining orange pancake with a liberal ap-plication of red rouge seems daring and different. My anticipa-tion grows.

Pale pink lips are applied. Betty normally wears red lips inthe aforementioned film noir bow. This conceals that fact thather top lip is not quite as large as she might prefer it to be.Irene denounces this practice and informs Betty that from nowon she will be following her God-given lip line.

"Now comes ze eyes," intones Irene, who keeps up a con-

stant stream of commentary. Aunt Phyllis is knitting away andsmiling from ear to ear. "Oh, I wish I could see what she'sdoing to you," she says.

"Me too," says Betty, who has twice attempted to look inthe mirror but was forcibly restrained on both occasions.

"No yet," says Irene, who is sharpening her kohl pencilwith a small Eastern European-looking penknife.

Betty normally accentuates her dark brown eyes with asoftly applied pencil. I always admire the skill with which sheblends and smudges the shadow around her deep eye sockets.I have watched her do this many times and looked forward tothe day when I might give it a whirl on my own eyes.

Irene has a different approach. Having sharpened her kohlpencil to a brutal point, she begins to gouge it round and roundBetty's eyes. The Liz Taylor/Cleopatra moment has arrived.

"That's a little painful," says Betty. Aunt Phyllis drops herknitting. My sister and I look at each other in shock. This isthe first time any of us have ever heard my mother admit thatanything caused her pain. She prides herself on her ability torise above even the most extreme forms of physical discom-fort. North Irish Betty always claimed that childbirth was notpainful at all and that other women, especially Englishwomen,made far too big a deal about it.

"You must suffer if you want to be beautiful," says Phylliswith glee. Phyllis is enjoying the fact that her cocky landlady,my mother, has lost all control of the situation. I can tell thatshe is looking forward to rehashing this debacle with Bettyover endless glasses of homemade turnip wine.

After each application, Irene places an untouched jar or tinof that particular product on the occasional table. Clearly sheis hoping for a big sale. Betty lights a cigarette to steady hernerves. Smoke wreaths both client and professional. Irene, in

the full flood of her creativity, seems unfazed by this. She issmoke resistant.

Irene rummages in her bag of tricks.

"You must change your eyelids, my dear," she says, extri-cating an eye shadow from her stock, holding it aloft, and de-claiming, "Thees is your color."

Nobody can accuse Irene of being tentative or perfunctory.Eye shadow in one hand, applicator in the other, she is attack-ing Betty's upper lids as if her life depended on it.

"We must not be stingy with ourselves," she says, as shereaches for the pot of color time and time again, adding,"You will buy six of these, which is lasting you ze rest of zuhmonth."

"We'll see ..." croaks Betty, in a halfhearted attempt toreassert herself.

"Ha! Perfect!" says Irene with a self-satisfied air. She standson tiptoes, leans back, and admires the whole effect. My sisterand I stand up and ready ourselves for the formal unveiling.

"Not yet!" barks Irene, causing us both to flinch. We arenot used to being yelled at. Our parents rarely have occasionto discipline us. Betty controls our behavior through her ownbrand of snobbery. Her technique is quite clever. She estab-lished early on in our lives that there were only two types ofpeople in the world. We were free to join either group.

There were the losers who pick their noses, hurl abuse atpassers-by, and tread dog poo into the house. These individu-als, according to Betty, "have no bloody savoir faire." Thesepeople will spend their lives eating greasy fish and chips andworking in factories. They contribute nothing to the world:"They take in oxygen and give out carbon dioxide."

And then there are the fabulous people, the life enhancers,people who, even if they work in the same factories, always some-

how manage to look great, smell great, and never arrive at otherpeople's houses empty-handed. These are the people who areeating ham festooned with pineapple chunks. These people arecommitted to the concept of gracious living. These are our people.

Betty Doonan, city of contrasts. Despite her rough back-ground and lack of education, Betty is a self-invented glamor-ous eccentric with an unconventional worldview. While sheloves skewering the pomposity and conventionality of the En-glish middle class, she is also committed to grabbing her shareof the pineapple chunks and leaving the peat bogs behind.

Irene takes out a large and quite theatrical powder puff. Shedouses it in ivory face powder and whaps Betty's face repeatedly.

"This will fix the makeups and stops it sliding!"

Irene removes the pink plastic cape with a flourish, a la to-reador.

Finally Betty stands up. She turns to face us, and we bothgasp. Even Phyllis gasps. Betty looks in the mirror and winces.

She does not look beautiful. She looks nothing Liz Taylor.In truth, she does not look human at all. Betty looks like anearthenware garden gnome that has been hosed with Techni-color concrete and then sifted with flour.

And those eyelids. That color!

My mum hates tyrants and imperialists and mean drunks.She loathes nasty women who poach other women's husbandsand she dislikes snooty women who assume she is common be-cause she wears seamed stockings and is generally more glam-orous than the other ladies who ride the bus. And she definitelyhates anyone who does not respect the interests of her people,the people of Northern Ireland.

But there is something she hates far more than any of theabove: blue eye shadow.

Blue eye shadow is her bete noire.

Blue eye shadow is unforgivable. Blue eye shadow is con-temptible and pathetic.

If you had listened to Betty Doonan, you would havethought the wearing of powder blue eye shadow signified theend of civilization.

For Betty, eye makeup is quite simple: a metallic gray smokyeyelid, accentuated with a discreet application of mascara, madeliquid by the introduction to her cake of kohl by a small quan-tity of her own spit. A smidgen of gray eye shadow, yes, but notblue. Never bhic\

She has made her feelings on the subject known to everyonein our household at one time or another.

According to my Betty, blue eye shadow is worn by twovery different but equally disappointing groups of women.

First group: the genteel frumps. These poor, unfortunate,unassuming ladies hope, with their softly powdered lids, to re-call the innocence of cornflowers, the poetry of bluebells, andthe sincerity of forget-me-nots. These are the kind of womenwho serve little cakes on doilies. They are twee.

Group two: the rough trouts. The old boilers. The tarts.These predatory harlots wear lashings of wet-looking blue eyeshadow in a vain attempt to camouflage their sin and assumesome of the floral innocence of group one.

I fully expect Betty to fly across the room and strangle Irenewith her bare hands.

She stares at her shimmering blue lids, unable to speak.

How thin her lips are! Without that Joan Crawford bow,Betty looks as if she has forgotten to pop in her top teeth.

But the real horror is the maquillage itself. There is no wayto describe how grotesque that blue looks against the orangepancake, the rouge, and the pale pink lipstick. This dissonantcolor combination—orange, red, pink, and blue—seems more

appropriate for one of Betty's culinary triumphs. As part of hercooking-with-color regime, Betty sometimes alternates slicedtomatoes with tinned peach halves. Instead of transforming mymother into Liz Taylor, Irene has transformed my mother intoa Saturday night supper.

Betty has, for the first time in my short life, actually brokena sweat. I can see a moist patch growing under her arm. This isvery unusual. Betty never sweats. (She uses a foolproof productcalled Odorono—as in, "odor? oh no!"—a product so strongthat, even after riding her white bicycle up the steep hill to ourhouse, she never shows any sign of perspiration.)

Before you can say Liz Taylor Hilton Fisher Burton, Irenebegins her sales pitch. Having dragged herself up our hill andthen spent the last hour transforming my mother into a visionof hideousness, she now feels entirely justified in strong-armingBetty into buying as much product as possible.

Irene totals up the cost of all the products, which Betty isunder no obligation to buy but which she would be out of hermind not to.

Betty is standing speechless in front of the mirror.

The pushy Irene prattles on.

"Do you have any makeup removal pads?" says Betty, inter-rupting Irene midspiel.

"If you buy all zis makeups I give you ze pads for free," saysIrene, her accent worsening now that her sales pitch is reachingthat make-or-break point.

"I only want the pads."

Irene glares at Betty. Anger twitches across her face. Thisemotion is closely followed by sadness. The unfolding scenariois obviously familiar to Irene. She ding-dongs her way into agiven house, disfigures the occupant with her heavy-handedcosmetics application, and is then rejected.

Simon Doonan

"Please buy a lipstick!" begs the world's worst Avon lady.

"Lemme think about it," says Betty and ushers her throughthe hallway toward the front door.

As she is helping Irene into her plastic raincoat, Narg burstsout of the room where she eats and sleeps and listens to theradio for hours with mad Uncle Ken.

Narg is Betty's nemesis, her deranged and belligerent mother-in-law. My sister and I gave her the name Narg because it wasGran backwards and because it was shorter that Genghis Khan.

Narg focuses on Betty's face.

"Oh! You look loverly today!" she says without a trace ofhostility and irony.

This is the last straw.

"I left a cigarette burning!" Betty abandons Irene and boltsin the direction of the kitchen.

My sister and I watch as Irene trudges off down the path.She pauses just at the place where the gypsy spits. She turnsand waves.

"I come in month viz ze new makeups."

Betty cannot hear her. Betty is already hanging over thesink, scrubbing furiously to erase the curse of the Avon lady.

As I look back at that fateful afternoon, I feel vaguely homicidaltoward that Avon lady.

The thickset lady from Krakow was able to sow seeds ofdoubt where none had previously existed. She mined Betty'spsyche and found a horrid truffle of low self-esteem and self-doubt. She then proceeded to dig it up and grate it all overBetty.

Somehow this unlikely character managed to touch a nerveof insecurity Betty Doonan, my mother, the toughest, most

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

stylish broad in Reading, the only woman I ever saw wear gold-flecked rubber galoshes over her spike-heeled shoes.

Betty's vintage glamour was timeless and fabulous and itsuited her. It was singular and it had an eccentric vintage ap-peal. Twenty years out of date, but so what? Betty had a retro-chic look that she had honed over decades until it fit her like aglove. Only when it was obliterated did we come to realize thefull extent of its pure majesty.

As you set off on your journey toward glamorous eccen-tricity, you must be on your guard for charlatans and lunatics.Theirs is an age-old technique deployed by "beauty experts"the world over. First marinate your victim with a bunch ofvaguely insulting observations. Then, when the flesh has soft-ened a bit, dive in for the kill with all fangs bared.

You have been warned.

"Being corseted down to seventeen inchesin a flowing black silk riding habit and

sitting sidesaddle and jumping horsesshows a real dedication to glamour, no?v

PROFILE

DITA VON TEESE

The stylish queen of contemporary burlesqueand artistic striptease responds to the EccentricGlamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

Vintage 1940s lounging pajamas in magenta satin, chinoise stylewith very wide legs. When I'm relaxing at home, I love pajamasand robes . . . but the glamorous variety only, no plaid fleece,and no sweatpants!

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I was in first grade and I was angry that I wasn't allowedto wear my fancy special occasion dress to school. I couldn'tunderstand why I couldn't wear something frilly and feminineand pretty every day! I began to plot my womanhood ... Ipromised myself I would dress like the femmes fatales I saw inthe old movies my mother and I watched together. I also usedto steal my mother's lingerie to try on. I became somewhat

obsessed with lingerie. To me, it was and still is a symbol ofwomanhood and femininity.

Were your parents horrified?

When I was a teenager, they might have thought I was a littlecrazy for going out dressed the way I did—vintage hats anddresses paired with corsets mostiy. Sometimes I would even dressin man drag Dietrich style. When I was eighteen, I rememberbeing inspired by an erotic novel by Anai's Nin and I wanted todress like a lesbian in 1930s Paris, so I found a vintage tuxedo,combed my hair into marcel waves, and trotted out the door,Bakelite cigar holder hanging from my burgundy lips. They wereprobably more amused by me than anything, not horrified.

Are you prone to mood swings?

I'm not a very moody person; I'm generally quite agreeableand pleasant. The only time I'm really hard to be around iswhen I'm stripped of my glamour!

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

Sure, all the time! I live for being considered unusual! The kissof death with regard to style and chic is to "follow" fashion, orto try to fit in with the norm.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

Perhaps one of the many pairs of shoes I have that are impos-sible to walk in. And when I say impossible, I mean it. We'renot talking about six-inch heels, we're talking about shoes thatare literally meant to be crawled in! And I suppose some of mytightest corsets might be considered eccentric or shocking bysome people.

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

Never! Not even for one second. Dressing for glamour is whatI've dreamed of since I was a little girl. It's something that isdeep within me, a true love of glamour and what it can do forany woman if she wants it!

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

I don't think it really does. Even when I see someone whosestyle I don't care for, I still appreciate that she is wearing whatshe likes regardless of what anyone thinks. There is always someidiot calling some other person an idiot, isn't there?

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

The Marchesa Casati. I would like to give every person whothinks she is so risque and so eccentric a book called InfiniteVariety so she can read about what eccentricity really is andwho was living it in a big way almost a hundred years ago! "Iwant to be a living work of art!" the Marchesa said.

I also love Empress Elizabeth of Austria, who seemed prettyeccentric to me too. Being corseted down to seventeen inchesin a flowing black silk riding habit and sitting sidesaddle andjumping horses shows a real dedication to glamour, no?

Do men think you are hot?

Some of them do, but you know, I wouldn't dare generalize.Everyone has a different idea of what is sexy, and I can appreci-ate and respect that. And I care more about winning over thewomen and inspiring them to dress up and embrace glamourthan I do about making men think I'm hot. I'm a girls' girl—Ithink that the men aren't enough of a challenge!

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

When a magazine or photographer wants to photograph mewith no makeup on, or in casual clothes. I think about womenlike Marlene Dietrich and Marilyn Monroe. They were neverstripped of their glamour. They knew better. They knew whatglamour means, and it's about the allure and enchantment ofmystery.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

Pere-Lachaise cemetery in Paris. I wouldn't want to be buriedin anything too special—I would want to make sure my favoritepieces live on and are enjoyed by someone else! But perhaps itwould be the ideal time for my most extreme corset and a pairof those unwalkable heels I was talking about . . .

CHAPTER 3

What the HookersAre Wearing

The meaning ofsnakeskin culottes

Tyra Banks looks like a gorgeous marmalade cat. I swear Ican actually hear her purring. Though her cleavage-baringshowbiz glamour is fairly standard, she manages to inject a dashof glamorous eccentricity into her look by constantiy changingher wigs, weaves, and maquillage, often with a feline theme.The result is quite intimidating. It gives me an odd feeling.She is so extraordinarily and voluptuously catlike that, standingnext to her, I feel as if I've turned into a mouse or a gerbil orpossibly Linda Hunt.

Nonetheless, I am quite happy. Excited, even. My heart isbeating. The cameras are set to roll. It's 2004 and I am aboutto make my reality television debut.

I am in the running to become America's Next Top Model!

Almost. I am what they call "a guest presenter."

Tyra outlines my assignment in the crisply articulated tonesthat have become the signature of this riveting show: My taskis to teach the contestants how to dress for a "go-see"—howthese young model aspirants should present themselves whenauditioning for bookings.

As soon as the girls enter the studio, I am instructed tocommence the shenanigans by offering a gloves-off critique oftheir personal style. The contestants have been told—via Tyra-mail—to dress to express.

Action! The dozen or so hopefuls troop into view.

I am at a loss for words, but not for long.

"So you ladies are dressed for a go-see, correct?"

Collective nod.

"Precisely who are you going to see?" I continue. "I hopeit's not Anna Wintour. I have a horrible feeling it might beLarry Flynt."

Silence. They are clearly unaware of the existence of eitherVogue or Hustler or their respective editors in chief.

I realize that I am going to have to be a little more direct.

"Why are you all dressed like a bunch of strippers?" I query,in a supportive and caring sort of way, adding, "There's a dif-ference between porno and fashion, don't ya know!"

The gals tug at their tube tops and try in vain to hoist theirJuicy Couture velours up over their various areas. Clearly theyhave succumbed to the pressures of porno-chic. They havebeen unable to "say no to ho!"

Their heads remain unbowed. They stare defiantly at me.

To better make my point, I single out a young lady calledCatie for special consideration. Catie is wearing—I use theword loosely—a skimpy halter top and a crotch-length denimskirt. On her feet are black patent porno pumps with six-inchheels. The piece de resistance? Black leg warmers with stirrups.They hook under the insteps of her shoes and rise to within

about two inches of Cade's skirt hem. Suffice it to say, theoverall look is not Jackie Kennedy.

"What words would you use to best describe your outfit?" Iask, in a halfhearted attempt to be inclusive and interactive.

Catie shrugs.

"You need to go down to the docks, see what all the hook-ers are wearing and avoid it," I advise, eliciting guffaws andfrantic thumbs-ups from the tension-mongering producers.

A large tear rolls down Catie's cheek. The camera zooms infor the kill.

(At the time I felt horrible and suspected that I might haveparticipated in the culture of bullying that drives trash TV.Later my guilt subsided when an assistant producer informedme that Catie is the chief cryer of the series. As my old Irishgranddad used to say, "Her bladder is awful near her eye-balls.")

"Catie, why are you crying?" I ask.

"Because you just [sob] called me a ho [sob] on nationaltelevision."

At that very moment, thanks to good old Catie, I have astartling insight. Catie's tears, I realize, are profoundly signifi-cant. They reveal a shocking truth about these poor ingenues.

These gals do not understand that clothes have meaning.

They were told to "dress to express," and that is what theydid, randomly and without any sense that they might have theoption to express something other than slutty availability or ageneral commitment to the porn industry.

I feel bad for them. They are ill equipped to survive in thebig city because they simply do not understand the significanceof any of their fashion choices. Unless I intervene, these galsare all doomed to go through life dressed like a bunch of third-rate hoochie dancers, all the while thinking that they look per-fectly normal and respectable.

Maybe I can be the one to open their eyes. I decide to giveit a shot.

"Girls! Girls! Listen to me," I command, in a stern MissJean Brodie voice. "I did not say that Catie is a ho. I said thatshe is dressed like one."

Blank expressions.

"Don't you see, your clothing, what you choose to wearevery day, it speaks volumes about you. It is a form of nonver-bal communication! You have to make sure that your clothingis in sync with who you are."

From the puzzled looks on the faces of these attentionjunkies, I realize that this is a notion that has never ever everoccurred to them before. They are marching through theworld, shopping, shopping, shopping, impulsively wearing allkinds of freaky ensembles, and never once have they stoppedto think that fashion might be playing such a powerful role inall of our lives.

I continue: "What you wear says everything about who youare. Long before you open your mouth, people are drawingconclusions about you based on your appearance. If you dresslike a stripper, Catie, people will assume that you are a stripper,which is okay only if you are in fact a stripper."

"What about your outfit?" says a fiery little troublemakercalled Jenascia.

Suddenly I feel rather self-conscious. All eyes are on me.Nervously, I take inventory of my ensemble: a gaudy PaulSmith floral print shirt, skinny Prada pants, a Gucci belt, andsuede Dolce & Gabbana Beatie boots. On my pinkie is aboulder-sized gold Dior ring. I realize, with a surge of relief,that my clothing choices are completely and utterly in syncwith moi! One glance at me, even from across the street, andyou can tell exactly what you are dealing with: a label-crazed

gay bloke—mutton dressed as lamb—who understands theutter pointlessness of growing old gracefully and still thinks heis living in mod London circa 1966.

"We're not here to talk about me," I say, just as the directoryells, "Cut!"

We're done. I throw on my knee-length belted RudolphNureyev 1960s Burberry trench and sweep out of the studio,safe in the knowledge that Tyra's gals still have no idea whatthe hell I am talking about.

In fairness to my semiclad chums on America's Next Top Model,they are not the only perpetrators of this particular crime. Allover America, people are making kamikaze choices about whatto wear. They are misrepresenting the goods. They are lettingtheir clothes write checks that their personalities cannot cash.

What about you?

Are you a nun in showgirl's clothing? Are your outfits tele-graphing misinformation about your personality?

Breaking the Code

To better illustrate my point, permit me to expound on themeaning and significance of some fashion basics.

Let's start with an easy one: the color red.

Red plays a key role in the development of eccentric glam-our. Red is the catalyst that can take you—Gypsy, Existentialist,or Socialite—from dull spectator to star attraction, but only ifyou use her wisely. (Colors, like ships, are female.)

Red is wild. She is unsettling. She intrigues. Wear red andother women will assume that you are a predatory vixen who

is out to steal their husbands and suck the blood of their chil-dren. If you think I'm exaggerating, please remember that it'sthe red Lexus that always gets the speeding ticket. Wear redand people will take notice.

The color red is synonymous with everything racy andoutrageous. Before you buy that gorgeous red velvet cocktailfrock, keep in mind the following: Red is the color of wickeddivorcees and Chinese opium dens.

However, if you wear her right—harness that crazy bitch!—the color red has genuine allure.

Having inveighed against the slutty styles du jour, I wouldlike to take a moment to clarify the difference between lookingcheap and horrible—see the Evas of Chapter 1—and lookingalluring.

Allure is timeless. Allure is smoldering beauty and sensual-ity, as opposed to overt pastie-twirling sexual availability. Allureis that irresistible, mysterious charm which never fails to mes-merize the viewer, regardless of gender. Allure is about cross-ing your legs, as opposed to spreading them as you clamberout of that Lexus, sans panties.

The clothing of Azzedine Alaia has genuine allure. Allure isJeanne Moreau. Allure is Cyd Charisse. (Excuse the old schoolexamples, but, in the age of Britney and Lindsay, allure hasfallen by the wayside.) Red can give you an eccentric and stylishallure without the sleaze.

A beautifully cut red bustier dress will convey the idea thatyou are unpredictable, crazy, and louche but not in a tawdryParis Hilton kind of way.

Test the waters with a pair of blood red, over-the-top, strappyhigh-heeled shoes. Team them with a simple "secretarial" skirtand blouse, pick up your purse, and hit the streets. Brace your-self: Remember what the ruby slippers did for Dorothy anddon't blame me if you end up at four in the morning doing the

tango with a distinguished older gentleman who is graying atthe temples and wants to whisk you off to Argentina.

Apply extreme caution when wearing red in the workplace.Even a simple demure red outfit—a cashmere twinset—canturn you into the office lightning rod. If you are crafty, you canuse this to your advantage. To gain the upper hand in an up-coming negotiation, try wearing a flaming red silk blouse andpainting your nails red.

Warning: Scientists have shown that the color red causes arise in blood pressure. Don't wear your scalpel-cut red frockaround people in fragile health: You might kill someone. Whichbrings us to black and the wearing thereof.

Black is a great deal more complex than red. Saint, aca-demic, devil, or punk, black has so many dissonant connota-tions, all of them extreme. The associations run the gamutfrom Maria von Trapp to Sid Vicious and back again.

First and foremost, the wearing of black will give you anedge, hence its popularity with rebels and reprobates.

Rockers have always worn black to suggest that they mightbe in league with the devil. This, for some strange reason, isseen as a positive thing. In this particular milieu, black imbuesthe wearer with instant hip and alternative cred. Look at it thisway, if Ozzy Osbourne had worn a pink jumpsuit when he bitthe head off that bat, people would probably have laughed andmistaken him for Rip Taylor.

Existentialists take note: Black can start a revolution. Thewearing of black will add to the drama of your transformativeodyssey. For maximum effect, choose from the following: ablack leather James Dean jacket; a pair of black toreador pants;a black jersey Martha Graham dress with a terrifyingly hugecircular skirt, or how about a pair of black crocodile thighboots with tassels on the zippers?

But what if you desire to minimize the chaos in your life?

Glamorous eccentrics with children, lodgers, or unruly petsmay well be looking to restore order rather than create disorder.If you wish to intimidate or subdue those around you, blackclothing—especially anything with epaulets—is your best friend.The fascists of the last century—in England they were called theBlackshirts—wore black to intimidate the unruly masses. It maywell do the same for you. Caution: If you find yourself jackboot-ing through the living room in order to get the kids to do theirhomework, this is an indication that you may have gone too far.

Whether you are a Gypsy, an Existentialist, or a Socialite,black is profoundly practical. A black coat is probably about themost useful garment you can own. It doesn't show the dirt andinstantly covers up a hastily assembled less interesting outfit,allowing you to project eccentric glamour with the minimumof effort.

Keep a diverse selection of black coats in your hall closet.As you leave the house, you can select the one that best fits therole you wish to play.

Want to look pious? Try an itchy wool puritan coat.

If you are feeling more like a hired assassin or a spy, beltyourself into a classic trench.

A black, tiered highwayman cape will make you look ro-mantic and swashbuckling. (Not recommended for munchkinsunder five feet.)

Before we move from black to white, here's a hot tip fordumb blonds who are interviewing for a job in the field ofnuclear physics or, for that matter, in the field of anything. Aspreviously stated in Chapter 1, black is great for making youappear more intelligent and thoughtful than you are. Throw ona black turtleneck and your IQ mysteriously appears to rise.

This is not the case with white. White speaks more tomoney than intelligence.

White suggests that you are fabulously wealthy and do notwork for a living. Just as people wear black to hide grime andstains, people wear white to demonstrate to the world thatthey are very, very, very unconcerned about sky-high dry-cleaning bills. Wearing a white Chanel suit says, "I am a verywealthy woman who has never scrubbed out a toilet and, Godwilling, never will." Rappers, both male and female, love towear white: it shows off their diamond jewelry and suggeststhat the wearer may have transcended the grime of the ghettoand has no intention of returning.

A caution to white folks who wear white: White shoes andbags, while perfectly lovely on an Afro-Socialite such as AliciaKeys, invariably transform a Caucasian female into a nurse. Ifthe white lady in question is bejeweled and Chaneled she runsthe risk of being mistaken not just for a regular nurse, but foran extremely wealthy nurse.

Regarding the nurse curse: Back in the '60s, white was ahuge part of the French futurist movement (think Courregesand Cardin). A stiff white pique micromini A-line dress—wornwith white go-go boots—was the grooviest, most insanelyfabulous thing a gal could own ... for a microsecond. I onceasked Emanuel Ungaro—a disciple of Courreges and a playain this scene during his youth—why the '60s futurist explosionwas so short-lived. "C'est un peu orthopedique, non?" was hisrevealing reply.

Though white can be problematique for eccentrically glam-orous females, the same is not true for the male. Think of JohnTravolta in that fabulous white suit in Saturday Night Feverl

I have a pal called Igor—a Russian—who wears nothing butwhite. He is tall and straight (!) and handsome. A recreationalnudist and yoga devotee, aristocratic Igor is an uninhibited,glamorously eccentric bloke who does not have the macho in-

hibitions of the typical American dude. In a sea of conformity,he is a beacon of individuality. His handsome idiosyncraticbearing makes him irresistible to both men and women.

I am very jealous of Igor. We short males do not have thesame carte blanche. When a little guy like me wears a whitesuit, it's only a matter of time before somebody starts shouting,"Ze plane! Ze Plane!"

Breaking the Code cont. . . .

One of the most vaunted trends of recent years has been the"volume" trend: big skirts! Billowing capes! All hail the queen!Her Majesty is coming through!

What do these larger-than-life garments signify to the on-looker?

A wide Prada or vintage dirndl skirt screams, "I am impor-tant. I am Marie Antoinette." A capacious taffeta cocoon yells,"I own everything in sight! Get the hell out of the way!" In-timidatingly voluminous clothes suggest that you are deposedroyalty, or at least an insane person who believes he or she isdeposed royalty.

Wearing a big wide skirt can have a practical application. Itis highly recommended for people who are in a hurry and livein crowded towns with narrow streets. You become, courtesyof your garments, a human snowplow.

At the other end of the scale we have infantile clothing: tinychildlike items, Mary Janes teamed with scaled-up versions ofdolly dresses and rompers. This sends one message and onemessage only: It suggests in no uncertain terms that the weareris resistant to the demands of adult life. Think Courtney Lovecirca 1998.

For an adult to be thought of as infantile is not a goodthing: People will attribute the worst aspects of childhood toyou. They will assume that you are prone to petulance andvarious other idiocies, including foot stamping and drooling.Think early Courtney Love again.

The adoption of eccentric glamour requires that you dem-onstrate a certain adult competence. Please do not buy clothesat OshKosh, even if you can fit into them. Yes, I know thatEdie Sedgwick, Warhol's eternal style icon, wowed the fashionpundits of her day with her innovative microkilts—purchasedfrom kiddies' school uniform shops—but look what happenedto her.

Though infantile dressing is provocative and unsettling, itcannot compare with the wearing of animal skins. When youdon the pelt of a particular animal—snake, beaver, marmoset—the effect on the viewer is dramatic or, as Flavor Flav alwayssaid on his reality show Flavor of Love, "dramatical." You willinstantly and shockingly be perceived as having the same traitsas your chosen varmint. Dramatical, nori>

The wearing of moleskin says, "I am soft and velvety andmysterious and like to hide underground."

A mink coat says, "I'm a tough cookie. Though I may nothave the wherewithal to actually kill you, please expect to benipped on a regular basis."

The pelts of predators always give the impression that youare a man-stealing, window-smashing home wrecker. This alsoapplies to animal-printed fabric. The message of a leopard-printjumpsuit is clear, "I am a huntress who delights in eating theoffal of her prey."

Fox tails create the impression that you are wily. Lambskinconnotes innocence. The exception is Persian lamb or Astrakhan:The wearing of this particular pelt says, "I am a cruel bitch who

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does not care that I am wearing the skin of an unborn animal."The one common denominator? Fur always conveys theidea that you are rrrrrrrrich!

Snake goes farther: The wearing of snakeskin not only sug-gests wealth, it gives you an air of venomous mystery. Thebiblical connotations of the snake—combined with the preva-lence of snake phobia—make it an unwise choice for religiousoccasions such as weddings and christenings. The sight of youquaffing champagne and wiggling about in a snake-print cock-tail sheath will prove very distracting to the average priest orrabbi.

A Devilishly Provocative Red Thong

As now must surely be crystal clear, your wardrobe choicesconstitute a clear and explicit form of nonverbal communica-tion. People will make all kinds of assumptions, grotesque andotherwise, about who you are based on what you wear. Theycan and will judge a book by its cover.

There are only two things you can do with this information:You can use it either to conceal or to reveal. To obfuscate or tocommunicate. To camouflage or to walk boldly into the spot-light, that is the question.

Though I am a staunch advocate of the latter, there are oc-casions where disguise is permissible.

If you have a sleazy criminal past and are eager to make afresh start, you must make every effort to inject a little whole-some innocence into your attire. Like Blanche DuBois in AStreetcar Named Desire, you can drape yourself in floating chif-fons and "summer furs" to obscure the sordid, desperate, fugi-tive you.

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

Like Anjelica Huston's character in The Grifters, you canwear a pristine white mother-of-the-bride suit to hide theblackness of your heart.

Like Monica Lewinsky, you can dress like a varsity ingenue,all the while entertaining crazed erotic fantasies about thecommander in chief, for whose delectation you have secretlydonned a devilishly provocative red thong.

Misrepresenting yourself through your clothing is also jus-tified if your survival is at stake. If you are trying to elude theattentions of an unwanted sociopathic suitor, you may opt todisfigure yourself with an oversize Coogi sweater and a bubblewig. It may even behoove you to leave your legs unshaved.Think Amy Sedaris in Strangers with Candy.

If the suitor in question is particularly persistent, you mayfind it necessary to make yourself even more repellant: Stick-onboils and warts can be purchased at most finer novelty/jokeshops.

I hope life has not catapulted you on the kind of trajectorywhere you feel it necessary to deploy this kind of duplicity.

I hope you can take the path of righteousness and tell it likeit is.

I hope you can reveal all and use your appearance to expressthe glamorous, eccentric, God-given, and essential you.

Before you make any purchase—big or small—take a mo-ment to consider the meaning and significance of what you arebuying. Keep in mind that each and every blouse and pocket-book has the potential to communicate something horriblyfatal or utterly fabulous about you.

If you get confused and frustrated, simply take a walk downto the docks, fill your lungs with fresh salty air, and take a long,hard look at what the hookers are wearing.

aI love the simplicity of

the Muslim white wrap for burial,

especially after my colorful life"

PROFILE

IMAN

The first black supermodel, philanthropist, entre-preneur, the stuff of fashion legend, married to aman who spent many years wearing a feather boa—the greatest glamorous eccentric male of all time,Mr David Bowie—responds to the Eccentric Glamourquestionnaire.

What are you wearing?

My at-home uniform: a red cashmere Halston caftan.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

At the age of twelve when I looked for a Missoni print inCairo . . . which I did find and paired it with white tights andlarge Jackie O. white sunglasses.

Were your parents horrified?

Of course, but that was the point!

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Are you prone to mood swings?

Isn't everyone? I am very suspicious of people who aren't.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I can't remember! But as Oscar Wilde said: "To love oneself isthe beginning of a life-long romance."

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

A long, backless patchwork suede dress—very Cleopatra Jones.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

God, NO! How boring. I leave that to all those poor starletswho hire "stylists." We are a vanishing tribe; nevertheless, weare much needed.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When you pay attention to what other people think, or whenyou pare it down. I say commit1.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Verushka now and, of course, always Isabella Blow.

Do men think you are hot?

I know they do—especially the ones with great taste.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

When the tabloid fashion police don't get it and allocate you to"when bad clothes happen to good people."

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I would like to be cremated and my ashes scattered from thehighest point in Bali . . . but being a Muslim, it might not hap-pen. I love the simplicity of the Muslim white wrap for burial,especially after my colorful life.

CHAPTER 4

Freud's Handbag

Nobody wants an old clutch

Eccentric glamour is about not toeing the line. It's abouttaking a walk on the wild side. It's about swimmingagainst the tide.

As a card-carrying glamorous eccentric, you must find newand original ways to break free from the herd.

If everyone is going blond, dye your hair dark brown, or letit go gray.

If the magazines tout thigh boots, buy ankle boots, and ifyou cannot find ankle boots, buy thigh boots and cut them off.

If sushi is hot, eat offal.

If orange becomes the new chartreuse, then start wearingcerise.

Keep moving the goalposts. Be utterly relentless.

Busting a new taboo may be far easier than you think.There's no need to look far. For example, there could be a great

opportunity lurking on the top shelf of your closet. I'm talkingabout that beaten-up Prada doctor's bag circa 1998.

Dust it off, dangle it from the crook of your arm, and braceyourself for the reaction. Why? Because, believe it or not, themost transgressive, insanely provocative, shocking, attention-getting eccentrically glamorous thing any gal in the worldcould do right now, at this exact point in history, is to appear inpublic sporting an old bag.

Yes, a beaten-up, out-of-date purse!

Using the "c" word, on-the-job boozing, hairy pits, pub-lic sex, hideous halitosis, unmanicured extremities, removinga chafing bra on the bus—none of these no-nos will comeclose to causing the frisson of fascination that will be occa-sioned by the parading in public of a deja vu, has-been, un-groovy purse.

The mania for spanking-new purses is a comparatively recentphenomenon. In days of yore, ladies were happy to tote an oldbag, the life of which they prolonged with occasional oilingsand restitchings. When the lining wore out, it was replaced.When the clasp fell off, a new one was installed.

Not so today.

Handbag refreshment has, in the first decade of this newmillennium, reached some kind of sick, frenzied crescendo.Based on purse sales at Barneys, not to mention the WestAfrican street vendor who flogs knockoffs around the cornerfrom my house, the average female is now buying a new purseevery fifteen minutes.

What on earth are the ladies doing with their unwantedwrinkly old bags? At this point in time, I would have expectedto see massive slag heaps of discarded Kate Spades, Lanvins,Coaches, and Balenciagas accumulating outside every apart-ment building in every city in the entire universe. You sneaky

purseaholics! Are you eating them? Are you cutting them intostrips and blending them in the Cuisinart?

Regardless of where they are storing or secreting them, andregardless of whether it's a one-off velour Louis Vuitton num-ber that you had to wait two years for, or some squishy vinylclutch from Kmart, this demented compulsion to buy handbagafter handbag suggests the presence of a new and horrid pan-demic: These ladies are clearly suffering from hysterical acces-sory gathering syndrome, HAGS for short.

Does this compulsion have sinister psychological underpin-nings? Don't be silly. Of course it does.

According to Sigmund Freud, handbags are vaginal symbols.

It's important not to take this notion too literally. If youdream that you are frantically searching for your purse, it doesnot necessarily mean that you have mislaid your vagina.

If you are a guy and you dream that your mother is stuffingyou into her Fendi baguette, you may want to stop doing herhair or giving her facials or whatever it is that you are doingthat is producing these horrid nightmares.

If you have a recurring dream that the strap keeps break-ing on your purse, don't get too analytical: It could simplymean that you recentiy bought a really cheap purse and youare harboring a deep unconscious insecurity about the qualitythereof.

Once you accept the hypothesis that vaginas and handbags are100 percent synonymous, the world becomes a very interestingplace.

Look at that Socialite over there with her buckled and pad-locked Chloe Paddington bag: Is she transmitting a message ofchastity or of bondage?

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Look at the teeth on that Existentialist Prada zippered num-ber! Vagina dentata, anyone?

And that Gypsy with the Coach patchwork bucket shouldertote, what subconscious motivations are causing her to fiddleso obsessively with her suede fringe?

What of the celebs? Are they suffering from HAGS too?There is a tradition among red-carpet strutters to pose baglessbefore their adoring public. When Somalian supermodel Iman—a titan in the world of eccentric glamour—appears at an open-ing, she is always, fascinatingly and enigmatically, sans hand-bag. When I challenged her about her motivation a few yearsback, she was typically defiant and regal: "I think it's so muchmore glamorous to be purseless. I already have the perfectaccessories—my husband David Bowie and his bodyguard!"Who is carrying Iman's nude lip gloss? Why, the bodyguard, ofcourse.

Fortunately for retailers, most women are not in a positionto inoculate themselves against the HAGS epidemic with a lip-gloss-toting bodyguard. Au contraire, many gals are carryingseveral purses at once, suggesting a terrifying hydra of multiplepudenda.

One such person is author and former Vogue cover girlLouise de Teliga. When touring to promote her novel FashionSlaves, Louise typically arrived at book signings carrying a pinkPrada tote. Inside this capacious fleshy receptacle lurks a teensybrown grosgrain Anya Hindmarch number with a bow andtwo adorably furry brown mink pompoms.

I asked her if balls might indicate a latent castration impulse."Quite possibly," said the former cover girl with a laugh, "Atthe very least, I'm stashing a small brown vagina, with balls,inside a big pink vagina ..."

Eccentric glamour involves bucking the trends and, regard-

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

less of whether you are a Gypsy, an Existentialist, or a Socialite, itmeans developing a strong, confident contrarian point of view.

With that in mind, I strongly advise you to step off yourFreudian whirligig of handbag refreshment.

Do it now.

Allow yourself one handbag and one handbag only. Pour allyour money into one striking-but-timeless receptacle—one thatbest reflects your persona—and carry it always.

Socialites can snag the Hermes Birkin they have alwaysdreamed of.

Existentialists should carry something improbable: a Japa-nese school satchel, a provocatively conservative black patentvintage Margaret Thatcher handbag, or a defunct airline bag.If you are an Existentialist/Socialite, buy a white Birkin andpersonalize it with Magic Marker.

A Gypsy gal should cart everything around in a capaciouslyscrotal velour sac of her own making.

The key is never to change: Carry this bag morning, noon,and night.

Allowing yourself to become synonymous with an accessorycan make you more memorable and relieves you of the burdenof transference. No, not Freudian transference: I'm talkingabout transferring all your crap from one bag to another everytime you switch.

What, you may well ask, should you do with all those previ-ous, perniciously pricey Prada purses?

Girls! Let's take those old bags and put them to good use!Meet me down by South Street Seaport. We will throw allyour unwanted Louis Vuittons and Coaches into the water andcreate a fab new landfill.

We can call it HAG Island.

£.T3£J—

aI once wore a pair of jeans and sneakers

on the subway and never did that again

because of how approachable and vulnerable

that suddenly made me. A dash of eccentric

glamour gives you the power to keep the

wrong kind of men away."

PROFILE

ISABEL TOLEDO

Fashion designer, Surrealist, realist, proud Cubana,and wife of Ruben Toledo responds to the EccentricGlamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

I am wearing a pair of boxer shorts called Fellini and a fineSwiss silk rib camisole, old beat-up surfer flip-flops, and a hugeblack organdy crinoline that I whipped together last night.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

In my early teens I started to make my own clothes and putthem together with my sisters' hand-me-downs that I wouldreconfigure to fit my too-skinny frame. Plaid pants wouldbecome a skirt, corduroy minis over jeans, layered shorts,anything to appear a bit "thicker." Dancing was a big partof my Cuban immigrant social life. People would wait to seewhat I had cooked up for my weekend dance hall appearance,a charmeuse wrap dress, Chinese pajamas with high heels—all

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this at the age of twelve or thirteen. This is what gave me theconfidence to speak through clothes.

Were your parents horrified?

Mom was horrified indeed—she of the matching pocketbookand shoes—because my sisters always tried hard to look con-ventionally attractive. She insisted I was being difficult. Myfather was amused as he sat in his very proper recliner waitingfor me to appear from my room for a night out.

Are you prone to mood swings?

Clothing mood swings? Absolutely! I still wear clothes I hadin high school, so I do believe in continuity and finding oldfriends in the closet, but I enjoy changing my clothes as oftenas possible during the day. With me it can be formal in themorning, militant at midday, nostalgia in late afternoon, and auniform for night.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I live by this Oscar Wilde quotation: "When critics disagree,the artist is in accord with himself."

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

Eccentricity doesn't hang in my closet; it sits around the house.My collection of galoshes lives in the garden as a sculpturewhen not worn. A Portuguese widow's shawl lies on my couch:It's my favorite evening throw in the winter because it is asthick as fur and the hair is waterproof. An assortment of keysmy mother left behind in my house became my jewelry

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

I strongly believe my eccentricity was spawned by my abilityto the make use of whatever things were at hand at the time.I love to make do. Making do makes a great do. I once woremy hair—it's down to my waist—as a top belted into pinstripepants.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When it is being noticed. Oh, dear!

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

I have two: Joey Arias and Diana Vreeland.

Do men think you are hot?

Ruben does, and that is good enough for me! Regarding men:When I first understood the psychology of clothes, I started todress to keep the "wrong" type of guys away. But the simplerI dress, the more I get approached. I once wore a pair of jeansand sneakers on the subway and never did that again becauseof how approachable and vulnerable that suddenly made me. Abit of eccentric glamour keeps the wrong kind of men away

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

The whole concept of "being cool."

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I will levitate into nonexistence—wearing the feeling of AJR!

CHAPTER 5

Call Ghost Bustiers

Exorcising your vintage clothing

In the delirious quest to live a life of eccentric glamour, theGypsies and Existentialists among you will undoubtedly findyourselves donning dead people's clothing. I'm talking aboutsecondhand garments. Vintage.

While the typical Socialite is much too neat and prissy tobuy clothes at flea markets—she comes out in a rash just think-ing about it—you Existentialists and Gypsies do not really havea choice. Your whole point of view is contingent upon aug-menting your wardrobe with the kind of unique and eccentricpieces that can be found only at vintage emporiums.

Though I am a huge proponent of the creative recyclinginherent in vintage shopping, I would like to offer a word ofcaution. No, I'm not talking about fleas or horrid aromas. AndI'm not about to rail on for pages about the fact that much ofwhat is labeled "vintage" is merely out-of-date schlock that is

barely five years old. These issues, though burning, lack theurgency and gravitas of the one I am about to address.

I am talking about stuff of a more supernatural nature.

I'm talking about ghosts.

Think about it. How can you be so sure, when you pur-chase that taffeta mambo dress, that it is free of the energy andspirit of the former owner? How can you be sure that you arenot buying a ghostly Gucci or a haunted Halston?

The answer is, you cannot.

It happens innocently enough: You snag yourself a littlevintage Valentino—Julia Roberts picked up her Oscar in an oldVal and didn't look half bad—for the upcoming office party.You are pleased as punch. You know you will be the only galin the room thus attired. In your smug self-satisfaction youhave overlooked an important fact: The frock is completelyimpregnated with the spirit of the previous owner. It's veritablydripping with ectoplasm.

Though agnostic/atheistic in many regards, I have a healthyrespect for ghosts. Always have.

When I was twelve years old, a lady in our neighborhoodkicked the bucket. She wasn't actually much of a "lady," butthe word "lady" was randomly applied to adult females backthen.

The next day, the local housewives descended on her bun-galow, grabbing booty left and right, each claiming that variousof the deceased's personal effects had been promised to her.One particularly assiduous scavenger who, for the sake of ano-nymity, I shall refer to as Blanche, managed to nab a nice set ofteacups and an attractive floral sundress.

Blanche was shorter than the deceased. No matter; Blanchewas an expert seamstress. So before you could say "bust dart,"she had donned her wrist pincushion and, with the frock dan-

gling on a hanger in her living room doorway, embarked on ahasty alteration.

She had nearly finished pinking a full four inches off thehem (she intended to make it into what used to be called a self-belt, i.e., a belt made of the same fabric) when the garmentstarted to twitch violently on the hanger. Within seconds, apowerful poltergeist turned that tubby little frock into a de-monic funnel of whirling fabric.

Blanche screamed blue murder and ran out into the street.It took hours of soothing persiflage to persuade her to reenterher house. Two hours later, accompanied by a caring friend,she crept back inside.

"There are no spirits lurking in that frock. It was just adraft. You'll be fine after a nice cup of tea," said the unsuspect-ing pal.

Inside the house, everything was still. By the time the kettlehad boiled, a tentative normalcy had been restored. A nice cupof hot, sweet tea! This miracle beverage had always seen theBrits through the best and worst of times. This occasion was noexception. Or was it?

Blanche raised the lid of the teapot. The brew was wellsteeped and ready to be drunk. With her hand still shakingslightiy, Blanche did the honors.

"Sugar?"

"Ta, luv. I'll help meself."

The two ladies cringed slightly and smiled apologeticallyto the heavens as they realized, simultaneously, that they wereabout to drink out of the dead lady's teacups. After exchangingphilosophical glances, they raised the cups to their lips. Thisaction was closely followed by a stereo scream as both ladiesrealized that the freshly brewed tea had turned ice cold . . . inthe dead lady's cups!

Needless to say, Blanche dropped off her booty at the Sal-vation Army thrift shop the next day. The story became anurban legend in my gritty little hometown. When last heard of,Blanche had gone a bit strange and moved to an undisclosedlocation.

Why am I telling you this story?

For the last decade, I have watched couture-crazed fash-ionistas gobbling up vintage clothing with a cavalier and naivedisregard for the paranormal potential lurking in those Puccisand Fioruccis.

The truth of the matter is that spirits and ghosts of all vari-eties love a nice bit of schmatte as much as you or I. Garmentsare wondrous relics that have lingering spiritual and meta-physical ties to their original owners. Dubious? Do the words"Shroud of Turin" mean anything to you?

For those of you who think I may have lost my mind, letme reassure you that my observations are based on in-depth,rigorous scientific research. These lengthy experiments wereconducted with the aid of a professional medium named JoeTrolly. A former missionary, philosophy professor, and profes-sional roller-skating puppeteer, Mr. Trolly provides spiritual ad-vice and cosmic connection to a broad range of New Yorkers.

Our forays into the paranormal not only confirmed mydarkest suspicions, they gave me lots of great tips on how tobuy vintage without incurring the wrath of any wraiths. Mr.Trolly, a conservatively dressed, white-haired, avuncular Wizardof Oz-like bloke with a quietly flamboyant and ironic person-ality, conducted our first experiments at a Greenwich Villagevintage store named, appropriately enough, Resurrection, andlocated on the site of a former funeral parlor.

This store had some choice items of clothing with formerlyfamous owners. To Mr. Trolly I offered, for his cosmic delecta-

tion, a jacket that had been owned by Jimi Hendrix. Withouthesitation he declared this jacket to be "clean."

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he elaborated, "Itdoesn't need an exorcism. The spirit has departed without anyproblems. Jimi knew how to travel in the cosmic sense." Howtrue!

Our second experiment involved a rack of early Ossie Clarkdresses. I wasn't surprised when my medium started pickingup some histrionic vibes. Ossie, the designer for the jeunessedoree circa 1970, was knifed to death in a Joe Orton-styleboyfriend murder in 1996.

Mr. Tolly attempted to calm Ossie's agitated spirit.

"Eeeuuoooweesh! This spirit is very angry—but not aboutthe murder. He's angry at the lack of talent in the fashionworld today, and he is frantically channeling his creativitythrough today's designers—filling the horrible void—from theother side." This shockingly accurate observation (at the timeof this exorcism, vintage Ossie Clark designs were the biggestsingle influence on the pastiche-filled fashion landscape of theearly twenty-first century) neutralized any doubts I may havehad about my theory.

Mr. Trolly moved quickly to an A-line velour printed Pucciskirt. At first, I thought he was wincing at the $850 pricetag. I was just about to tell him that this was actually a verygood price for vintage Pucci when he started communicatingwith "the other side." "Very negative energy," he declared,holding the garment at arm's length, "Anyone who buys thisskirt should be warned. She will need to perform some kindof ritual, even if it's hanging the skirt out to air on a washingline. If a negative person buys this skirt, it could intensify hernegativity."

Mr. Trolly, who looked as if he was about to start projectile

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vomiting key lime pie, dumped the treacherous skirt on thecounter and ran to the other end of the store, where he impul-sively grabbed another garment.

"This person was interfered with at a young age," hesaid, protectively cradling a navy blue men's velvet jacket. Hecontinued, "Not sexually. His development was arrested—ithappened to Prince William, too—by getting too much atten-tion. It can stunt your spiritual growth. Wait! This person isnot dead . . . and ... I think I can help him!"

I looked inside the jacket and saw an Yves Saint Laurent(gasp!) label. Mr. Trolly was talking about Yves lui-fnerne,the genius who hurtled into the spotlight at the tender age ofnineteen and paid a heavy psychic price. For the second time,Mr. Trolly had sidestepped the mundane former wearer andgone right to the glamorous designer. He clutched the jacketand began sending some fabulous, fuzzy energy to Yves.*

The exorcisms and channeling continued.

Our tireless research bore fruit. The conclusions can besummarized as follows:

(a) Do-it-yourself: When faced with the need to ex-orcise, you do not need the services of a professionalmedium. The most mundane solutions are the mosteffective: Dry cleaning, according to Mr. Trolly, getsrid of bad spirits.

(b) On an obvious note, buying more recent vintage—'80s or '90s—can reduce the likelihood of a vicioushaunting, because the original owner is probably stillalive.

Since the Trolly exorcism, Monsieur Saint Laurent would appear to have at-tained a place of greater personal contentment. Coincidence? I don't think so.

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

(c) Good spirits inhabit clothing just as often asnasty ones. If you bought some of Julia Child's oldpantsuits, you would be bound to pick up someof her optimistic bonhomie. Maybe your cookingwould improve.

(d) Sharing and caring: When a good spirit manifestsitself in that Dior cocktail dress, don't rush it to theMartinizing center. Even if the frock in question hasa whiff of stale fragrance or vintage BO, you mustallow the spirit to linger. You must share the frockwith that friendly spirit.

(e) Be a vulture: If you hear that a famous fashionplate is about to pop her Blahniks, you would bewell advised to start circling and keep a close eye onthe obituaries. When a well-dressed lady goes to thebig sample sale in the sky, there is invariably a feed-ing frenzy. You want to make sure you get dibs. Thatsaid, pulling up in front of the house with a rollingrack in tow before the body is cold is bad taste andwill annoy the dead spirit. You don't want to end uplike Blanche, do you?

Every eccentric is used to whispers,finger pointing and giggles.It comes with the territory.v

PROFILE

MR. MICKEY BOARDMAN

Deputy editorial director of Paper magazine,wearer of twinkle-knit sweater sets, and one of NewTork^s best-loved fashion eccentrics responds to theEccentric Glamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

Dries van Noten leopard-print track jacket over a hot pink la-dies' sparkle top from eBay. Chocolate brown Marni trousers,Missoni socks, and sparkle flats from Forever 21, which were agift from a friend.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I was about four years old I was obsessed with my moth-er's favorite look: a wide-leg pant and matching floor lengthvest worn over a bishop-sleeved blouse, often with some kindof secretary tie at the neck. She loved to wear them with veryhigh cork or wood platforms.

In terms of my own look, moving to New York in the late

'80s was critical. I discovered thrift stores and flea marketsand even found clothes on the street. Although I was veryfashion forward in high school—wearing ladies' designer jeanslong before Karl Lagerfeld—I was certainly not applaudedfor my style. In New York, people went crazy for my looks,which encouraged me to reach new heights, or depths, de-pending on your perspective.

Were your parents horrified?

My mother hates two things more than anything. One: whenI wear vintage clothes. She says, "Do you want people to thinkwe're poor?" Two: When I wear ladies' clothes.

My parents were always very concerned that I might begay and they were horrified when I wore eye shadow at nineyears old. But it never would have occurred to me to carry aladies' handbag or wear a ladies' top in those days. Even nowI don't do it as a drag or gender thing. I just think the ladies'tops are cuter, and I like a form-fitting look, not a baggy manlook.

Are you prone to mood swings?

I'm mostiy manic, but I can have depressive moments. But Iusually snap out of it pretty quickly.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

Absolutely. For years I never rode the subway in New Yorkwhen I was running around in crazy looks because althoughthe looks created a sensation in the clubs or at Fashion Weekor with fun people, the average fool on the street could bevery confused or hostile. Once when I was wearing a LillyPulitzer pant and coordinated Lurex top and sparkle vest ac-

cessorized with a straw bag from the Bahamas and straw flip-flops from Pearl River, a construction worker accosted me andsaid, "You're dressed fuckin' funny," and not funny ha-ha likehe liked it. I said, "I have a mirror at home. I know how I'mdressed."

Of course, every eccentric is used to whispers, finger point-ing, and giggles. It comes with the territory.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

I have a full-length black and silver ... I don't know what tocall it . . . maybe a dressing gown or hostess coat. It's sooooglamorous!

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

Never. In days gone by when I'd be harassed or mocked, I'dfeel very self-conscious and wonder if it was worth it. I'd alsocross the street if I saw a bunch of straight boys coming, butin the end I love the attention even if it's bad. And at thispoint in my life and career I've gotten so much positive recog-nition for my taste that anyone could laugh in my face and I'dstill feel immensely secure in my fashion choices.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

It's such a thin line. In the old days I would be walking to workand literally my look would fall apart on the street. Everythingwas held together with a safety pin or the seams would be bust-ing and just unable to hold my big man frame in their littlelady garments. I'd get to work and not have pants on.

I also find that idiocy creeps in when you don't have timeto really get things together and you go with something that isuntested. That's why it's best to stick with your signature looks

for the important things, I think. Still, I cherish moments offashion idiocy and think you sometimes have to risk lookinglike a fool to really make the magic happen.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Lynn Yaeger [fashion writer for the Village Voice] is prettymuch the poster girl for glamorous eccentricity. Her look hasnothing to do with trends or wanting to get laid, the two thingsthat I think most sabotage great fashion.

The same goes for Isabella Blow, although I think she reallywanted to get laid, which was kind of problematic consideringhow she dressed. It takes a special kind of man to want to stickit in the girl in the Philip Treacy lobster hat.

Anna Piaggi [legendary Italian fashion editor] is also amaverick. Some of the things she does are so experimental thatI honestly don't understand them, and I feel like I'm prettyadvanced, so I cannot begin to imagine what the man on thestreet must think.

Do men think you are hot?

I feel like my fashion choices ruin any chance of being seen assexy. So many of my friends have outfits they wear for festiveoccasions and then outfits they wear to get laid in, and I justdon't delineate that way. It was very complicated in the olddays when I'd meet guys on phone sex lines and then show upat their house in a ladies' bodysuit under polyester pants andplastic rain boots. Not very sexy, I'm afraid. But at the sametime, maybe someone did think I was sexy. Maybe I did notbelieve it myself. I probably either scared suitors away or didn'tnotice their interest.

ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Laziness when it comes to fashion, and I'm guilty of it myselfI think everyone should always go overboard with their looksand everyone should only wear things they think are fabulous.I can't believe that all the people who dress exactly like thepeople around them think that their clothes are fabulous. Forme sequins make every day a red-carpet event. I think peopleshould wear gowns every day, or hot pants in the winter, orKabuki makeup to the supermarket. I so worship and respectanyone who really puts in that effort to always have a looktogether. Even if it's a dirty, East Village junkie look. I just ap-plaud the commitment and when I make the effort I feel sooorewarded in many different ways.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I want to be cremated, but I'd like to have the chicest memo-rial service in history. I don't own anything black (except thesilver and black sequined hostess coat I mentioned earlier andsome black A.P.C. pants I got at a sample sale), but I adorecouture funeral looks. Nothing is more chic than a royal fu-neral with queens and princesses all in veils and widows' caps.I'd also like it to be black tie so there would be tons of jewelsinvolved. I want tiaras over the veils, full orders, ribbons, eve-ning gowns, etc.

I want to be laid out in an open casket wearing a custom-made sparkle ensemble. Maybe a tuxedo that's embroideredwith sparkles. Maybe Louis Vuitton or Chanel couture formen. Something sick and wrong.

I'd want to have very subtie false eyelashes and a schmearof lip gloss. I'd want everyone weeping hysterically and hurlingthemselves on the casket.

Then I'd be cremated and scattered in the creek at Val-Kill,Eleanor Roosevelt's home where she ran amok with her lesbiansidekicks. I wouldn't want the bejeweled mourners to knowI'd be scattered there. I'd want them to think I was scatteredon the Dalmatian coast or at Baltic alongside Queen Marie ofRomania's palace on the Black Sea.

CHAPTER 6

Aunt Sylvia's Fanny Pack

A career a la mode

As you set about the task of crafting an individual lookand expressing yourself through the garments that youthrow on your back, you may find yourself getting irritated.You may find that the quest for an eccentrically glamorouswardrobe, the adorning of your body with intriguing raiment,leaves you cold. You may find that you have about as muchinterest in fashion as your fanny-pack-wearing lesbian aunt Syl-via. No problem.

This is perfectly fine with me.

Your style indifference does, however, make you less of aglamorous eccentric and more of a plain old eccentric. Thinkof it this way: Marlene Dietrich was a glamorous eccentric, butEleanor Roosevelt, Janet Reno, and Big Edie Bouvier were justplain old eccentrics, i.e., norm-breaking gals who were disin-clined to creative personal adornment.

Please note: Being an unglamorous schlumpy eccentric isinfinitely preferable to being an unglamorous noneccentric,or even a glamorous noneccentric. (Think of those gussied-uptrophy wives whose idea of sizzling conversation is to say thingslike, "You simply cannot get a bad meal in Itlay.") The ec-centric part is the real deal breaker. Eccentricity, that vigorousaversion to preconceived ideas and bourgeois notions, is theoxygen that invigorates a happy and creative life.

Which brings us back to your lesbian aunt Sylvia. She isa primo example of a nonglamorous eccentric. Though shehas, in all other aspects of her existence, always been a wackychick, she has never felt the inclination to express her eccen-tricities via her appearance. Sylvia knows her limitations: Sheknows that she is physically incapable of walking in rhinestone-encrusted Louboutin burlesque pumps, and that if she worethem on her Vermont bird-watching trips they would sink intothe mud.

I have no desire to foster burdensome and inauthenticLouboutin addictions in those whose interests lie elsewhere,and whose door keys, wallets, cell phones, and tampons arehappily stuffed into fanny packs. If you and your aunt Sylviacan find contentment only when you have all your possessionsbulging at your abdomen, then far be it from me to divest youof your favorite accessory.

On the other hand . . .

You may find the absolute opposite. You may find that thequest for eccentric glamour impels you to unclick that fannypack forever, catapulting you into a genuine love affair withfashion.

You may find yourself becoming instantly completely andutterly fashion-crack-addicted.

You may take to it like a transvestite to marabou.

You may go way beyond merely adopting a more glamor-ously eccentric personal style and become hopelessly infatuatedwith the world of fashion.

You may you find that, after dabbling your tootsies in thewaters of la mode, you are so enamored that you elect tochange the course of your life. Suddenly you are looking for acareer in the rag trade.

Having been partially responsible for instigating this lifechange, it seems only fitting that I provide you with some tipson navigating the pitfalls and idiocies of this magical but some-times depressing world. Yes, I said depressing.

This is going to sound insane, but the biggest mood swingsI have ever had in my entire life occur during New York Fash-ion Week. And they are getting worse. As with every passingseason the hype and the hoopla get bigger and the numberof shows increases, my mood swings are becoming more andmore pronounced.

"Oh," I hear you saying, "you are just a blase old burnoutwho has habituated to the fabulousness of it all and shouldprobably hang up your Blahniks and buy yourself a fannypack." Not true! My fashion enthusiasms are, even after thirty-five years in the business, as fevered as ever. Nothing—I repeat,nothing—gets me more excited than the sight of a hip chickor bloke strutting about in an innovative, well-designed, allur-ing ensemble. Every season, twitching with optimism, I chargeoff to Bryant Park in the hope of seeing such things. And thenthe mood swings start.

Here's the problem: As I enter the tents I am set upon byhordes of fashion groupies and hangers-on, all braying at meabout their soon-to-be-launched clothing lines or online news-letters and/or shoving their self-congratulatory resumes intomy available orifices. This is surely the same genre of lottery

mentality loony who swarmed at the gates of old Hollywoodstudios in search of unspecified satisfactions.

The following tips are designed to prevent you from becom-ing one of the above-described demonic Eve Harringtons.

Your First Runway Show

Attending a fashion show for the first time can be a bewilderingexperience. Though your lesbian aunt Sylvia may be a dab handat unblocking her compost toilet or changing the tire on herpickup truck, she will have no useful advice on how to conductyourself in this particular situation. But I do. Here are somepointers to ensure that you maximize the moment.

Snacks Growling stomachs. I hear them all the time dur-ing the course of New York Fashion Week, where the scheduleleaves little time for eating, and the sole purpose of the ear-splitting music is to mask the sound of the aforementionedgrowling. Bringing sugary doughnuts, smelly hot dogs, andoversized pretzels to fashion shows is, therefore, an excellentidea. I endorse it. I support it. I applaud it. People eat at base-ball games. Why not serve food before every fashion show, a lasports stadium?

Maybe the reason that fashion people are all a bunch offood-disordered freaks, and that people like Aunt Sylvia havea more laissez-faire attitude toward food, is that Aunt Sylvia,working as she does as the manager of a health food restaurant,is simply around food more often.

Increasing the ubiquity of food in the fashion milieumight significantly help to combat the deranged superskinnytrend that is currently wreaking havoc on the bodies of somany models and actresses. If the Council of Fashion Design -

ers of America wants fashion folk to develop positive eatinghabits—or any eating habits at all—it needs to integrate foodonto the runways. There is absolutely no reason why Dianevon Furstenberg herself—the CFDA president—could notpush a big stinky hot dog cart down the catwalk while we waitfor her show to begin. ("More relish, Anna dahlink?") Insteadof perfume in those goody bags, why not a piping hot chipotleburrito?

Adulation Always go backstage! From Marc Jacobs toOscar de la Renta, every designer's worst nightmare is notbeing mobbed after his or her show. Nobody is too low downon the totem pole to participate in the apres-show air-kissingfestival. Not even Aunt Sylvia! (She can always gain entry byclaiming to be a security guard.)

Fake adulation Love a particular designer but hate theclothes in his or her show? Should you be brutally honest,or should you perjure yourself? Here is my solution: When itcomes time to gush with the backstage compliments, I simplyshriek, "You've done it again!" at the top of my lungs and keepwalking.

Pushy galore Though it is absolutely not okay to rush up topeople like Donna Karan and Karl Lagerfeld and start houndingthem for employment—you demonic Eve Harrington, you!—itis perfectly appropriate to discreedy shove a copy of your re-sume into their purses when they are not looking.

Charity Giving your fashion show ticket to a homeless per-son living in Bryant Park is civic-minded and otherwise highlycommendable. Don't forget to give the chosen vagrant yourname, and remind him or her to take full advantage of thefreebie cologne in the gift bag. Who doesn't love a fragrantvagrant?

Becoming a Fashion Critic

As you enter and leave a fashion show, random representativesof the media will assail you for your opinion on the collection.Chances are that you, with your total lack of experience, willhave no idea how to rate what you saw.

If you want to know whether or not a collection sucks, youhave to look for subtle clues:

Postmodern bunk Read the press release before the show.If the designer in question is touting postmodern themes, e.g.,Barbie goes to Chechnya or Cyberslut meets Imelda Marcos onacid, this is a sure sign that all might not be well in the atelier.This kind of mumbo-jumbo is a clear indication that a designermay be overly focused on wacky, hype-generating concepts.Earth to designers: Women cannot wear abstract concepts; theycan only wear clothes.

Colonial chic If the collection in front of you remindsyou of those mind-numbing historical tableaux you yawnedthrough during a childhood trip to Colonial Williamsburg,there could be a problem.

Kitchen witch chic If, when the models begin to walk therunway, they remind you of an inanimate household object,such as oven mitts, trash bags, or kitchen witches, this is a clearindication that something is wrong.

Danglers In the old days, a dangling hem or a fraying seamwas a sure sign of failure. This is no longer the case. Deconstruc-tion—raw seams and sawed-off sleeves—is ubiquitous. Now thesituation is reversed: If a designer's collection has perfect top-stitching and immaculate seams, the collection is probably a dud.

Hootie blows If you are enjoying the sound track more thanthe clothes on the runway and the sound track is Hootie andthe Blowfish, alarm bells should sound.

License to kill If the designer in question has reached the

point where he has licensed or sold his name to a big corpora-tion, then keep your eyes on the guys in gray suits in the frontrow. If any of these gentiemen is openly weeping or gulpingdown cyanide capsules, this indicates that the collection mightbe less than fabulous.

Stampede Keep an eye on how fast Petra and Natasha are walk-ing. If the models break into a cavalry charge—those thought-ful hussies are trying to spare you the pain of actually seeing whatthey are wearing—you can assume the worst.

Fire sale If the designer comes out to take the curtain calland starts handing you flyers for an impromptu backstagesample sale—starting immediately—this is a sure sign that thegarments are barking.

The ultimate litmus test?

Take every single outfit on the runway and imagine youraunt Sylvia wearing it with her fanny pack. If she looks amazingin even one outfit, then you know that you are mistaken andthat the designer in question is, in fact, a total genius.

Starting Your Own Company

It may turn out that you have real megatalent. If people areconstantiy stopping you on the street and asking, "Wherecan I buy a raffia cocoon coat like that? Does it come in ma-genta?" or "Who designed your Zouave pantaloons? They're sogreat," you just might have what it takes to head up your owncompany. You may be one of those rule-breaking glamorouseccentrics—Madeleine Vionnet, Coco Chanel, Vivienne West-wood, et al.—who, in the search for self-knowledge and cre-ative fulfillment, have changed the course of fashion and makestupendous amounts of cash in the process. Cross your fingersand adhere to the following dos and don'ts.

Simon Doonan

Crystal balls Do not, whatever you do, gouge money fromyour parents' 40IK to pay for your first runway show. It is ex-tremely hard to succeed in the world of fashion. You may nevermake enough money to pay back the ma and pa, or you maylose your mind and become a crystal meth addict, and thenwhat? When you have emptied their bank account, and they areold and toothless and living in a homeless shelter, you will feelreally, really guilty.

Parasite Don't let the fact that you cannot afford to haveyour own fashion show get in your way: Why not promote yourown collection by staging guerrilla shows on the sidewalk out-side other people's shows? All the press and glitterati will havea chance to view your creations and you, the parasite, will savea fortune on show production costs. Be prepared for a certainamount of hostility from the "host" designer.

Freebies are verboten Do not give away your frocks to over-paid movie actors who can easily afford to buy them and willappreciate you and your designs far more if you actually forcethem to open their huge bulging purses and pay for them. Nograft!

A chair is still a chair... Always play Burt Bacharach whileyou are working on your collections. Burt's menthol-cool mu-sical stylings will soothe your shredded nerves and promotecreativity.

Create! Be original! Knocking off crap from the thrift shopsis very last century, dahling!

Mass with class Don't be an elitist! Working at Kmart can bejust as fabulous as working at Maison Lanvin. It requires morecreativity to make middlebrow, Middle America look glamor-ously eccentric.

Don't play God Never try to be good at everything. You arenot omnipotent. You're not J-Lo. Instead of trying to become

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the next Giorgio Armani, carve out a niche for yourself. Picka neglected area and reinvent it: Sweaters, brassieres, eveningwear, men's tailoring, foundation garments, jockstraps, brunchwear—pick a category and stick to it!

Thin and thinner Never hang out with fashion models. Youwill just become dumber and dumber. Most people are reallyboring when they are in their late teens. Models are no excep-tion. Conversational topics among these lovelies range frombroken fingernails to alarm clocks that didn't go off, causingflights to be missed.

Seek out the company of hideous wrinkled old sages, formerdemimondes, fiery pedants, and brilliant intellectuals. These arethe people who have the ability and the backstory to expandyour frame of reference.

Give Aunt Sylvia a job Last but not least, do not employother glamorous eccentrics. If you are lucky enough to get tothe point where you have burgeoning business and you needhelp, then you must employ only very serious, boring, hard-working, earnest people. No Eve Harringtons! You are the star!

And if you need a fit model? There's much to be said forpinning everything on fanny-pack-wearing Aunt Sylvia. If yourdesigns fit her eccentric body, they will fit anybody.

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"■•"Il>

"My mother was appalled. She threw me

in the back of a caby hoping nobody would

recognize us. But I didn't care because I was

having my first love affair with style."

PROFILE

IRIS APFEL

Part Queen Theodora of Byzantium, part Naney Cunard,a major textile designer and expert whose style is so uniqueit has been immortalized in a massively influential exhibitat the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York respondsto the Eccentric Glamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

A hip-length, boxy, A-line jacket by Geoffrey Beene, double-face and reversible in gray and a fabulous blue—almost a corn-flower blue. Chrome yellow, very narrow suede trousers. Pucciprint boots, above the ankle, with a black patent cuff and heel,anchoring my huge black glasses.

Round my neck I'm wearing a whole mess of huge beads,Baltic and African amber with some Bakelite mixed in andsome blue-gray feathers I found in Venezuela. Bracelets? Tonsand tons and tons. On both arms.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I was eight years old I was taken to get a photo portrait

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done. I decided to pose as a dancer and swathed myself in di-aphanous draperies a la Isadora Duncan. Not such a great lookon a chubby gal.

Were your parents horrified?

My mother was appalled. She threw me in the back of a cab,hoping nobody would recognize us. But I didn't care because Iwas having my first love affair with style.

Are you prone to mood swings?

I'm pretty even. But I have them once in a while. It's part ofmy entitiement package.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I once got hate mail from some jerk in Miami about my glasses.He even put his address. But most people like my look.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

Me. It's not that my clothes are so eccentric. It's the way I putthem together.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

That would be a big fat no-no!

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

All too often. As Harold Koda [head of the Met's CostumeInstitute] always says, "It looks easy but please don't try this athome." If people have no sense of who they are, experimenta-tion can be a disaster.

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Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

I never really had one. I wish I did; it would have made my lifeeasier. But that's why I did it all myself.

When I was a kid, I loved Rosalind Russell. I remembersome movie where she charges into her office—smothered insilver fox "flings" with heads—and she runs to her desk andstarts answering three phones at once. Fabulous! And Paulinede Rothschild. Years ago I saw a spread on her called "Life in aDraughty Chateau." There she was head to foot in YSL. Andshe always had such great boyfriends—John Huston, EdwardMurrow. And I admired Millicent Rogers. She wore Mainbo-cher and Balenciaga with jewelry bought from Indian chiefs—huge chunks of turquoise.

Do men think you are hot?

At eighty-five I'm lukewarm. When I was younger I alwayshad lots of offbeat gentlemen callers. The good ones were notturned off by my look. And now I have Carl. Fifty-nine yearstogether. He's cute and cuddly and he cooks Chinese. Whatmore could a girl want? And he's a gentleman. He wouldn'ttake anyone's eyeballs out for a buck. And we laugh. You mightas well be dead if you cannot have fun.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

People not being themselves and trying too hard—an old bagshouldn't wear a miniskirt. There are other ways to have youth-ful esprit.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I would rather stick around.

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CHAPTER 7

Looking Cher

Tempus fugit, 50 get used to it

"If you can convince yourself that you look fabulous,you can save yourself the trouble of primping."

—Andy Warhol

A skin-care saleslady at an unnamed department store is try-ing to sell face cream to passers-by. Nothing unusual orpernicious about that, you might say. But when nobody paysany attention to her spiel, she ups the ante. A hidden cameracatches her telling potential buyers that the jar she is holding"has just won a Nobel Prize."

A few blocks away a New Age beauty company breaks newground in the already excessively gimmicky world of cosmet-ics promotion by offering "long-distance Reiki treatments" toclients and press.

Downtown, a beauty company announces the launch of anew skin cream with a historical spin. According to the press

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release, the recipe comes from Roman times and replicates thatof "the world's first skin cream."

Across the continent in LA, celebrities are slathering theirfaces with a brand new unguent containing human skin cellscloned from babies' foreskins. "Increased elasticity," so say afi-cionados, is the desired outcome.

In Malibu, a movie star gets wind of the fact that certainSunset strippers and pole-dancers are now bleaching a certainorifice. She follows suit.

What's my point?

Oh, nothing much, really. Just that the entire world—thebeauty industry in particular—has gone stark-raving mad\

As a card-carrying glamorous eccentric, you are obligedto swim through this incomprehensible sea of sticky lotionsand notions espoused by prophetlike beauticians. You mustacquaint yourself with the current scene. In doing so you willsee things—as per the Charlene song—that "a woman oughtnot to see." You will come face-to-face with this sick world ofbleached sphincters and babies' foreskins.

Don't shy away. In order to navigate this madness you mustunderstand the various trends that are currentiy driving thebeauty and skin-care industry.

Let's break it down:

First, there's the let's-make-it-seem-like-teams-of-scientists-created-this-cream trend.

The overarching aesthetic of this movement is very Dr.Strangelove/Dr. No: Sinister salespeople in crisp lab coats manthese particular cosmetic counters and try to get your busi-ness by hurling scientific jargon at you about antioxidants andalpha-hydroxificationism. A cursory glance into their eyeswill reveal that they have no idea what they are talking about.Like the crews on porn films, these folk have long since ha-

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bituated to the content of their jobs and are thinking abouttheir lunch.

Next trend.

With a chin0 of finger cymbals and an "om" or two, wemove on to the mystical trend.

This trend is hu0e\ I have yet to meet someone in the beautyindustry who is not capable of introducing the word "spiritual-ity" into a conversation about mascara. With its endless talk ofauras and energy cleansing, this is definitely the most entertain-ing trend.

When they are not casting runes, New Age beauty prac-titioners are balancing their chakras. In this wacky woo-woocrunchy world, even lip gloss and eye cream are imbued withcosmic meaning. This has led me to posit the theory that thesuperficiality of one's job is directly proportional to one's"spirituality." Think about it: You never hear of a constructionworker or trauma surgeon insisting on "sage-ing" his work en-vironment before getting down to business. The bottom line?The more you surround yourself with face creams, the morelikely you are to become a shaman of some description.

Chingl Next.

At the opposite end of the spectrum from the mystical trendwe have the flagrantly unspiritual if-porno-stars-are-doing-it-then-so-can-I trend.

Yes, this is where the Evas of the world—the pillow-lippedCarmen Electra wannabes referred to in Chapter 1—find thematerials to craft their look. This trend involves lots of spraytan, Botox, superdrippy lip gloss, hair removal, and moderateamounts of pain. Aficionados are the world's chief consumersof lip liner.

This trend is closely affiliated to the most popular beautytrend of all: if-movie-stars-are-doing-it-then-so-can-I trend.

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This trend involves the most pain, cost, and inconvenience andis therefore the most incomprehensible.

A movie star has a totally legitimate reason for freezingevery nerve in her face, sucking every fat cell from her body,slicing and dicing her face and irrigating her colon until itsparkles.

If she doesn't, she will get fired.

If she "lets herself go"—who among us has not secretlyharbored the desire to kick off those mules, grab the gin bottle,and let ourself go?—the phone will stop ringing and she willend up flat broke. Left with little or no alternative, the celebchick tortures herself with horrid injections and nasty proce-dures.

The delusional identification with movie actors has causedmany people to subject themselves to those same tortuous Hol-lywood beauty treatments: "If Reese Witherspoon is getting askin peel with lighter fluid, then so am I," is the thinking.

Overlooked is the fact that if Halle or Renee does not stayyoung looking and fabulous, she will lose her entire incomesource. You will not. You can work at your office job untilyour boobs and jowls hit your computer keyboard and nobodywill ever fire you. You have a million reasons to increase theeccentric glamour of your appearance but none to flagellateyourself like an A-list celeb with needles and colonics and fatinjections.

So why do the ordinary women in the street subject them-selves to these kinds of self-punitive, costly, time-consumingprocedures? Can it be explained by that all-powerful overiden-tification with red-carpet celebs?

The answer is simple and rather obvious: These women, likethe followers of all of the above-listed masochistic trends, areterrified of getting old.

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ECCENTRIC GLAMOURGrowing Old Ungraciously

I'm a gynocrat. I wish that women ruled the world. I view womenas superior to men. They are runnier and more intuitive. Theycan cook. They have a high pain threshold. They rarely startwars. They blow disposable income in places that have consis-tently provided me with a steady income for my entire adultlife. Yes, there's much to be said for the female of the species.

With regard to their attitude to aging, they are, however, indire need of a little male perspective.

While you ladies are overly focused on antiaging regimens,we men are more laissez-faire. While there are some idiot fel-lows who are subjecting themselves to Botox and calf implants,the majority of men accept the inevitability of decay withoutputting up too much of a fight.

This is a healthy thing.

We humans are all doomed to wrinkle, wither, and die.When we are young we have tight pretty skin. When we are oldwe get wrinkly. C'est la vie!

Accepting the inevitability of your physical decay—or, atthe very least, cultivating a masculine indifference to it—willallow you to enjoy life and to revel in the eccentric glamour ofevery waking moment. If you can reconcile yourself to the factthat you will, eventually and inevitably, morph into a hideousold crone, you will enjoy your pretty years much more.

I once heard Olivia Newton-John—one of Australia's lead-ing thinkers—tell a reporter that her biggest regret in life wasfretting about how she looked when she was young. "I wasso gorgeous, but I was too busy looking for signs of aging toenjoy it," was the gist of her spiel. She wasted time and taintedher gilded youth by obsessing about wrinkles.

The ladies who are attempting to hold back the sands of

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time with Botox injections, lipo, boob-lifts, and babies' fore-skins are not just wasting time and money. They are deludingthemselves.

In their deranged minds they think that all those expensiveprocedures and products are turning back the clock. Theyaren't. They cannot. Nobody gets to go to the prom twice.The sweet bird of youth is not a round-trip shuttle.

The horrible truth of the matter is that these cosmetic ad-dicts, despite their best efforts, do not look youthful. Theylook taut and frozen. At worst they look Jocelyn Wildenstein.At best they look Cher.

Looking Cher is a new phenomenon. Neither young norold, happy not sad, the Chers of the world have invented a newand, dare I say it, plastic way to look.

(Dear Cher, This chapter is not a diss. You are a majorglamorous eccentric, a role model of self-empowerment andgeneral kookiness. And looking Cher is very different from beingCher. Your particular cosmetic odyssey, though excessive for anonceleb, is entirely understandable. You are a performer—anOscar winner, no less!—who did whatever it took to survive fordecades in the looks-is t culture of Hollywood. Long live Cher!)

Looking Cher is enigmatic. It's hard to describe. It's voidof emotion. The only thing you can definitively say about thewomen who look Cher is that they do not look like they wouldif they had not had all that stuff done.

Looking Cher, though it makes perfect sense for an enter-tainment celeb living in a youthcentric culture, has two princi-pal drawbacks.

(1) If people don't know or cannot tell your age,they will have no choice other than to ask: "Hey,Mavis! How old are you?"

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If, on the other hand, your life is written across your face ala Golda Meir—see how far back I have to rummage in orderto get a good example of an uncut iconic face!—people willnot need to ask your age or bamboozle you into revealing it byhurling trick questions about the Great Depression, the DustBowl, the French Revolution, or the Mayflower.

(2) When people aren't sure of your age, they willadd rather than subtract. Permit me to explain usingCher as an example: The "dark lady" has been look-ing eerily youthful for so long that everyone has losttrack of her age. This, unfortunately, does not workin Cher's favor: Cher, and those of her ilk, have beenhoist by their own petards. Why? Because when or-dinary folk cannot figure out how old you are, theirtendency, when speculating, is always to err on theungenerous side. That's just how we humans are.When Cher turned sixty, everybody said, "My God!I know she looks about twelve years old, but she hasbeen looking youngish for so long, I had completelylost track of her age. I assumed by this time that shewas about ninety-five."

Madonna, same thing. Madge throws herself around like asixteen-year-old. Ten years later she does another tour and hurlsherself across the stage again, with, other than the occasional kneebrace, no discernible sign of aging. Her fans shriek, "Wow! She'sstill at it at sixty-five." Meanwhile Madge has not hit fifty yet.

It's a biblical thing: If you succeed in making yourself lookmuch younger than you are, people will stare at you with openmouths as if you have just come back from the dead. Lazarus,bonjourl

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Simon doonan

If you continue, over a decade or two or three, to look agenonspecific, people will eventually start to think you are phe-nomenally old. Bonsoir, Methuselah!

Reducing the Appearance of the

Appearance of the Appearance of the

Appearance of Fine Lines and Wrinkles . . .

What happened to the days when a smidgen of lipstick and adab of Arpege were all you needed to feel like a movie star? Forsome reason the emphasis of the beauty industry has shifted toincreasingly complex skin care/skin torture and away from thesimplicity of those good old-fashioned maquillage basics.

It's time to shift it back.

Here's why: First, skin care, with all its pseudoscientificbabble, is boring! It is utterly yawn making to read the endlesslabels and try to figure out what a particular product is sup-posed to do to your skin. Applying them is even more boring.Rubbing creams under your eyes in order to "reduce the ap-pearance of fine lines and wrinkles" is neither rewarding, amus-ing, nor aesthetically exciting. You would have much more funand get much more immediate results learning how to glue onshowgirl lashes or apply a beauty mark.

Second, skin care is a bunch of lies. Give any doctor or der-matologist a couple of martinis and he or she will admit thattopically applied unguents are useless. The whole nature of theepidermis is that it is impregnable. You might be able to "re-duce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles," but you willstill have those "fine lines and wrinkles." You will merely have"reduced" their "appearance," whatever the hell that means.

Bottom line: A cheap drugstore moisturizer is all you need.

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(If you have a thing about petrochemical products, then tryolive oil!)

Third, skin care doesn't really work. I have friends who goto the top facialists in the world and the "appearance" of their"fine lines and wrinkles" is exactly the same as "the appearanceof the fine lines and wrinkles" on the toothless lady who lives ina box on my block in Manhattan.

There is only one reason for slathering on eye creams andblowing your cash on neck and facial unguents: because youenjoy it and it feds good, especially when you do it in bed. AsAndy Warhol said, "Everything is more glamorous when youdo it in bed, even peeling potatoes."

The moral of the story: Ease up on the skin care and spendmore time slapping on lipstick, foundation, eye shadow, andmascara.

Makeup Is Good For You

A friend of mine—an ex-ballet dancer named Imogen—neverleft the house without full makeup. With her huge belashedeyes, prominent cheekbones, and pale face, Imogen was theperfect Existentialist. Her dramatically maquillaged face was ina perpetual state of Swan Lake readiness. Pancake and lashesand the whole bit. After years of slapping on foundation andpowder, you would expect her skin to be a mass of cloggedpores. It wasn't. It was downright flawless: decades of "slap"*had protected her skin from pollution, London fog, and herendless fag smoking.

* Slap: English vernacular for makeup.

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Simon DoonanShake Up Your Makeup

If you are still dithering about whether you are a Gypsy, an Ex-istentialist, or a Socialite, the smartest thing to do is to let yourGod-given features guide you. Don't fight your shortcomings.Let them be your signposts. Examples:

• Plump redheads make great Gypsies and lousy Social-ites.

• Skinny, pale, haughty-looking chinless gals make greatSocialites, passable Existentialists, and lousy Gypsies.

• If you have dark circles under your eyes, it's probablygenetic. Embrace it and incorporate it into an Existen-tial German Expressionist look. Think Liza Minnelli inCabaret. Think Otto Dix!

As with your fashion, it is important that your maquillagebe a form of personal expression that gives you creative satisfac-tion. There are, however, some basic dos and don'ts that applyto each type.

Beauty and the Gypsy

Do concentrate on your eyes. Daub your lids with Renaissancecolors: maroon, burnt orange, olive green. A little metallic, alittle shimmer? Why not?

I strongly advise Gypsies to stay away from liquid eyeliner:Though kohl is traditionally a very Gypsy-ish thing, I find thatyou Gypsies lack the concentration to apply it in liquid form.I recommend that you leave it to the Existentialists, who are

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more anal-retentive and have better hand-eye coordination.Don't forget to block: Since you Gypsies spend a lot of timeskipping around alfresco in an artsy kind of way, always makesure you have gallons of SPF in your carpetbag.

Beauty and the Socialite

You are polished, you are glamorous and, unlike the Gypsy, youare a gal whose look is most reliant on a well-tutored hand.You, more than any other gal, are in dire need of a trained ho-mosexual to apply your makeup. If you do not have the where-withal to hire one, simply endear yourself to one of the nicefellows who flits around the MAC or Vincent Longo counter atyour local department store.

Beauty and the Existentialist

Rouge your ears, just like Diana Vreeland!

Do think Kabuki. Do think graphically, as in black, red, andwhite. Do learn how to glue on fake lashes. Don't buy loads ofcrap: Find a good mascara and a pale foundation, and stick toit. Black Existentialists should take their cue from Grace Jones:Apply blue or metallic highlights to your cheeks and dye the in-side of your mouth red with a drop or two of red food coloring.

'Til Death You and Your Lipstick Doth Part

Let's end with a universal tip for Existentialists, Socialites, Gyp-sies, and all combinations thereof:

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Simon Doonan

Your thirtieth birthday is an important landmark. You arenow ready, after ten years of dicking around with your personalstyle, to select a signature lipstick. This is the lip color that willbe with you through thick and thin.

When you are screaming for mercy during childbirth, this isthe lipstick that will be smeared across your face.

When you kiss the corpses of your dead parents, this is thelipstick that will stain their cheeks.

If, God forbid, you ever get arrested for drunk driving, thisis the pigment that will leave a pretty residue on the Breatha-lyzer nozzle.

This is the lipstick that will flow into the fine lines and wrin-kles around your mouth as the death rattle grips your throat.

Choosing this lipstick is therefore a momentous task.

In order to complete it, you need to be slightly drunk.

After a Cosmo or two, head to your local beauty counterand start trying out the lipsticks on your hand. Just for kicks,why not ask if any of the lipsticks has won a Nobel Prize? Don'texpect to have some kind of epiphany when you find "the rightone." Your selection should be, within reason, fairly arbitrary.If it has a great name—Catfight (Nars), Sashimi Mimi (MAC),or Pink Ballerina (Chanel)—and doesn't make you look toohideous, then that's probably good enough. It's just importantthat you pick one and stick with it.

When you have made your choice, buy a total of three hun-dred and sixty lipsticks. (The alcohol helps numb the pain ofhaving to cough up all that dough.) This stash will last you thenext sixty years. Yes, Einstein, that's six per year.

That crate of lipsticks, lurking in your closet, will never letyou forget that the clock is ticking and that life is for living.Every time you extract a new one and propel it toward yournaturally aging mouth, you will think of the pointlessness of

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ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

trying to hold back the sands of time. That diminishing lipstickstash will be a constant and salutary reminder not to waste timedating crappy men, watching lousy television, working drearyjobs, or worrying about the appearance of your fine lines andwrinkles.

Have a nice life!

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CCA bitchy, undermining, and

blond eighth-grade cfriend* told me

that I was cno Christie Brinkley*

but was csortof... exotic.'"

PROFILE

ALEXANDRA JACOBS

Writer, New York Observer editor, book critic, wifeof comedy writer Jon Bines, and mother of emergingglamorous eccentric Josephine Bines responds to theEccentric Glamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

An unintentional pastiche of post-World War II optimisticsportswear: navy cashmere 1950s cardigan with a Saks FifthAvenue label; blue-and-white-striped 1960s narrow-cut knitT-shirt made by a surely long-defunct West German company;brown 1970s Levi's Sta-Prest pants (I have a weakness forEnglish language-mangling brand names); a 1940s sterling-silver charm bracelet with, among other items, a miniature toysoldier, telescope, cocktail shaker, torpedo and—somewhatincongruously—a thimble. The shoes and underpinnings arefrom the twenty-first century

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Simon Doonan

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When a bitchy, undermining, and blond eighth-grade "friend"told me that I was "no Christie Brinkley" but was "sort of. . .exotic." (N.B. This was Manhattan, not Peoria.)

Were your parents horrified?

More like oblivious.

Are you prone to mood swings?

I'm prone right now, having one.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

Yes, by you, Simon. Remember the turquoise and cream cro-cheted stole I wore to Bottino during my all-too-brief "pom-pom phase"?

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

My 1950s leopard-print coat from enokiworld.com—everyonehas a version of that now, but not with a label inside readingSidney Blumenthal, like the former New Republic journalistand adviser to Bill Clinton. I like to whip it open and impresspolitical types.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

This must be why I still shop at the Gap.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When someone goes into debt for it.

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ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Diana Vreeland, even though she wore basically the same thingevery day (right?).

Do men think you are hot?

Ask my husband.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Punk rock.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I want to be cremated, then stored in aforementioned hus-band's favorite piece of architectural pottery or scattered inCentral Park.

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CHAPTER 8

Who KilledJoie de Vivre?

Squeeze a lemon on the cat and shout, "Sourpuss!"

You wake up in a foul mood. You had that nasty dreamagain, the one where you are squatting in the corner of anempty white room eating your own hair.

To cheer yourself up, you squeeze your legs into a pair ofblack-and-white striped opaque tights. (Stylewise, you are defi-nitely an Existentialist. You love graphic hose and avant-gardefashion by obscure Belgian designers. You even have a collec-tion of bizarre prewar foundation garments.)

The striped leggings do not improve your mood. You feellike a clown/idiot/mime from the moment you leave the house.

At lunchtime you run out—in a blur of striped leggings—toget a manicure. At your request, a Korean lass, whose name isMisty, paints your nails a dark gloss forest green. You feel bet-ter. Something about the green nails makes the leggings more

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successful. On your way back to work, an old homeless personwho looks a bit like God yells something unrepeatable at you.You have another mood swing.

Now the day is over. You're waiting for the bus in the rain.Your hose are splashed and soggy, and so is your psyche. An-other day of seemingly pointless toil is over.

What you need is a quiet evening of self-love and pamperingto restore your faith in humanity. You order take-out dump-lings from your favorite restaurant and then—now comes themost important bit—you stop at the newsstand to pick up apile of this month's fashion magazines.

There's nothing quite like flicking through a pile of glossieswhile stuffing your face to restore a girl's joie de vivre.

Or is there?

You lock yourself in your room. You munch. You peruse.You munch. You flick. There's Gisele Bundchen lying sprawledon her back in a double-page spread clutching a designer hand-bag. She seems like a nice girl, but she looks a trifle pissed offin this picture.

Here's a group of models lolling in a hayloft looking totallydrained after doing God knows what. Flick the page.

The advertising and the editorials are chock-full of impos-sibly beautiful lads and chicks striking languid attitudes inzillion-dollar outfits and sucking in their cheeks.

What do they all have in common?

They all look acutely unhappy. Sullen. Miserable. Annoyed,even.

This seems so illogical: After all, isn't fashion supposed tobe upbeat and groovy, a dash of Abfab and a dollop of HollyGolightly? Isn't fashion supposed to be fun) Yet the pamperedlovelies in your glossies do not appear even remotely amused.Far from it. They all look as if they just got their test results

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back from the doctor. The diagnosis is not good. Now they arepreparing to die a lingering but gorgeous death.

Munching frantically, you search for more uplifting images.Flick! Flick! Something. Anything! Flick!

More ridiculously skinny people looking down theirnoses ... at you! Flick! Why did you fork out your hard-earned money to be condescended to by a bloody magazine?Flick! More articles about pompous, haughty people livingfabulous existences in palatial houses to which you know youand your leggings will never be invited. Flick! Sheesh! Thereare more smiling faces in the average medical catalog than inthese fashion periodicals. By the time you get to your horo-scope, your mood is darkening again: You seriously contem-plate hanging yourself with your own carnival hose.

Tossing the mags aside, you grab your mouse. How about abit of online shopping? Maybe that will cheer you up.

The landing pages of the luxury fashion websites are filledwith the same joyless images, www.morose.com. Every modellooks as if she wants to bitch-slap somebody or slit her ownthroat or both. She may be festooned with sparkling jewels orswathed in a brightiy colored designer frock, but her mood isblack. She might just as well be wearing a burlap sack for allthe fun and joy she is extracting from all that pricey raiment.

But why?

Why is it that luxury + fashion = misery? Why do so manyfashion magazines make you feel like poop? Why can't theseperiodicals be warm and communicative—and human!—in-stead of exclusionary, cold, and elitist?

Why are being happy and being cool deemed to be mutu-ally exclusive concepts?

While we try to figure this out, let's take a trip to a fashionshow. Surely there will be some joie de vivre here.

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Backstage at Bryant Park is a sea of laughter, excitement,and glamour. This is more like it! That playful creativity andcollaboration that makes fashion such a fun career is raging fullthrottle. Frantic last-minute fittings, hairdos, and maquillagecreate an atmosphere of modish, madcap Mardi Gras. Here areall those po-faced models from your magazine pages, but theyare barely recognizable.

Why?

Because they are actually enjoying themselves.

And, guess what? They look ten years younger for it. Gig-gling and goosing each other and quaffing champagne, theylaugh and gossip in various Eastern European languages, thevery essence of jeunesse doree.

Then the show starts and the laughter stops.

Once these Chechen chippies get out on the runway, it's awhole other story. The models, now looking much older, givethe impression that they are walking, albeit defiantiy, to theguillotine.

Why do they look so morose? They have no cause to bemiserable. They are young and gorgeous and lissome, and evena second-string gal gets paid infinitely more than she wouldtoiling in the copper mines back in Estonia.

So why aren't they skipping? Why aren't they shrieking withlaughter at their good fortune?

The lack of jollity and the relentiess stomping—where didthat ridiculous walk come from?—makes for an unrelentinglygrim spectator experience.

Why do those in charge assume that because something is ex-pensive it has to be presented in such an angry, humorless way?

Why is fun so anathema to the world of high fashion?

What would happen if Karl Lagerfeld started dating PhyllisDiller?

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Here's my theory:

At some point in our recent history—maybe it was duringthe Kurt Cobain-smelly-Nirvana-unwashed-sock period of theearly '90s—jollity went out of style. The Isaac Mizrahis, JeanPaul Gaultiers, and Todd Oldhams of the world—all brilliantcombiners of fashion and humor—moved to the back burnerof fashion.

The emaciated waif supplanted the sensuous, smiling glama-zon. Almost overnight, fun went out of style. It became hip tobe glum.

Seasons passed. Kurt shot himself. The angst-ridden '90sprogressed, and a dour minimalism became the norm. Fash-ion became "intellectual." The notion that only stupid, dorkypeople have fun became woven into the fabric of every HelmutLang blouse and Martin Margiela trouser.

Despite the fact that it has long since lost its original frisson,this exuberance-free vision of la mode continues unabated tothis day. The few remaining fashion designers—Betsey Johnsonor Heatherette—who relentiessly inject overt humor into theirpresentations have a hard time being taken seriously.

Let's take back the frivolity!

I refuse to accept the idea that style and humor are twomutually exclusive concepts. As a result, I have embarked on amission to make fun cool again, and vice versa.

My waking hours are now dedicated to injecting a bit ofhumor into the world of fashion. At Barneys, where I haveworked for more than twenty years, our marketing mantraspeaks for itself: TASTE LUXURY HUMOR. As much as Ilove a novel frock or an innovative blouse, my absolute favor-ite thing on earth is to watch people—thin, fat, fashionable,unfashionable, homeless—chuckling at a Barneys window orgiggling over the copy lines in a Barneys ad.

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As you set about the process of creating a more eccentri-cally glamorous you, you are bound to increase your exposureto the montage of potentially souring cooler-than-thou fash-ion imagery described above. You will need to have your witsabout you in order to navigate this world of tight-sphincteredpretentiousness. Please, I beg of you, let no day pass withoutreminding yourself that the glumming down of fashion is bothillogical and counterintuitive.

Oh! The utter pointlessness of a life without fun!

Only an idiot would accept the mandate to feel grim anddour after forking out hard-earned cash for trendy clothes orglossy mags. And you are not an idiot. You are a courageousrule breaker who is on a transformational quest. You are in theprocess of rejiggering your image, and there is no point in at-taining your goal unless you are having fun.

How to Have More Fun

Ditch the Politesse

"I like to be the right thing in the wrong placeand the wrong thing in the right place . . . Beingthe right thing in the wrong place and the wrongthing in the right place is worth it because some-thing funny always happens."

—Andy Warhol

An exaggerated sense of occasion, or any sense of occasion,for that matter, will automatically impede your ability to havefun. Conversely, a well-cultivated obliviousness to the conven-tions of any occasion is guaranteed to up the fun quotient.

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When people ask me, "What are you wearing to [such and suchevent]? I'm not sure what to wear . . . ," I experience a strongdesire to kill them. These whiny people, with their obsoletesense of appropriateness, are the Antichrist.

Because of their irrational and fun-destroying fear of be-ing either overdressed or underdressed, they are attempting tocreate a world where, on any given occasion, all participantsare uniformly attired.

I deplore this idea. The impulse to surround yourself withlike-minded folk in like-minded frocks signifies the end of civi-lization. I want every social event to be like the happening inthe movie Midnight Cowboy, or better yet, the party scene fromBeyond the Valley of the Dolls. Rampant individuality are mybuzzwords. If every social event were to showcase a fabuloussmorgasbord of humanity—duchesses and drug addicts, art-ists and bankers—the world would be a more entertaining andtherefore happier place.

And to the conformity freaks who are trying not to offendthe great unseen fashion god in the sky, let me reassure you onthis issue: Your concerns about dressing "appropriately" aretotally misplaced. Nobody in his or her right mind really caresenough about what you are wearing to censure you. If there issuch a person on the planet, then he or she—this self-appointedarbiter of "appropriateness"—deserves to be confronted with asmany "inappropriate" transgressions as possible.

And what, while we're on the subject, could possibly bemore fun than encountering someone who is "inappropriately"dressed? A pink satin frock at a funeral, a tiara for a Mondaymorning meeting—these are a few of my favorite things.

Back in the 1980s there was a senior buyer at Barneys whohad a reckless disregard for convention. She was an Existen-tialist of the first order. Every day I anticipated her arrival at

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work with jittering eagerness. One never knew what she wasgoing to wear: a severe antique Chanel suit with a massivenineteenth-century bow on her head, a silk faille cocoon coatin slate gray with matching beaded ballet slippers. Hers was adelicious form of style schizophrenia. She would think nothingof wearing a floor-length ball gown to a nine a.m. store man-agers' meeting.

She enjoyed dressing up, and everyone looked forward toseeing what her next outfit would be. It was fun. The idea of"work wear" or "career clothing" was repulsive to her, as it isto me.

(At this juncture, the pedants among you will be flickingback to the first chapter where I declared that professionalwomen—MDs and lawyers in particular—must never wearwacky clothes, and accusing me of inconsistency. To you nit-pickers, I say: (1) The young lady in question was not a gas-troenterologist, she was a fashion buyer, and (2) Stop being sopedantic.)

Retire Your Work Attire

London, 1978.

There I was, standing in the gloom of the sordid hovel Ihappily shared with a cross-dressing cabaret entertainer namedBiddie. We were living let vie boheme.

I was panting.

In the middle of the floor was a Matterhorn of rumpled gar-ments. They were my clothes. All of them.

Having accepted a window-dressing job in the UnitedStates, I was now attempting to pack before heading west insearch of a better life. It was all very Grapes of Wrath, the new-wave version.

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Having tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully—hence the pant-ing—to jam that Matterhorn of garments into two ratty suitcases,I was going nowhere fast. Clearly, some editing was in order.

I glanced across the room at my roommate's closet. What ahideously disorganized transgender hellhole it was! Men's andwomen's clothing battling it out for space on a single rollingrack. And yet, upon further inspection, I saw that there wasindeed some method to the madness. It was, albeit roughly, bi-sected by gender. The chiffon dresses were up one end and thetweed suits were up the other.

This gave me an idea.

I began by dividing my clothes into two groups. I dubbedone pile WORK and the other FABULOUS.

The work group comprised dull basic items: jeans, sweaters,dungarees, flannel shirts, and T-shirts. These were my schlep-ping clothes, garments that, if spattered with paint or ripped bynails, would not be lamented.

The fabulous group comprised my party clothes. Thesegarments—punk couture, sharkskin suits, fluorescent shirts,brothel-creeper shoes, and new-wave neckties—were theclothes I wore when I was shrieking and boozing and goingto Bowie concerts and to the Blitz to watch my roommateperform with his singing partner, whose name was Eve Ferret.These were the clothes I wore when I was having fun.

Looking at the two piles, one so associated with grindingtoil and the other with euphoric reward, I began to ques-tion the validity of this self-imposed system. I suddenly sawit for what it was: the fashion equivalent of having a "special"room—the nicest one in your house—that contains plastic-covered couches and is used only on "special" occasions and, asa result, hardly gets used at all.

There was something sad about the fabulous pile: It con-

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tained many rarely worn garments that I had been overly con-cerned to preserve: That blue and white satin jockey jacket—itsounds hideous but it was madly au courant during the glam-rock era—was now embarrassingly out of date. I had worn ittwice. What a waste!

Before you could say "gold lame toreador slacks," a solu-tion presented itself.

Stock shot of plane leaving Heathrow.

Stock shot of plane arriving at LAX.

Stock shot of people arriving at customs. One person ap-pears to be having much more fun than the others. C'est moil

I had left all the work clothes behind and packed only thefabulous clothes.

The moral of the story: Every day is a special day. A tear inyour chiffon? So what! A food stain on that satin ruffle? Bigdeal! A little paint spatter on that velvet blazer merely adds toyour overall patina.

When women ask me for fashion advice, I always say thesame thing: "Go home and throw out all your 'work' clothes!"

If you always dress as if you are going to a party or a Bowieconcert—or a Black Eyed Peas concert—you will always havemore fun.

The Blue Death

Among the discards on that floor, back in old Blighty, wereseveral pairs of jeans. I was glad to see the back of them. Therewas nothing special about them. Jeans were what people woreon the occasions when people did not care what they wore.

Back then in the late 1970s, who could have predicted thata mere thirty years later, the world would be in the grip of averitable denim plague?

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I call it the blue death.

The denim trend, which swung into action in the late '90swith the boot-cut, butt-crack craze, has gone on too long. Fartoo long.

In the counterculture 1960s, denim jeans were associatedwith pleasure and leisure: Woodstock, Easy Rider, etc., etc.

How paradoxical that these once-transgressive garments arenow, half a century later, sucking the inventiveness and fun outof dressing up.

Denim has become a disempowering standby.

The result: A horrible conformity is raging whereby theentire earth's female population—not just the Evas deridedin Chapter 1—is squeezing its collective ass into denim jeansof one brand or another and teaming them with a floozy tanktop or halter. This phoned-in, homogenizing look is a corner-cutting device, a shortcut to cool, which reeks of faux bohemiaand will jeopardize your ability to attain any acceptable level ofglamorous eccentricity.

Don't be lazy.

If you put all your jeans in a bag and drop them off atGoodwill, you will force yourself to seek out alternatives. Youwill automatically gain in individuality. You will find yourselfwearing a sequined Mexican dirndl (Gypsy) or black gabardinegauchos (Existentialist), and you will automatically have morefun. I'm talking good clean wholesome fun sans stimulants.Which brings us conveniently to . . .

My Gray Teeth

I have a drug/booze theory—not a popular one, I will admit—that people who are incapable of having fun without gettingsmashed or high do not really understand fun. They have

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bought into a contemporary Hollywood/Lindsay Lohan/ParisHilton version of fun. The cocktails and coke-snorting night-life. If I sound like a Jehovah's Witness, well, I am, sort of.

For years I never dined, discoed, mingled, or frolicked with-out getting thoroughly smashed. I was lubricated. Well-oiled.

One night in the early '80s, I rolled home from either thePalladium, Area Club, the Pyramid, Danceteria, or possibly allfour and began babbling incoherentiy at Robert, a nontransves-tite roommate, about what a simply faboo time I had had andhow simply beeeeeeyond Iman looked and Dianne Brill thisand Andy Warhol that and blah blah blah. I suspect I mighthave been eating a bowl of cereal at the time.

Robert, I should explain, hails from Carlisle in the north ofEngland, where people have a wonderful tradition called plainspeaking, also known as Northern plain speaking. It's the En-glish working-class equivalent of "telling it like it is."

After listening to my repetitive drunken braying for aboutfive minutes, and watching cereal and names drop from my lips,my pal, a reformed abuser of long-standing, let me have it.

"You're slurring like a drunken old fishwife. You smell like abarmaid's apron, and your teeth are a heinous gray color fromdrinking red wine," he hectored, adding, somewhat unneces-sarily, "and you're a mess!"

Something about this caring intervention touched a nerve.

I felt as if a gauntiet had been thrown down: "You are in-capable of having a good time without getting snot-slingingdrunk," his challenge seemed to say.

I ceased boozing on the spot and have not touched a dropsince.

For more than twenty years I have navigated the socialwhirl of New York while stone-cold sober. This has been, andcontinues to be, a very amusing experience. As much fun as

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life was when I was guzzling booze, it is fifty times more hi-lariously surreal without the anesthetizing benefits of alcohol.It was only after giving up booze that I came to understandthe true nature of fun: Fun is infantile.

Fun is about playing Twister or Ping-Pong.

Fun is about being unsophisticated.

Fun is about embracing embarrassment and owning it.

Fun is about dorky things like Renaissance fairs where youcan wear your striped leggings without fear of being mocked.

Fun is running up to the Russian embassy, knocking on thedoor, and shouting, "Hello! Is Len in>"

Fun is bringing a tambourine to work.

Fun is learning to play the theremin and then giving con-certs to the funsters at the neighborhood old folks' home.

Fun is about squeezing a lemon on the cat and shouting,"Sourpuss!"

Fun is about enjoying fashion and not venerating it.

Fun is doodling mustaches on those dour fashion magazineswith a big fat Sharpie.

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aI am, in point of fact, a dork. *

PROFILE

MALCOLM GLADWELL

Bestselling author, he of the exuberant Afro andThorn Browne suits, responds to the Eecentric Glamourquestionnaire. (Like all male heterosexual glamorouseccentrics, he is in deep denial.)

What are you wearing?

Levi's. Some kind of striped shirt and a gray jacket I bought onGreenwich Street.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

I hate to break it to you, but I don't consider myself either eccen-tric or glamorous. I am, in point of fact, a dork—something myfriends have realized (and mercifully kept to themselves) for years.

Were your parents horrified?

My parents actually do find me glamorous. But that's becausethey live in a very small town in rural southern Ontario. Theywould find me glamorous if I lived in Rochester.

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Are you prone to mood swings?

Almost never. In fact, almost nothing—even recreationaldrugs—can shake me out of my normal placidity.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

Quite the opposite! I suspect that my friends snicker about myboringness behind my back. I remember when I first met myfriend DeeDee Gordon, who really is a glamorous eccentric,and she looked at what I was wearing (as I recall, an ill-fittingblack jacket) and actually rolled her eyes. That was my firstencounter with DeeDee: an eye roll. It's been downhill fromthere.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

I have a velvet jacket that I bought, in a moment of insanity, inSoHo. I wore it once and felt so excruciatingly self-consciousthat I've never worn it again. I'm about to give it to the Salva-tion Army.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

You mean—be even more boring? Not likely!

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

Really tough for me to say. I regard all those who are higher upthe fashion food chain than me with undisguised awe. There isno idiocy in my book. Only greater and greater degrees of dar-ing and panache.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

No contest. Brian Eno. I met him once and was speechless the

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entire evening. All I remember is that he spoke in perfectlyformed paragraphs. You could have transcribed his dinner tableconversation and published it verbatim. Now there's a trueglamorous eccentric! He gave me his email address afterwardand told me to contact him, but I was too chicken. Oh well.

Do women think you are hot?

I have no idea. I hope so.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Again answering hypothetically, white sneakers? The nonath-letic wearing of track pants? Any sort of T-shirt or sweatshirtwith an Ivy League college on it?

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

Believe it or not, I love Bobst Library at NYU more than justabout anywhere. Pd like to be buried in the current periodicalsroom, maybe next to the unbound volumes of the Journal ofPersonality and Social Psychology (my favorite journal). Ideally,people would have to step over my grave to read the latestissue. What would I be wearing? God knows. Maybe a TorontoMaple Leafs hockey jersey. That's my hometown. Go, Canada!

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CHAPTER 9

FrenchwomenDon't Know Diddly

Vive la vulgar ite!

Frenchwomen are so fabulous that they can smoke loads ofGitanes without getting bad breath or brown teeth.

Frenchwomen can eat croissants without getting crumbson their cashmere cardigans or worrying about cholesterol orbecoming hideously obese.

Frenchwomen always take off one accessory before leavingthe house.

Frenchwomen understand how to keep their men happyin special secret Frenchy ways, which sometimes involve blacklingerie.

Frenchwomen can tie an Hermes scarf on their heads andnot end up looking Kurdish, not that there's anything wrongwith looking Kurdish.

Frenchwomen put lavender in their panty drawers.

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Frenchwomen are so bloody perfect and superior it's annoy-ing.

Frenchwomen are full of chic!

I'm driving through Miami Beach and I'm feeling ridiculouslychirpy. Who doesn't love Florida? Florida is happy and gaudy.Florida is cheery and garish and unpretentious and American.Florida is proof that a dollop of vulgarity is as uplifting and life-affirming as a dose of Zoloft.

I switch the radio dial to NPR.

"If I 'ave a little dessert at dinner, maybe I say non to zecroissant ze next morning."

It's that spokeslady for all things French, Madame MireilleGuiliano, and she's is being interviewed about her wildly suc-cessful book French Women Don't Get Fat. Her lightiy accentedvoice is quietiy confident, imperious, some might say.

"If I eat ze croissant or brioche in ze morning, zen nodessert."

There is something peculiarly French about the calm su-periority with which Madame Guiliano offers up her pearls ofwisdom to the American public. The subtext of her message isclear: Permit me, s*il vous plait, to prevent you vulgar Ameri-cans from turning into a nation of total cochons.

As I engage more with the content of Mireille's interview,I realize that it is, especially in the context of NPR, profoundlymundane. Despite the gravitas of her delivery, all she is reallydoing is advising us to refrain from stuffing our gobs with ex-cessive amounts of food. The content of her message seems atrifle obvious. How is she getting away with it? Who decidedthat this fancy broad had the requisite gravitas for a lengthyspot on the Diane Rheims Show? It's hard to escape the feeling

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that La Guiliano got booked for the show simply because sheis French. If she were American, nobody would care what sheate or when.

As I listen to her pronouncements, I try to imagine thechorus of bewildered yawns that would greet a midwesternhousewife if she went on National Public Radio and doled outsimilar tips.

Mrs. Average: "If I overdo the ambrosia salad at night, thenI always hold back on the Entenmann's the next morning."

But Mireille is not from the Midwest. Mireille is French. Soshe has la carte blanche to blather on about all kinds of boringFrenchy things.

I'm sure she is not deliberately trying to bore us. Heragenda, and that of so many French know-it-alls before her, ismore subrie and complex. It is as follows: I, Mireille Guiliano,am asserting my cultural preeminence by comparing you gar-gantuan, undisciplined junk-food-eating Yanks to me and myfellow Frogettes. We have finesse and restraint. You do not.Drawing attention to this fact gives me great pleasure. It is myfavorite pastime.

Mireille's NPR talk got me thinking about Frenchwomenand their role as style yardsticks in the lives of we ordinary non-Frenchies.

Why, oh why, are we so enamored of les Francaises?

They have tyrannized us for centuries with the dreaded no-tion of the faux pas, which, by the way, is the lethal archenemyof eccentric glamour. A faux pas is to a glamorous eccentricwhat a peanut butter sandwich is to somebody with a ragingfirst-degree nuclear peanut allergy. Not good. The whole in-tent of the faux pas is to inhibit any glimmerings of the rule-breaking impulse that is the basis of eccentric glamour.

So why do we hang idiotically on their every word, as if

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they know so much more about style and general fabulous-ness than we do? How did all these fag-smoking madames andmademoiselles manage to coax us all into this state of pathetic,incontinent, jibbering, masochistic insecurity?

In the interests of fairness, let's look at a couple of the posi-tive things the French have given the world.

First and foremost—a personal favorite of mine—we havethe obscure concept of chien. The nuanced use of the wordchien, though it has been around for decades in Paree, hasnever crossed the Atlantic. This could also have something todo with the fact that every time a French bloke vocally admiresthe chien of an American visitor, he gets his face slapped.

What the hell is chien? The literal translation is "dog.^

My translation? Chien = eccentric glamour!

When the Frogs say a woman has du chien, they do notmean to imply that she is a dog. Au contraire! They mean thatshe has something very special that sets her apart from thecrowd. Impertinent, irreverent, slightly bitchy, a tad mysterious,nonbourgeois, charming, self-invented, good at applying eye-liner, amused, and above all nonconformist, the mademoisellewith chien is a fabulous confection of style, self-empowerment,and black patent sling-backs.

If you want to get a real eyeful of chien, take at look atsome of the groovy French movie stars of the last century:Brigitte Bardot, Fanny Ardant, Isabelles Adjani and Huppert,Jeanne Moreau, Jane Birkin, Zizi Jeanmaire, Simone Signoret,Juliette Greco, Francoise Hardy. Bonjour! The list is a longone. Even the more homely broads like Claude Pompidouand Edith Piaf had an idiosyncratic style. But all these il-lustrious ladies are all dyun certain age or pushing up thedaisies. Where are their equals today? They would appear tohave no contemporary equivalents. Open a French magazine

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d'aujourd'hui and all you will see are pictures of American tab-loid queens.

So why, given that the Deneuves and Moreaus would appearto have no successors, do the French still have our marrons gla-ces in such a viselike grip?

I can't help thinking that Coco Chanel has something todo with it. Somehow, even thirty-five years after her death, thehaughty, highly quotable ghost of Coco Chanel has the abilityto reach down (or up) and create waves of self-loathing in non-Frogs. Her voice lives on in her famous aphorisms.

"Elegance is refusal" is surely one of Chanel's best-knownand, truth be told, strangest sayings.

Petite probleme: What the hell does it mean?

Nobody knows and nobody seems willing to ask. When weordinary folk encounter this bewildering statement, all we cando is wince and retreat to the shameful inelegance of our non-French, unrefused lives. Nobody dares to ask the obvious ques-tion: Refusal to do what, exacriy, Madame Coco?

Refusal to take out the garbage?

Refusal to wear a rainbow Afro wig?

Refusal to be less horribly French?

Refusal to eat a tuna melt?

Refusal to say what exactly one is refusing to refuse?

Nobody seems to have any idea.

This, by the way, is classic French tactic: By being obliqueand incomprehensible, the French keep us all in a jittery stateof oppression.

Much as I would love to blame Madame Chanel for ourpathological reverence for all things French, I think theremight be another woman—an American!—who is even moreculpable. I refer to Judith Krantz.

In her worldwide blockbuster Scruples—over six million

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copies sold—La Krantz vaunts the mystical superiority of theFrench.

Here's the story: The heroine, one Honey Winthrop, is"a good child with a kind heart, though not much of a heart-breaker." She is ripe for a duck/swan transformation. This, ac-cording to La Krantz's plotline, cannot possibly happen as longas she stays Stateside. Honey's metamorphosis begins only aftershe alights on French soil and waddles into the clutches of themysterious Comtesse Lilianne de Vertdulac.

La Comtesse is a shabby-chic aristo who, having fallenon hard times, takes in genteel paying foreigners from goodfamilies, teaches them to speak French and oh so much, muchmore. Krantz describes La Comtesse as follows: "Her style wasa mixture of innate taste stripped down to its simplest expres-sion and a personal evasiveness, a quality of holding herselfback, eluding intimacy, which gave her that fascination whichforthcoming people never inspire."

So here it is in a nutshell: When people are jolly and openand friendly (i.e., American) they lose out. Who ends up in thedriver's seat? Who gets to pull the strings? The dour and un-forthcoming people of the world! The French!

Needless to say, La Comtesse, with her watery soups andimpeccably cut suits, successfully transforms Honey from "ababy hippopotamus" into an unimpeachably chic replica ofherself. Our heroine returns to America where, armed withher flawless sense of (French) style, she snags a rich husbandand becomes a retailing legend. The implication to the zillionsof Krantz readers is clear: Get your ass over to Paris and startsoaking up the ambience or resign yourself to a tawdry life oftrailer parks and Dairy Queens. Quelle horreur!

While conceding that France has produced a breathtakingtorrent of culture and fashion, I must confess that I have always

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found French people slightly off-putting, sinister even. We are,after all, talking about the people who invented not only theguillotine but also "the French wash" (trans: sloshing cologneon your body in lieu of a more complete ablution).

In the meantime, what's to be done? How do we stopthem?

Why are they—the very same race that invented the con-cept of chien—trying to impede the development of our ec-centric glamour and make us all feel that the worlds of styleand taste were peppered with land mines, the location ofwhich was unknown to everyone except French chicks? Howdo we get the French down off their high horses and into thegutter along with the rest of us? How do we divest ourselves ofthis need to feel inferior to them in matters of style and fash-ion? How do we instigate a characterological change in theFrench?

Here's a possible solution: According to Madame MireilleGuiliano, the average French woman is so fabulously disci-plined that, shockingly, she does not eat between meals. RienlNothing!

No beef jerky. No Cheetos! No Fritos! No midmorningsnacks for her!

Though this restraint is obviously a huge factor in the main-tenance of those youthful French figures, I think there is moreto the story: Might not this overly anal-retentive attitude tocuisine and diet be the reason why Francoise and Brigitte andSolange are always so bad-tempered and disdainful? Are theynot merely grumpy because they are hungry?

There's no question that small portions—combined, ofcourse, with a serious commitment to Gauloises—can keepobesity at bay, but I suspect that such a lifestyle might haveserious emotional side effects. We're talking major mood

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swings. Think about it! It makes perfect sense. Hungry + thin= svelte + grumpy.

No wonder they are always vaguely annoyed. Put yourself intheir position: Wouldn't you be a tad irate if everyone aroundyou was chomping on Cracker Jack and Pirate's Booty and youcouldn't have any because you were French?

It is my firm belief that, by introducing the Frogs to Ameri-can snack foods—Nutbutters, Pringles, Lorna Doones, and thelike—we may be able to take the edge off those brittie Gallicpersonalities and create some common ground. Simply put:The French could benefit enormously from a dollop of our fast-food vulgarity.

Vulgarity is the key!

Mireille has got it all wrong.

We do not need their help. They need our help and ourCheetos and our vulgarity.

Vive la vulgaritel

When Coco Chanel, who was probably lighting up her hun-dredth fag of the day at the time, said, "Luxury is the absenceof vulgarity," she was attempting something very wicked. Shewas trying to give vulgarity a bad name. I cannot help feelingshe was also simultaneously attempting to option the rites tothe idea ofjjood taste on behalf of French women for all eter-nity!

Naughty Coco! Bad!

She should not be allowed to get away with it. Let's stormthe Bastille and take back la nuit and turn the tables on theFrogs and show them that we, the great people of America, canbe luxurious and vulgar all at the same time, all while eating amassive bucket of KFC.

Libertel Fraternitel Vulgaritel

Hit the streets! Spread the word! If you meet any resistance,

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subdue your opponent with a quote from the very AmericanDiana Vreeland: "Vulgarity is a very important ingredient inlife. A little bad taste is like a nice splash of paprika. We all needa splash of bad taste—it's hearty, it's healthy, it's physical. Notaste is what I'm against."

Put that in your bong and smoke it, Madame Coco!

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"Open-toe sandals with too long nails and aFrench pedicure with rhinestones. Eeeuw!"

PROFILE

KELLY WEARSTLER

Star of Top Design, the chicest and most eccentricallyglamorous interior designer since Elsie de Wolfe respondsto the Eccentric Glamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

A Doo-ri top, Hysteric Glamour jeans, Lanvin flats, and a SolangeAzagury-Partridge ring. It's Sunday, so I'm in my flea-market-scouring outfit.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I began dressing my teddy bear Frank in all sorts of fash-ionably eccentric getups at the age of four. Frank was muse tomy Coco.

Were your parents horrified?

Of course not, they loved it! Frank the transvestite teddy bearhad the best wardrobe in the entire house.

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Are you prone to mood swings?

No, very even-keeled. Never hurled a Giacometti sculpture . . .yet.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I hope so. That means people are paying attention.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

My collection of vintage Ungaro dresses. They have lots ofruching so they make me feel as if I've been totally gift wrapped.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

Absolutely not! I'm addicted and loving it.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

Never. It's fun to blur the lines between costume and what'sfashionable.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Doris Duke and Iris Apfel. Of course, the Marchesa Casatipretty much invented the genre.

Do men think you are hot?

My husband does, and that's all that matters.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Open-toe sandals with too long nails and a French pedicurewith rhinestones. Eeeuw!

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Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

Whatever is in vogue in a hundred years. I hope there will besome draping and ruching going on. I want to be gift wrappedfor eternity.

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CHAPTER 10

A Large Womanon a Small Stool

An etiquette for the twenty-first century

Good morning, class. Today I am going to teach you avital and life-changing nugget of etiquette called the pic-ture pose.

I stole it from an insanely magical old tome titled TheBerkeley School Guide to Beauty, Charm and Poise publishedby Milady in 1962. The picture pose is on page 100. See thatdrawing of the chick standing in the doorway? She's practicingher picture pose.

Want to try? It's terribly easy. Run to the nearest doorwayand go for it!

Place your left foot forward.

Place your left hand on your hip in a loose fist.

Place your right hand on the door frame, shoulder

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high. Your ringers will point upward toward the ceil-ing.

Why, you may well ask, are you standing in the doorway as ifbreaking wind?

Read the text and all will be revealed.

The self-conscious woman has a tendency to "sneak"into a room as though she had no right to be there.She furtively glances around, selects the first chairin sight and then rushes pell-mell, half-seated in theprocess, to become as obscure as possible. Her firstimpulse is to sit immediately.

When a poised woman [that's supposed to beyou] comes into a room through an open doorway,she pauses for a moment to orient herself.

She will make mental notes, first of all, on thepeople in the room. They will be the focal point ofher interest. Then she will look for a chair that willflatter her height and build. A large woman will lookridiculous on a small stool. A small girl, five foot twowith eyes of blue, will be buried, quite literally in awingback chair.

What possible function can this demented snippet of anach-ronistic etiquette serve you, the glamorous eccentric?

According to the good folks at Milady, the picture pose "al-lows others a moment to become aware of your presence."

Voila!

The regular assumption of the picture pose is vital for thosewho are in the process of increasing their commitment to eccen-tric glamour. By pausing in the door frame you, the glamorous

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eccentric, are able, by observing your impact on colleagues andfriends, to monitor the progress of your style metamorphosis.

The picture pose is shockingly easy to execute. A little prac-tice makes perfect. Yes, I said practice.

The folks at the Berkeley School suggest that, before inflict-ing your picture pose (P.P.) on your friends and colleagues,you take a few moments to stand in the doorway at home andpractice—repeatedly assuming and "dissolving" your P.P.—until you are picture-perfect. Do not stint on the practice runs.When you make your first foray into public picture posing, youdo not want your fingers to be pointing the wrong way on thedoor frame.

I am a huge advocate of the picture pose. Applicable toboth men and women, this miniritual is so profoundly usefulthat I feel it should be taught in schools. Incorporating theP.P. into your life must be undertaken with an air of devotionalreverence. Picture posing is serious business. Picture posing canchange the world.

Imagine how much more interesting, meaningful and—yes!—exciting life would be if, at every business meeting, highschool prom, gallery opening, or family gathering, new arrivalswould pause in the doorway, assuming "this beautiful asym-metrical pose."

Humdrum activities—taking out the garbage, entering anail salon—would be treated with a newfound enthusiasm andrespect by all parties concerned. By dignifying the day-to-day,we increase our appreciation for the simple things in life. It'spositively Buddhist. Every poseur would enter every room witha heightened sense of his or her importance and its impact onothers. There would be no more nose picking or crotch scratch-ing. Instead of skulking into the room as if the gathering, andtheir attendance, was of no consequence, individuals would all

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rise to the occasion. Each arriving poseur would contribute tothe general pool of glamour—eccentric and otherwise—therebyaverting wars and other countless horrors.

Back in 1962, when the publishing house of Milady was crank-ing 'em out, etiquette, and the learning thereof, was part of ayoung lady's rite of passage. Every miss learned how to walkwith a book on her head and how to pick a stool that matchedthe size of her ass. Etiquette was critical: Learning how to getout of a car without flashing your panties to the whole neigh-borhood—Britney bonjourl— was as important as breathing.Lapses in etiquette had fatal consequences: Sloppy girls whocould not hold a knife and fork correcdy were often thrown inthe local loony bin or accused of being communists.

Ah! The good old days!

Unfortunately, the counterculture arrived and the conceptof etiquette went out of style. Sixties flower children thoughtetiquette was "for squares, man." Any hippie who stood in thedoorway of the yurt or local head shop practicing the picturepose would be ignored or assumed to be undergoing some kindof bad trip, man.

Eccentric Etiquette

It has been decades since the subject of etiquette was taken se-riously. A twenty-first-century guide to mores and manners, inparticular something that addresses the needs of the emergingglamorous eccentric, is sorely needed.

The glamorous eccentric is gregarious and curious. She isinterested in all aspects of contemporary culture. She is mixing

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and mingling in a broad range of social milieux. The followingetiquette is designed to make her journey enriching and morepleasurable.

Impertinent Questions

Formerly the opposite of good etiquette, asking blunt ques-tions is now positively de rigueur.

Asking people's gender

As the transgender frenzy continues and cross-dressers and F-to-Ms proliferate, it is vital that we be permitted to ask completestrangers, glamorous eccentrics notwithstanding, "Are you aman or a woman?"

When young ladies—especially those attending the nation'smore prestigious colleges—are growing sideburns and havingdouble mastectomies, it is only reasonable that one should beable to confront this issue head on by asking, "Are you Arthuror Martha?"

I personally would welcome this revision to social etiquette.Being on the petit side, I am constantly being mistaken for awoman, especially if I wear a tightly belted trench coat andoversized dark glasses.

This, in and of itself, is not a problem. To have one's gendermisidentified is not such a big deal. To be told that one is enter-ing the wrong bathroom is mildly embarrassing and litde more.

The real problem lies with the misidentifier.

If these people—taxi drivers, waitresses, and the like—mistakenly call me "madam" and I then take it upon myself tocorrect them, they are often far from pleased.

When I say, " No, sorry, luv, I am a bloke," they tend to

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have one of two reactions, both of which I could live without.

More often than not, the stranger gets irate.

If I say, "Actually, it's 'sir' and not 'madam,' " the typicaltaxi driver tut-tuts and gives me a how-dare-you-make-a-fool -out-of-me-by-not-looking-more-gender-appropriate kind of alook. Blame the vie! Suddenly it's all my fault. Others' disap-pointment in their own perceptual abilities—"I'm so dumb, Icannot even tell what gender people are"—morphs into angerthat is directed at me, the object of their misidentification, theinnocent bystander.

The alternative reaction is, for me, no less perturbing.Those who do not become annoyed at me invariably prostratethemselves with contrition: "Oh. I am sosssoooo sorry!" theyshriek as if misidentifying a man as a woman was a crime akinto slapping a grandmother.

This entire drama, with all its sexist implications, could beavoided if the interrogator had the carte blanche to establishgender in a straightforward manner.

Asking how much things cost

Long considered the height of nouveau riche vulgarity, askingthe price of something is not only necessary, it's now a life-and-death matter. This applies not only to glamorous eccentrics butto the entire populace. Why? Because expensive things nowlook cheap and cheap things are now made to look expensive.This is especially true of handbags.

Asking a lady's age

Now that so many women—yes, I'm talking about those Evasagain—have fake hair and fake boobs, and resemble thirty-

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something, bleach-blond prostitutes, it is vital that the glameccentric be given carte blanche to break with the conventionalnotions of politesse. If someone is so Botoxed that you haveabsolutely no idea whether that someone was born before orafter the war—the Crimean War, that is—it is extremely hard toengage in normal conversation.

Asking if a person has had work done

Now that women of all ages are going through the tortureand expense of transforming themselves into thirty-something,bleach-blond prostitutes, it is only polite to show an interest inwhich particular procedures were undertaken to achieve thislook.

(Following on the previous two pointers, it must now besocially acceptable to ask someone whether she is, in fact, athirty-something, bleach-blond prostitute.)

Meeting and greeting without germs

I've ranted about the horrors of handshaking for years andnobody listened. The result? All kinds of plagues—mumps andbedbugs—are making a comeback.

In an effort to stay germ free, I have adopted, with greatsuccess, my own signature wave. I thoroughly recommendthat everyone, regardless of how glamorous or eccentric, fol-low suit. A signature wave not only keeps the cooties at bay byeliminating all casual physical contact, it adds a memorable jene sais quoi to your picture pose entrances.

Here's how I do mine: I hold my fist level with my shoul-der, as if I am about to make a black power salute. I then flexmy fingers up and down in tight unison. The look and feel of

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this wave recalls the gesturing paw of those large plaster catsthat adorn untrendy Japanese restaurants.

Lolling and lounging—the new guest etiquette

A glamorous eccentric rarely stands for any length of time. Sheis what the French call unegrande horizontale.

Despite the self-evident glamour of the lounging position, Ifind that people in general are reluctant to assume a recumbentposition. When family or friends come to my house for dinneror cocktails, I have a terrible time getting them to sit down andrecline.

In my mind's eye I see them all lounging on floor pillows, ala Yves Saint Laurent in Marrakech circa 1971. My guests rarelyseem to share my vision: In a bizarre and incomprehensiblegesture of politesse, the guests, no matter how bohemian orwacky, all stand in an erect cluster in the middle of the livingroom, looking like a choir of lost children.

Nothing I do, no amount of badgering, succeeds in gettingthem to sit.

I have tried various methods. I have even toyed with induc-ing physical collapse by grinding up quaaludes, or more up todate downers, into their drinks.

At my last gathering I tried the following ruse: I sidled upto a guest and hissed, "I just had this couch re upholstered.Would you mind trying it out and telling me if you think it'stoo poofy?" This worked for only a moment or two, before theguest popped up again.

The only thing that seems to work is to tell them exacdywhat I have in mind: "I am striving to evoke the ambience of aParisian salon—you know, George Sand, Marcel Proust—so sitdown before I strike you with this handy Lucite obelisk!"

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Hostess gifts

Thanks to the easy hookups of the internet, the cost of datinghas plummeted. The three candlelit dinners that were normallyrequired before you could put your hand inside a person'sblouse without seeming pushy are a thing of the past.

The cost savings for daters have been so spectacular that anew etiquette seems in order.

When descending on a stranger's pad for a bit of what theBrits call "slap and tickle," it seems only fair to bring a host orhostess gift. There is nothing glam or eccentric about arrivingempty-handed.

Since you do not know his or her decor style, it seems bestto stick with food (e.g., chocolate-covered pretzels). If you arecounting calories, there's always that old standby, the scentedcandle. Since other people's houses always smell bad, you maywish to light it before you enter: "Look what I brought you!Doesn't it smell fab? Now what was your name, again?"

Pot dealer etiquette

This is primarily aimed at all you Gypsies: Having your pot dealerdrop by someone else's chichi art-world dinner party neverfailed to cause a shudder of horror and indignation among hostand guest alike. As a nonsmoker—and therefore a Switzerlandof sorts—I feel I can bring some neutrality and objectivity tothis situation. Honesty compels me to admit that I am pro-potdealer: The arrival of a mysterious and attractive criminal addsa memorable frisson of excitement to any occasion. Just don'ttry it at my house.

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Shiny happy people

Instituting a new etiquette will not meet with much resistance.I suspect that most of your chums will welcome it. A spirit ofcooperative gentility characterizes the times we live in. In myopinion, the general population has become much more politethan in the past. Surprising, isn't it? People may be piercingand tattooing every extremity and dressing like hos and pimps,but they are, in general, far more genteel than their boozy, bel-ligerent grandparents.

There are those who disagree with me. Books about thedeplorable state of contemporary manners are a dime a dozen.The assertion that our manners have degenerated is made, inmy opinion, by people with lousy memories.

Examples:

• Road rage was much worse before there was a namefor it.

• In the 1970s, everyone was getting raped and mur-dered. The only way to protect yourself was to becomea big butch vigilante a la Charles Bronson.

• In the past, a trip to the movies—even Bedknobs andBroomsticks—invariably entailed sitting next to someonewho chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes. As a result, formost of my childhood I smelled like a kipper.

• In the past, people thought nothing of saying thingslike, "Hey, coolie! What time is it?" (When I first ar-rived in the United States in the 1970s, I heard thisquestion hurled at a Chinese man from a passing

car.)

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• In the past, men pinched women's asses and pervertsused to pinch my knees when I rode the bus in my littlegray school shorts. To live was to be pinched.

If a whiny person—i.e., someone who did not get pinchedas often as he or she might have preferred—wants to dem-onstrate how manners in our society have degenerated, thatperson usually focuses on some aspect of communications tech-nology. Boring rants about cell phone usage are part and parcelof any conversation about contemporary social etiquette.

As someone who would much rather listen to other people'scell phone chats than to my own, I find the prevailing anti-phone attitude very twee and incomprehensible.

I am always fascinated and grateful to hear a completestranger yakking loudly about her indigestion or making plansfor the evening. To cell phone users, I say, "Don't be so selfish!Turn up the volume! Don't you have speaker phone?"

As a glamorous eccentric, it is vital that you have as muchinformation as possible about other people's private lives. Youare a student of human nature. What could be more fascinatingand inspiring than these miniwindows into the lives and dramasof others?

Where is this cell phone user dining?

With whom?

What will these two lovers be eating?

Why aren't they more excited about it?

Are they really in love, or is this a breakup date?

They like brussels sprouts. Me too!

When the lady enters that particular restaurant to meet herbeau, will she have the good sense to pause in the doorway to"allow others to become aware of her presence?" Will she finda stool that is the right size for her butt?

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CCT^

cFve been mocked for weaving

exactly what the mockers wind up

wearing ten years later. *

PROFILE

AMY FINE COLLINS

Author, mother. Vanity Fair scribe, muse to GeoffreyBeene and to Ralph Rucci, an egret of 1950s new lookelegance responds to the Eccentric Glamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

At this very moment I am wearing a moss-colored, sleevelesswool-jersey Ralph Rucci trapeze dress, with a crocodile insertunder the bust. On my feet are Manolo zebra-linen sling-backswith mother-of-pearl paillettes.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I asked my grandfather to polish the scuffed soles of mynew Buster Brown black patent leather Mary Janes.

Were your parents horrified?

My parents were enablers.

Are you prone to mood swings?

If I get less than ten hours of sleep a night, yes.

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Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I've been mocked for wearing exactly what the mockers windup wearing ten years later. For example, at Columbia Univer-sity in 1985, I was teased for wearing "bedroom slippers" toclass. FYI: Those were the first Manolo mules seen in America.Around the same period a mother and child pointed andlaughed at me for wearing Pucci. During the years I lived inthe South—late '60s to early '70s—I was taunted for my modminidresses and then for my haute hippie drag.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

The three-way mirror, in which I see my reflection!

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

Sometimes I dream of reducing my wardrobe to a uniform ofblack trousers and black cashmere sweaters.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When you lose your social conscience, and desperate vanityovertakes you.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

I have always been inspired by the drawings of Gruau and Eric.

Do men think you are hot?

What do you think? The men from whom I hear the most ad-miring comments are homeless, gay, black street people. Maybethat's because they feel they've got nothing to lose by speakingtheir minds. Any further information on this subject is too pri-vate or too dangerous to divulge!

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ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

What is the thing that most offends your glamourouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Conformity, naturally, and fear, which actually is the source ofconformity. I have no respect for people with received ideasand received tastes who don't recognize them as such. I'm alsoimpatient with people who adopt the form of things withoutunderstanding their substance.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

It's hard to choose what to wear for the final exit, and this iswhy: I'd like to go out in the dress I had on during the happi-est moments of my life. There is already a huge abundance ofhappy moments—and therefore too many dresses to choosefrom—and, as Frank Sinatra sings, "The best is yet to come."So how about this: Why not let my daughter choose what shewants to keep for herself, and then bury me pharoah-stylewith the rest of my wardrobe? There's already a plot for me atWoodlawn, but with this scenario probably not enough room.

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CHAPTER 11

A-List CelebsDon't Puke in Their Purses

Fame and the glam eccentric

Eccentric glamour, whether Existentialist, Gypsy, Socialite,or any combo thereof, will increase your visibility. Theglamorous eccentric looms larger in her community or work-place than the average lady.

As your eccentric glamour quotient increases, so will yournotoriety. People will remember you. People will drop theirmagazines when you enter the nail salon and say things like,"Thank God you're here! Now, tell me, where did you get thatGendarme cape and how did you figure out it would look sogood with those Gap capri pants?"

A certain notoriety is part of the deal. Brace yourself for theincreased attention.

People say fame is a bitch. I think it would be more accurate

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to say, "Fame is a bitch, but a dash of low-level notoriety is ab-solutely gorgeous!"

I come from a showbiz family: My great-aunt Florencewas a ventriloquist. Let me rephrase that: My great-aunt Flowas a lousy amateur ventriloquist. "You can see her lips mov-ing from across the street," people always said whenever Flo'sname came up. Despite the shortcomings of her performances,Aunt Flo, a glam eccentric in a splashy print frock invariably ac-cessorized with a doll of some description, enjoyed that genrenotoriety of which I speak. Flo loomed large, albeit only withina ten-block radius of her humble row house. She was an F-listcelebrity back when Kathy Griffin was just a mewling brat.

When the subject of fame comes up, I always think of long-deceased Great-Aunt Florence: Flo's level of fame is the best!Brad and Angelina and Madonna and TomKat should prayevery night that their fame could become as dusty and iffy asFlo's. Flo has, in this regard, been a beacon of inspiration tomyself. Thanks to this deceased ventroquilist I too am the proudpossessor of an exquisitely second-rate notoriety. I am as famousas Flo, the well-liked but lousy ventriloquist: i.e., not very.

However, I would not trade my F-list fame for all the legwarmers in Jane Fonda's attic. While A-listers may get more free-bies than me, the quality of my life is infinitely preferable to theirs.

Here's how I see it: If an A-lister tries to walk down FifthAvenue, he or she will be mobbed and torn in two. He or shewill end up seeking refuge in the American Girl store, or worse.

When, on the other hand, yours truly walks down FifthAvenue, for about, say, twenty-five blocks or so, someone will,eventually, if I walk slowly enough, come up to me and say, "Isaw you making fun of Gary Coleman on I Love the 80}s. Wereyou wearing makeup?" or "I read your last column about buttbleaching and I think you should be locked up."

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My fan base includes, I am happy to report, large numbersof African-American women. Having clocked me on America'sNext Top Model, these Tyra Banks devotees take great pleasure inreclocking me. They whoop and holler and call me "girlfriend."

"You made that li'l gal cry," they crow, while wagging theirfingers. "You are baaaad!"

Having been recognized, and often jiggled at, I am free tocatch the bus home feeling all warm and fuzzy.

This low level of fame—it compares well with that of asmall-town beauty queen—is so life-affirming that I now un-derstand why old snaps of Flo show a broadly smiling eccentric.It wasn't just the clenched grin of a habitual ventriloquist. Flowas smiling because she was happy, happy to be ever so slightiyfamous.

Given how infinitely more pleasant my life is than theirs, Iam surprised that successful people—I refer to those A-listerswith the totally major wattage—are not begging and bribingpeople like me and Flo to help them achieve the same soggynotoriety. They should be saying things to me like, "I want youto help me reach that same tepid level of public recognitionthat you enjoy on a daily basis."

It's just as well that these A-listers are not seeking my help.I'm not sure I could help with their predicament. While Flofame is easily within the grasp of the average glamorous ec-centric, the same cannot be said for the average HollywoodA-lister. If you, Nicole Kidman, are reading this chapter, I sendyou my deepest sympathy on your situation. For you to becomeless famous—even to go from A-list to D-list—would be virtu-ally impossible. If you suddenly start riding the bus or doingordinary things like swapping recipes with neighbors, gettingyour hair done at Supercuts, chowing down at Sbarro, pickingup your own dry cleaning or your doggie's poop, people will

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assume you are losing your marbles and you will receive evenmore unwanted attention than you do now, to mention noth-ing of the avalanche of rehab brochures that will pour throughyour letterbox every day.

You, dear glamorous Socialite, Existentialist, or Gypsy, arein an infinitely better position than the Lady Kidman. WhileNicole's chances of reversing the process and achieving thatgorgeously low level of semi-obscurity are zero, your chancesof going from obscurity to a gorgeously low level semi-obscu-rity are actually quite good.

How I Did It

Real celebs are picky. They say no to everything and hire peopleto cherry-pick their press opportunities. The easiest way to joinme on the F-list is to do the absolute screaming opposite. Sayyes—emphatically, YES!—to everything.

I am living proof of the effectiveness of this approach. Toimply that I have always been amenable and available to mem-bers of the press would be a ghastly, vile understatement. Infact, I have no recollection of ever, ever, ever turning down arequest from a journalist.

In the pursuit of my Flo fame, I have been willingly inter-viewed for late-night Swedish radio stations. I have spewedaphorisms at the junior editors of obscure Chilean fashion quar-terlies. I have helped fill the pages of Russian start-up magazineswith quips about handbags. The only magazine on earth that Ihave yet to give a quote to is probably Ju£$s. (I hope someonefrom Juggs is reading this and will have the initiative to call.)

Having just turned down an opportunity for a podcast in-terview with an online Polish fashion website (in order to finish

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this book), I am stricken with guilt. I cannot shake the feelingthat I have thrown away the opportunity of a lifetime, not tomention having turned my back on the good people of Poland.

Overexposure schmoverexposure.

I do not, and cannot, and never will subscribe to the notionof overexposure.

I firmly believe that, as many appearances as a person canmake on Welsh TV, there are new Welsh people being bornevery day who are desperate to hear snappy quotes about fash-ion and style and God knows what else. My philosophy hasalways been, "Leave no Welsh person unturned."

Royal Flush

As you claw your way from the bottom rung to the secondfrom bottom rung, remember that fame can come via many av-enues. It's not just about showbiz. Think laterally. Minor fameand notoriety need not necessarily come from a career as stand-up comedian, actress or, like Flo, a rotten ventriloquist.

There are many unexploited weird niche professions inwhich it is, paradoxically, much easier for the glamorous eccen-tric—or anyone else, for that matter—to make her mark. It ismuch easier to distinguish yourself in a dusty forgotten milieuthan in a more high-profile and competitive one like pop musicor fashion design.

Why not become the most famous eyebrow tweezer?

Or the waitress with the biggest beehive in the world?

You could be the world's only tap-dancing hotel concierge.

The world's most flamboyant construction worker.

The bank teller with the longest—or shortest— nails in his-tory.

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The slenderest postal worker.

I myself am probably the world's leading example of thisphenomenon. I became, after years of slog, the world's mostnotorious window dresser. By putting edgy, disturbing things—stuffed rats, coffins, suicide depictions—into the shop windowsof fancy luxury emporiums, I made a name for myself.

Window dressing is not the only thing I am slightly famousfor. In addition to my window dressing notoriety, I am knownfor my impersonation of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

Don't smirk. Being a professional celebrity look-alike is notnearly as tawdry and pathetic as it sounds. (That would not bepossible.) Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Uponthis subject, I am something of an expert. Having imperson-ated Queen Elizabeth II on no fewer than three occasions overthe last thirty years—and been undercompensated to do so—Ithink I may claim to know whereof I speak.

Q. E. 1—The Launch

As I look back at my slighdy spotty but otherwise long andhappy celeb look-alike career, I am filled with a warm glow. Amontage of images, mostly featuring me wearing a tiara anda sash, flits through my brain. Ah, I would not trade in thosesquishy memories for anything. And I certainly would not tradein being a look-alike for being the real thing. Why? Because tobe the impersonator of a particular celebrity is much, much,much more fun than actually being that particular celebrity.

Think about it:

You can be Britney without ever having slept with KevinFederline and lost your marbles.

You can be Michael Jackson without having to entertain allthose annoying children.

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You can be Marie Antoinette or Eleanor Roosevelt withoutbeing dead.

You can be Anna Nicole Smith without being dead or hav-ing been obliged to lap-dance an octogenarian.

Simply put, being a look-alike is infinitely less demandingand stressful than being the object of your impersonation. Theexpectations are so much lower. There is simply no compari-son.

I realized this important fact on my first outing as Queen Liz.

On this particular occasion, Her Majesty was in an especiallyboisterous mood. With good reason. The year was 1981: Herson was marrying Diana on that very day. While the real queenwas attending the dreary, endless nuptials in rainy England, Iwas living it up in Hollywood, California.

If my memory serves me correctly, the reigning monarchkicked off the evening with a heavy lard-infused Mexican com-bination platter at El Coyote, her favorite Mexican restaurant.

Keeping with the Mexican theme, she then proceeded toknock back about five large margaritas. The cost of these bever-ages was absorbed by Her Majesty's subjects, who seemed to takea perverse pleasure in watching H.M. get thoroughly smashed.

This was a lethal combination for a British stomach: Neitherthe queen nor I was up for the challenge. (Tip: It's nice to havesomething in common with your look-alike. It creates a senseof ownership while impersonating.)

Red faced and somewhat disheveled—and missing one of herlong white gloves—the queen fell into the backseat of a friend'sbanged-up Camaro and headed to the official engagement ofthe evening: I was being paid $35—plus unlimited drink tick-ets—to cut the ribbon at a brand-new Hollywood nightclub.

During the short ride, the queen began to feel queasy. Herfoundation garments, constricting her digestive tract as they were

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wont to do, were not helping matters. She thought she neededsome air. She rolled down the window. Her nausea increased.Ere long, Her Majesty arrived at her destination. She hurriedlyperformed her official obligations to a blizzard of flashbulbs.

She knew she was about to vomit, but in which direction?Even in her drunken state she knew that it would be decidedlyunregal to blow chunks directly onto the splashy, vibrant newcarpet with which this new establishment had seen fit to coverits floors. Her Maj took the only course of action available toher: she snapped open her large white purse and filled it withregurgitated enchiladas.

It was at this exact point that I realized how lucky I was notto be the actual queen. How on earth would she, Betty Wind-sor, have coped with the embarrassment of such an episode?How could she ever atone? There would be no way to reclaimher dignity. She would have been obliged to immolate herselfin front of Buckingham Palace, waving the while.

And what of her subjects? It's impossible to imagine whatthe Brits would have made of the sight of the real queen puk-ing into her purse. Nobody could argue that this would haveanything other than a tremendously negative impact on herimage and approval ratings.

And yet, as her look-alike, I faced no such PR crisis.Whereas her prestige would have plummeted, mine soared. Asa look-alike I was—rightiy or wrongly—not held to the sameexacting standard of decorum. Nobody seemed to object to mypurse puking. Au contraire! They cheered. Loudly.

Q.E. 2

Are there, you are probably asking, any downsides to being alook-alike? One or two.

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The bookings are infrequent and the pay scale is disappoint-ing. Real celebrities—the ones we look-alikes are imitating—unarguably make considerably more money than us.

Be that as it may, I always found that life as a look-alike wasnot without its occasional windfalls. In the fall of 1983 I uppedmy fees and was paid $50 to christen another new nightspot.

While this line of work may not have turned me into DonaldTrump (FYI, he's an easy look-alike to pull off and his popular-ity at the time of writing would definitely yield more bookingsthan my chosen look-alike ever did), it has availed me a greatdeal of wisdom. Being a celebrity look-alike has rendered me asage of sorts.

My career as a look-alike has given me an in-depth under-standing of, among other things, the power of celebrity, evenfaux celebrity.

Example: After fulfilling the $50 above-mentioned engage-ment, I was obliged to drive from the bowels of Hollywood todowntown L.A., in full queen drag.

Driving a pickup truck through graffiti-plastered neighbor-hoods while dressed as Her Maj was not without its frisson ofsurrealism.

As chance would have it, my route took me through somereally dodgy neighborhoods, including the MacArthur Parkarea. I looked upon this as an educative opportunity for thequeen: "This, Your Royal Highness, is where the paupers live.As you will see, they have no corgis."

At a stoplight on Pico Boulevard, a carload of Chicano gangmembers pulled up alongside me. Their flame-colored vehiclebounced and gurgled. Wild pachangd music blared from theinterior.

In an unguarded moment I glanced over and caught the eyeof a stylish young man in a hairnet. He had a tattooed teardrop

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below his left eye. On spotting Her Maj, the swarthy lothariobegan to yell incomprehensible things in Spanish. I caught thewords pendeja and maricon.

Doing my best to keep my sangfroid, I raised a gloved handand waved a la Betty Windsor. This gesture had an immediateand powerful effect. The young men in the adjacent vehicledid not appear to understand the benign nature of this pieceof legendary hand choreography. Assuming I was trying tostart a turf war, the swarthy lads erupted out of their vehicle.They surrounded my truck and began to gesture right back atme, throwing gang signs left and right. My white court shoefloored the accelerator and I tore off into the night.

Q.E. 3

To this very day, my career as a celebrity look-alike continues toteach me valuable life lessons.

In the spring of 2001, Barneys, my employer, unveiled asmall Co-op boutique on Wooster Street. The budget for theopening party was limited. There was not the requisite cash tothrow a celeb red-carpet bash. Look-alikes were the most obvi-ous alternative.

In a cavalier moment I told the top brass at Barneys that Iwould find someone to impersonate Queen Elizabeth II to addsizzle to the ribbon cutting. Having been one myself, I rashlyassumed that queen look-alikes were a dime a dozen.

A call was placed to a look-alike agency. I requested a Liza,a Marilyn, a Michael Jackson, and a Q.E. 2.

The agency called back to say that, though they had aqueen, she had just undergone a medical procedure and wasresting at her daughter's apartment in Secaucus, New Jersey.I panicked and begged. She would not budge. No amount

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of cash would induce her to don her tiara. As a consola-tion prize the agency offered me something special: a WolfBlitzer.

An Abfab-ian panic now rilled the Barneys PR office. Thedie was cast. A press release had already gone out indicating thearrival of Her Majesty. We simply had to find a queen.

Word somehow leaked out about my former look-alikecareer, and before you could say "butt pads," a professionalstylist, hairdresser, and makeup artist arrived chez moi and I wasbeing corseted and painted like a circus grotesque.

It felt good to be, as it were, back in the saddle, especially asI did not have to do all the painstaking prep myself.

After three hours I was looking pretty damn regal. I tookstock in the mirror and surveyed my middle-aged visage. HerMajesty and I had been through a lot together.

After a light snack—no Tex-Mex—I mentally prepared my-self to leave my apartment en femme. This was the first time Ihad "done" the queen in broad daylight. I was used to what welook-alikes call "cover of darkness."

After navigating the obliviousness of my doorman—fordetails of this encounter I refer you back to the introduction—I climbed into the bicycle rickshaw that would convey methrough the streets of lower Manhattan to the ribbon-cuttingceremony. I felt strangely elated. My doorman's magnificent in-difference had proved something important to me, somethingthat every glamorous eccentric should keep in mind as she goesabout her transformation.

It proved to me the utter pointlessness of ever being self-conscious about anything. You can worry obsessively aboutwhat people think of you and your appearance. You fret. Youfeel like you are being horribly judged twenty-four hours a day.You gnash your teeth. You try to second-guess the world. You

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imagine all sorts of awful commentary about your ratty hair oryou tragic outfits as soon as your back is turned.

But all these concerns are a total waste of time, because no-body caresl

You can leave your apartment with a peacock feather stickingout of your bottom and your doorman's only comment will be,"There's a package here for you. Do you want it now or later?"

As you experiment with your appearance, you must remem-ber that by feeling self-conscious you are merely indulgingyourself. Nobody is judging you. You are free! You could setfire to yourself in front of Macy's and nobody would bat aneye. People are much too busy worrying about their own livesto ask why you are dressed up as Wolf Blitzer.

Lest I have painted too rosy a picture of the life of a celeb-rity look-alike, let me acknowledge a downside or two. Whilereal queens have the world at their feet, and everyone hangs ontheir every word, the same cannot be said for we look-alikes.We are expected to be—yawn!—flexible. This was broughthome to me in no uncertain terms on that last outing.

As we rounded the corner into Wooster Street, I instructedmy rickshaw chauffeur to stop in the middle of the block. Igave him these instructions in an authoritative, regal CatherineZeta-Jones kind of way.

I leaned out of the vehicle and looked up ahead. A surpris-ingly large cheering crowd and a red carpet awaited me. Aswe approached, I got info character and prepared to meet mypublic.

Despite my clear-throated instructions, the young man keptright on pedaling. He continued to whiz south, past my ador-ing subjects, in the direction of Canal Street.

At this point I am ashamed to say that Her Majesty resortedto sarcasm.

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"Okay, Marco Polo, turn this puppy around, and this timestop at the red carpet."

"Oh, was that for you?"

"Duh!"

When he kept right on pedaling, Her Majesty began whack-ing him with her purse.

"Sorry, lady, but this is a one-way street. I have to go backup Greene and come back down Wooster."

Fearing that, by the time this lengthy maneuver was accom-plished, my subjects would have gotten bored and gone home,I jumped out and schlepped back up Wooster Street on foot.As much as the real Her Majesty loves a bracing constitutionalin a tweed skirt, it's hard to imagine her dealing with this situa-tion with the same uncomplaining accommodation.

The last and most important thing I learned about fame andcelebrity during my career as a celebrity look-alike concernsbumpy roads, SoHo in particular.

When a rickshaw hurties over cobblestones, it producesan intense series of vibrations. Under the right conditions,these vibrations can be sufficient to dislodge a tiara, giving thewearer the appearance of one who has enjoyed several glassesof sherry.

The following Sunday there was an intriguing photo of moi,tiara askew, in the New York Times cutting the red ribbon witha giant pair of scissors.

"Flo would be proud," I mused as I stuck the image in myscrapbook, hopefully to be found in a dusty attic by some fame-crazed spotlight-grabber in the future.

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"In Florence, Italy, recently,

an old lady called me a clown,

and not in a nice way."

PROFILE

LYNN YAEGER

Village Voice fashion editor, New York fashion fixture,devotee of rouge, Goyard bags, and Belgian avant-garde designers responds to the Eccentric Glamourquestionnaire.

What are you wearing?

A short black Comme des Garcons skirt over a huge white tutufrom the Zara store in Barcelona with a thrift shop cardigan, apair of slippers from discountdance.com, Wolford tights, and alot of antique jewelry.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I was in the third grade and refused to wear pants (andhave never worn them again) and begged Mommy to buy mepoufy "angel" blouses.

Were your parents horrified?

No, they were quite nice about it. Once when I was on fashion

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TV and a friend of my mother's commented to her that theyhad made me up funny for the broadcast and my mom replied,"Oh, no! That's my Lynnie!"

Are you prone to mood swings?

You mean sartorially? I'm actually pretty consistent, clothing-wise and otherwise.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

Well, growing up in Massapequa Park and wearing nuttyclothes was no picnic basket, I can assure you. And they don'tseem to like me all that much in France. Oh, and in Florence,Italy, recentiy, an old lady called me a clown, and not in a niceway.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

An old scarlet Romeo Gigli jacket covered with velvet petalsthat makes me look like a large (chic!) walking vegetable.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

No! But I do have a secret dread of having to go on a normaljob interview one day.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

Never.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

I'm a big fan of Kiki de Montparnasse.

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Do men think you are hot?

Oscar Wilde and Max Beerbohm both find me devastatingly

attractive.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Jeans. T-shirts. Sneakers. (Unless worn in an extremely cute way.)

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

Pere-Lachaise, but not sure if being Jewish is a problem. And Ihope this will be so far in the future, I haven't yet bought whatI'll be wearing.

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CHAPTER 12

Hurl Your ArmsHeavenward

A glam eccentric guide to weight loss

Eccentric glamour is an inclusive nonlooksist movement. Allshapes and sizes are welcome.It would, however, be thoroughly disingenuous—cruel,even!—not to address the sensitive issue of weight loss at somepoint in this book. As with other topics, I will commence ex-ploration of this particular aspect of eccentric glamour with arelated anecdote from my past. This yarn spotlights, amongother things, the creativity displayed by a certain Oscar-winningglamorous eccentric in the arena of weight loss.

The Fear of Squat

Los Angeles, 1984.

She walked toward me wearing pink squishy Reeboks, white

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leg warmers, and a shiny apricot bodysuit with a thong back.Her legs were encased in tan, slightly shimmery panty hose.As a result they looked as if they were made of plastic. Her ac-cessories included a beige nylon LeSportsac fanny pack and awhite terry cloth Olivia-Newton-John-Let's-Get-Physical head-band with matching wristbands. She looked like a Patrick Nageldrawing come to life.

As she approached, I recognized this Lycra-clad lass: Wewere colleagues. She was a salesgirl at the same clothing storewhere I was dressing windows. A fashion elitist with a higheccentric glamour quotient, she was normally head to toe inthe latest trendy imported garments. As a salesperson she wasallowed to borrow the expensive clothes from the racks, re-turning them at the end of the day. As a lowly display person Ienjoyed no such privileges: I, in my thrift-shop vintage trouvees,was left to covet the high-priced offerings.

She sprinted proudly down the beverage aisle in her other-worldly getup.

"Nifty outfit," I said, little knowing that within a matter ofdays I would be sucked into her cult and forced to wear almostexactly the same thing.

"Aerobics. You would love it," she said, deliberately reach-ing down to the lowest shelf for a vat of Evian water so thatshe could simultaneously stretch out her hamstrings and lowerback. She popped up, leveled her gaze at me, and continuedproselytizing, warming up her ankles the while.

"It's totally amazing. Aerobicizing burns so many calories,why, I can eat and drink as much as I want and Fll never getfatr

She spat out the words. They fell to the linoleum supermar-ket floor and lay there like a glistening, challenging, irresistiblegauntiet.

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Never get fat. Never get fat. Never get fat. Never get fat.This phrase reverberated in my conscious and unconsciousminds. The idea of never getting fat held an enormous ap-peal for me. As a short person—my passport generously al-lows me five foot four and one half inches—I have lived with acrushing obligation to stay trim and slim. My mother Betty, awell-toned leprechaun if ever there was one, had instilled thisobsession in me.

"Tall people can put on a few pounds and nobody will no-tice," Mrs. Doonan would opine, adding, "but if we put onweight, we end up looking squat." And, thanks to cigarettesmoking, riding a bicycle to work, and a long-line girdle, shenever did.

When my mother went on these rants, I knew she was notusing the royal "we." I knew she meant "we" as in me and her.

There was no point in contesting her hypothesis. She wasso obviously correct: short + fat = squat. And there was noth-ing in the world worse than being squat. Everyone knew that.Everything that was desirable in life was slender and elongated.Squat things—toads, trolls, potbellied pigs, evil gnomes—werethe very essence of undesirability. It was better to be criminallyinsane than end up squat.

On the advice of my coworker, I joined the Sports Connec-tion.* For my debut class I cobbled together an outfit consist-ing of an old paint-spattered T-shirt, vintage checkered resortshorts, and a pair of oily baseball sneakers.

The allotted hour arrived. A sea of mosdy female devoteesin leotards and leg warmers began funneling up the stairs to themassive exercise studio overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard.My co-calorie burners all looked like Jamie Lee Curtis. No-body was squat.

* Sports Connection: Location of the quintessential '80s aerobics moviePerfect.

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The floor of the large studio was covered in mauve carpet.The walls were mirrored. In the space of about one minute theentire room filled up with stretching, gossiping aerobicizers.It was a star-studded group: I spotted Denise Crosby, Bing'sgranddaughter and soon to be star of Pet Sernatary, and Dr.Toni Grant, the busty radio psychologist who dated pornogra-pher Al Goldstein, who was not present but should have beensince he tends toward squatness.

We positioned ourselves around the room in regimentalrows. It was all very Leni Riefenstahl: The impeccably spaced,impeccably sculpted bodies reflecting into infinity gave theoccasion the feeling of a Nuremburg rally, sponsored by Dan-skin.

The teacher, a feisty chick called Renee, slotted in her cas-sette tape. The disco version of "Memories" from Cats filledthe air and the room exploded into unified movement.

To my surprise, I followed the movements of the teacherand the people around me quite effortlessly. Not only did Ifind the whole thing incredibly easy, I was actually good at it. Idid not fall over once. The low center of gravity that put me atsuch extreme risk for squatness in the outside world was, hereon the mauve carpet, a very distinct advantage.

By the time we began doing pull-downs, the most arche-typal movement in the aerobics canon, I was totally in theswing of things. What a feeling! In a lifetime filled with bubblyvivacity, I had never felt like this before. I was literally ecstatic.

The pull-downs triggered a surge of endorphins, send-ing me into a state of borderline insanity. Shocking though itnow sounds, I remember thinking, "This is my destiny." I hadfound some kind of spiritual home, a place where I could leapand squeal, and where squat-avoidance was guaranteed. I hadgone temporarily insane.

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The next day I was back, this time wearing a cheapo exerciseoutfit—black short shorts, turquoise muscle shirt, and snow-white scrunch socks—which my colleague picked out for me inthe gym store. She suggested that I might care to incinerate myshabby debut ensemble.

My new outfit was a big hit on the mauve carpet. Over thenext few weeks I bought lots more. When you are aerobicizingevery day, and twice on Saturdays, you need an infinite num-ber of tights, crop tops, scrunch socks, jock straps, and dancebelts.

My roommate at the time was that plain-speaking blokecalled Robert who catapulted me in to sobriety in Chapter 8.He was bewildered and vaguely disgusted by my new enthusi-asm. His idea of exercise was vacuuming while singing alongto Laura Branigan's "Self Control": "City light—vrooooom—painted girl—vrrooomr

This regimen seemed to work fine for him. He was tall andslender and had lovely long legs that he likened to those ofhot-at-the-time model Jerry Hall, "except my ankles are betterthan hers." I envied his lissome frame: He would never knowwhat it was like to live with the fear of becoming squat.

As my enthusiasm increased, so did Robert's disdain.

"My God! What's happened to you? It's like living with anoverworked stripper!" he would complain, moving my rack offreshly rinsed skimpy garments out of the tub so that he couldtake a shower.

On occasion he would, using pastry tongs, grab one of theoffending articles and demand an explanation.

"Which bits of you, pray tell, is this supposed to support?"

When I hit upon the idea of changing at home and joggingto class, Robert became even more vigilant: He insisted on in-specting me before I left the house.

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"Not the leopard! It's much too nelly. You can't be skippingdown Santa Monica Boulevard dressed like Cher," he would saydisapprovingly. "Someone will shoot you from a passing car."

"Must rush. I want to get a good spot."

"What would your mother say if she knew you were flaunt-ing yourself in public dressed like that?"

"As long as I didn't get squat," I said, rebelliously twangingmy Norma Kamali tights into place—yes, I had graduated totights— and tucking my front door key into one of my scrunchsocks, "she would not care."

As the months flew by, I got progressively more addicted andbecame, as far as my frame would allow, the opposite of squat. Iwas high as a kite on my own endorphins, and I had never beenthinner and more wiry in my entire life.

I got to know several of my fellow addicts. Since everybodytended to gravitate toward the same spot in each class, makingfriends with adjacent devotees was inevitable.

I frequently ended up next to a severe six-foot-tall blondExistentialist who drove a pink Cadillac convertible with furrydice and crucifixes hanging from the rearview mirror. Wewould lie parallel on that smelly, sweat-drenched carpet and doour leg exercises in unison while chatting. She told me she wasa gossip columnist for the National Enquirer.

"Let me know if you see anything unusual," she said oneday, during her flex 'n' points.

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know, movie stars acting weird. Joan Collins in asnit. A game show host feeling someone up. Stuff like that."

"Here?"

"Not necessarily. Maybe they're drunk in a restaurant. Far-

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rah? Ryan? Morgan Fairchild? Surely you must have some dirt.Burt Reynolds? Linda Evans?"

"I just saw Dick Van Dyke at the supermarket."

"Was he red in the face? Was he buying liquor?"

"I did not look in his cart."

"See, this is what I mean! You've got to be more focusedand much more observant."

Suddenly I felt as if / were working for the National En-quirer.

I might just as well have been. Every time I subsequentlysaw this girl, she would challenge me with a brusque, "Got anydirt?"

When I told her no, I felt like an underperforming em-ployee, or a disappointing child who always came home withlousy grades. Then she would shake her head, sigh, and roll overto continue her leg lifts . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

One day I was up a ladder changing a display. The new falldesigner merchandise had arrived and the store was abuzz withextremely unsquat Hollywood types whose favorite pastimeseemed to be shopping. This is in those long-lost halycon daysbefore celebs figured out they could get everything for free.

Suddenly the brouhaha got louder.

"Oh, my God! Shelley Winters," hissed a sales associatewhile jiggling my ladder and me.

It was true. The great Shelley Winters, the unconventional,taboo-busting winner of two Academy Awards, had enteredthe store. Within minutes she had galvanized the entire placewith her charm and sassiness. She then proceeded to make oneof the most unusual transactions I have ever witnessed. Atopmy ladder, I had a bird's-eye view.

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That night, on the mauve carpet, my gossip columnist friendsidled up to me with the usual question. "Got any dirt?"

"Not really. But I did see Shelley Winters buying a size sixpair of leather pants."

Suddenly I had her full attention. She stopped midcrunch.

"Size six? Fantastic! And?"

The gossip columnist pulled out a tiny pad and pencil,which she kept in her fanny pack. She regarded me warmly. Ifelt as if I had finally brought home the bacon. I was no longerthat loser who never had any Hollywood gossip.

"They were Gianni Versace, red-brown and—"

"She's not a size six. How the hell is she going to fit into—

"She said she wasn't going to wear them. She was going tohang them on her refrigerator door."

The muckraker gasped. She then made me repeat the storywhile she scribbled frantically. All this was accomplished whilewe flawlessly executed our remaining leg lifts.

Back home, I plopped my sweaty stripper gear into the sinkand began to rinse. As the endorphin rush subsided, I startedto feel increasingly creepy about what I had done. I shared thestory with Robert.

"Relax!" said my platonic roommate reassuringly. "Just be-cause you blabbed to the National Enquirer doesn't mean theycan revoke your green card. Or does it?"

I had no idea how my employer would react if he everfound out: The celebrity clientele was the bread and butterof this particular store. I began to feel as if I had betrayed notonly my boss—the sponsorer of said green card—but also thegreat Shelley herself.

How could I have done such a cheesy thing, ratting out aHollywood great? And I was such a fan. I had seen every oneof her movies.

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I thought of Shelley's pathos-drenched performance in APlace in the Sun, in particular the moment when she finally putstwo and two together and asks Montgomery Clift, "George?When you wish upon a star, do you wish that I was dead?"

Robert Mitchum had slit her throat in Night of the Hunter.James Mason had broken her heart, raped her daughter, andindirectly caused her death in Lolita. The Nazis had draggedher off to a concentration camp in The Diary of Anne Frank.Now it was my turn.

To make matters worse, I had betrayed Shelley at her mostvulnerable, in her battle against squatness.

The following week my tidbit appeared in the NationalEnquirer, and my Shelley guilt returned full force. I toyed withdriving around West Hollywood buying up all the copies.

A week later, just when my guilt was subsiding, I received a$50 check from the National Enquirer made out to me, "forShelley Winters item."

At first I vowed not to cash the check. I would stuff it inan envelope. Then I decided to give it to charity. But whichcharity? How about calling Miss Winters's assistant to ascertain"the charity of Shelley's choice." Maybe that wasn't such agreat idea. I shoved it in a drawer. How would I ever find a wayto forgive myself}

The next day, a delivery of nifty fluorescent-hued Lycraitems arrived at the store from the design house of StephenSprouse in New York. Designer aerobicswear! I grab a pairof cycle shorts—orange, black, and white with the signatureSprouse mirror writing and looked at the price tag. $50.

Time is a great healer. Within seconds I was healed.

I suddenly realized that Shelley's weight-loss trick—an anti-snacking device attached directly to the front of the refrigera-tor—was a uniquely creative squat-battling tip and one that I

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had, albeit unwittingly, now been instrumental in passing on toa wider audience. I had not betrayed Shelley. I had, if anything,aided her and the women of America in their battle againstsquatness. We were all foot soldiers in the same battle of thebulge. Maybe I should get a medal of some kind. Who knowshow many weight watchers I might have helped.

Shelley would have been proud, or maybe she wouldn'thave given a toss. Either way, in my nifty Sprouse cycle shorts, Iwas the talk of my aerobics class that night.

Tips for Glamorous Hips

What on earth, you may well ask, is the moral of this story? Andwhat possible connection does it have to eccentric glamour?

As I see it, there is nothing wrong with squat avoidance.The glamorous eccentric is conscious of her body and willalways strive to maintain a healthy flattering weight. The keyis to do it with a bit of creative panache. Have fun with it. Ac-cept your fear of squatness and combat it with some of thatcreativity which is part of the glamorous eccentric's modusoperandi. Find an idiosyncratic way to shed those pounds.

The fact that Shelley Winters had such an ingenious weight-loss tip should not come as a huge surprise. All celebs are ob-sessed with the size of their bottoms, and justifiably so. Thelivelihood of these folks depends on their ability to either de-velop an eating disorder or maintain some kind of antisquatregimen.

To add to the pressure, celebs, more than those in any otherprofession, are horribly and poignantly prone to weight gain.The reason is simple: If you are a movie actor, you tend tomake your money in large glistening dollops. You work inter-

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mittently. A dollop comes in, then you lollygag about waiting,and praying, for the next script. This puts you at severe risk forsquatness. People who lie around the house all day in Malibuinvariably start smoking marijuana. And, because celebs haveloads of glistening cash on hand, this invariably turns into anastounding amount of marijuana. And people who smoke anastounding amount of marijuana and have gobs of money arequite likely to buy, and consume, in addition to the aforemen-tioned marijuana, an astounding amount of Hostess Twinkies.

In warm climates, most food items, even ones containing anastounding amount of preservatives like Hostess Twinkies, arekept in the refrigerator. It comes as no surprise, therefore, thatthe Shelley technique—a warning talisman on the refrigeratordoor—was invented on the West Coast.

Maintaining a healthy weight is about finding the method—no matter how idiosyncratic—that is right for you. Before youfollow Shelley's lead and rush out and buy a pair of leatherpants, please know that there are many other equally eccentricand potentially effective options available to you.

The Barbi Benton Method

Miss Benton, ex-bunny and former star of Hee-Haw, offers agreat variation on the Shelley Winters method. She installedmirrored panels on the fronts of all the refrigerators in herAspen home. By confronting herself, midlunge, with her ownreflection, Barbi gives herself that critical opportunity to decidewhether she "really needs that snack." Her trim figure, and allthose who admire it, are the happy beneficiaries of this brilliantstrategy.

Warning: Unless you have a big staff of Windex-wielding,obsessive-compulsive maids, the mirrors will quickly become a

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finger-marked horror. My own preference is to bag the mirrorsand simply to hang something on the fridge door that I findrepulsive, unappetizing, or otherwise cautionary.

Like so many challenges in life, this is a fantastic opportunityfor creativity and self-expression. Why not decoupage the doorwith a montage of those tabloid celeb/cellulite snaps? Findingsomething that revolts is just as much fun as finding somethingthat delights: How about a Thomas Kinkade painting? A photofrom National Geographic of maggots eating a wildebeest car-cass? Bon appetitl

The Muriel Spark Method

Dame Muriel Spark, a glamorously eccentric deceased Britishwriter, often included chilling weight-loss themes in her writ-ings. In The Girls of Slender Means, the thin girl survives, whilethe fat girl, unable to escape through the tiny bathroom win-dow of the burning building, does not.

A specific weight-loss solution is offered in Spark's A FarCry from Kensington. The main character, a chunky young warwidow named Mrs. Hawkins, goes from stout to slender bymeticulously eating half the food that is presented to her. Halfthe carrots, half the pudding, etc. She eventually becomes halfher original size.

Those of you who opt for this technique can avoid appear-ing wasteful by enlisting the participation of another weightloser. She can dine on your discards.

The Zsa Zsa Gabor Method

As was seen so clearly in my aerobics odyssey, the pre-lipo'80s was a time when people tried to batde squatness the old-

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fashioned way, by exercising. When we weren't leaping aroundin leotards at the gym, we were doing the same thing at home,guided by one celebrity workout tape or another.

Celebrity workout tapes were a huge part of the Reaganera. Who knows what craven, zeitgeisty impulse caused thislemminglike rush toward the video camera—but rush they did:Heather Locklear, Joan Collins, Donna Mills, it really is hardto find a glamorous '80s star who was not willing to lie on herback, open her legs, and make a beauty or exercise video. If youhave never viewed one of these cinematic masterpieces, you arein for a big treat. Those Jane Fonda tapes were really just thetip of the iceberg.

For the average glamorous eccentric like you, dear reader,these workout tapes are the perfect weight-loss aid. The com-bination of earnest idiocy and unconscious high camp appealsdirectly to your sophisticated sense of humor. Even if younever do the exercises, you will simply laugh away the calories.Whether it's Paula Abdul's Cardio Dance or Tanya Tucker'sCountry Workout, you're always guaranteed some thigh-slappin', calorie-burnin' fun.

It's the "unscripted" chitchat that provides the bulk of thechuckles. Examples:

Donna Mills in The Eyes Have It. "I wanna show you howto look pretty, whether you're outdoors or in a business situa-tion."

General Hospital star Jackie Zeman in Beauty on the Go: "Ithink it's possible to meet all your obligations and still look andfeel terrific."

My favorite is a 1994 tape called It's Simple, Darling by ZsaZsa Gabor.

If, like me, you would rather work out alongside peoplewho are less proficient than yourself—possibly an older Hun-

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garian lady—then this is the tape for you. The busty, heavily ac-cented, cop-slapping coquette meanders halfheartedly throughan exercise routine so undemanding that it looks as if it wouldactually cause her to put on weight. It is the perfect tape forthose who are easily demotivated by athletic prowess in oth-ers. There is no way on earth that, even if you had all yourlimbs amputated, you are not going to be more zippy than ZsaZsa.

At the end of the day, it's not about the exercise, it's aboutthe repartee. The typical Gabor banter about husbands andrings—"Ven you break your engagement, you must give beckze ring . . . but keep ze stone"—is the gasoline that powers thiscurious enterprise.

Regarding her sixth husband: "I bought him a vaterbed tolighten zings up a bit . . . It vas a Dead Sea!"

Regarding Conrad Hilton: "Ven ve got divorced, he vasgenerous—he geff me five million Gideon Bibles . . . but I ztilllike him. As a matter of feet, I still have hiz name on my tovels."

It's Simpley Darling, along with any of the above-mentionedclassics, can be found by trawling endlessly on eBay, a calorie-burning exercise in itself.

The Mariah Carey Technique

This unique method works only for gals up to a certain weight.If you, like Mariah, vacillate between "voluptuous" and"zaftigish"—a ten-pound differential—it will work for you.

Caution: This two-pronged technique does not help you ac-tually lose weight. It merely gives you the appearance of havingshed a few pounds.

Prong one: Always wear high heels, arch your back a lot,and hurl your arms heavenward at the least provocation.

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Prong two: Take your own paparazzi with you everywhereand edit the shots yourself.

The Totie Fields Technique

Back in the 1970s there was much discussion about whatconstituted a weight problem. It took the great borscht beltcomedian and food advocate Totie Fields to clarify things for aconfused nation.

According to Totie, you need to go on a diet if "RalphNader insists you rotate your shoes every four-thousand miles."Another telltale sign: If you wear white to a party and "the hostshows movies on you," it may be time to think about weightloss.

Fat and dieting were central topics for Totie and her audi-ence: UI went on a crash diet for two weeks and all I lost wasfourteen days," she famously shrieked, creating waves of empa-thy with her be-girdled fans.

The sexual revolution impacted everything in the 1970s, in-cluding the world of dieting, but Totie was quick to pooh-poohany misinformation about the relationship between copulationand calorie burning: "Having sexual relations only burns upone hundred and twenty calories, so it hardly seems worth it."

Totie's status as the patron saint of struggling dieters wasconfirmed after she pointed out that "the first three letters inthe word 'diet' are 'die' " and that there were millions of Amer-icans "who felt like doing just that, because they were on one."

Fueled by diet disillusion, in 1972 Totie penned the ulti-mate nose-thumber to the growing obsession with weight loss.It's called J Think I'll Start on Monday. It was written for all thepastry-lovin' broads whose "heartbeat quickens at the sight ofan eclair or a hot-fudge sundae."

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Why, you may well ask, am I advocating a reckless attitudeto diet? How can such a truculent, uncooperative posture pos-sibly help you lose weight?

Here's how: By chuckling about the whole subject and bynot descending into a spiral of defeated misery, you will auto-matically fare better than the lady who does. Those who areriddled with insecurity and self-loathing will always make moretrips to the refrigerator, and no amount of repellant imagery orleather pants will keep them out.

If you are unable to keep off the pounds and squatnessprevails, do not despair. To tie to the rescue. She maintainedan arsenal of incredibly useful ripostes for that moment whenconstruction workers hurl an uncomplimentary remark or tworegarding your less-than-svelte physique.

Here are a couple of classic Fields comebacks:

"I'm not fat. I just retain flesh."

"I'm not fat. I'm pregnant and I never gave birth. My babyjust decided to live in."

Though I thoroughly applaud and highly recommend To-ne's commitment to food and her cavalier attitude toward diet-ing, I would be doing you a disservice if I failed to point outthat, a mere six years after writing / think Pll Start on Monday,the laughter abruptly stopped when To tie, whose real namewas Sophie Feldman, succumbed to a diabetes-related illness.

The Maria Calias Technique

Legend has it that Maria Callas—one of the greatest chubby-to-fabulous icons of the last century—achieved her weight-lossgoals by swallowing a tapeworm.

I dispute this notion: In my opinion she did it with eye-liner.

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One day, while experimenting with her theatrical maquil-lage, her elbow must have slipped and she wooshed a line fromthe corner of her eye out across her eyelid. She did not stop.The brush kept on going. By the time she had finished she haddrawn a long line almost to her hairline. She replicated the lineabove the other eye and—bingo!—she created her catlike sig-nature look.

This new, unplanned makeup trick was utterly transforma-tive. She had found that signature gesture which was to makeher one of history's greatest glamorous eccentrics. She tookone look at herself and realized that something major hadhappened: She was no longer the tubby gal from Athens withthe fabulous voice and the dimply arms. A vision of a uniquebeauty revealed itself.

Hold the baklava!

The diva then dieted her way to stardom. With two wickedswipes of the eyeliner brush, La Callas became the style iconwith the couture wardrobe.

I cannot guarantee that the same thing will happen to you,but given the low cost involved—two dollops of eyeliner!—itmay be worth a try.

The Andy Warhol Technique

Back in the 1970s, Warhol, my muse and the twentieth cen-tury's most inspiring artist, developed a taste for chocolate.Teuscher was apparently his favorite. Terrified of getting fat, hedeveloped a kind of functional bulimia: He would chew thembriefly and spit the result into a paper towel.

(A note for those who adopt this method: Spitting outevery chocolate seems a bit wasteful, especially with an expen-sive brand like Teuscher. How about every other choccie?)

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Andy had another and possibly more useful tip: He called itthe Andy Warhol New York City Diet. He explained it as fol-lows: "When I order in a restaurant, I order everything I don'twant, so I have a lot to play around with while everyone elseeats. Then, no matter how chic the restaurant is, I insist thatthe waiter wrap the entire plate up like a to-go order."

Andy would then leave the gourmet offerings for the delec-tation of a random homeless person who will happily find "aGrenouille dinner on the window ledge."

Love Yourself Like Karl

"I don't like skinny people. I think it's verydemode."—Karl Lagerfeld, 1977, after chunking up a tad

"Muscles are out. Bones are in."

—Karl Lagerfeld, 2002,

thirty-five years later,

after shedding ninety pounds

Busted!

Karl Lagerfeld's dramatic weight loss—in 2005 he pub-lished a book about it called The Karl Lagerfeld Dietl—hasbeen a hot topic in the world of fashion for much of the earlytwenty-first century, which doesn't say much about la mode'sability to generate hot topics. Be that as it may, the riveting-ishdetails of the Chanel designer's corn bread 'n' veggie diet—notto mention his subsequent penchant for high-waisted women'sjeans—have clogged the fashion press for so long now that awhole generation of people has come along who no longer re-member cookie-jar Karl.

Imagine my glee when I happened upon his earlier, fat-

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positive declarations in which Herr Lagerfeld derides skinnypeople as "a nightmare of the high-fashion model of the latefifties and early sixties."

As you reel from K.L.'s outrageous inconsistencies, resistthe temptation to become irate or dismissive. Take a momentto search for the deeper meanings therein.

In defense of the fan-jiggling couturier, it must be acknowl-edged that it is a glamorous eccentric's prerogative to changehis or her mind. We should not look to creative types likeKarl—coming as he does from the flighty, ephemeral world offashion—for consistency.

Also in Karl's defense, it must be acknowledged that whatpasses for an ideal silhouette changes radically from epoch toepoch. One decade's zaftig ideal—think Shelley Winters inthe '50s and '60s—is another decade's gasp-inducing blimp.Today's flat-chested megamodel could be tomorrow's KarenCarpenter tragedy.

However, if you put aside the vicissitudes of fashion forone moment, you will clearly see that there's a fabulously life-enhancing lesson in Kaiser Karl's about-face. What seems atfirst like treachery and hypocrisy is, in fact, nothing more thangood old-fashioned healthy self-esteem.

Whether thin or fat, confident Mr. Lagerfeld has alwaysremained his own most loyal proponent. His girth may fluc-tuate, but his belief in the essential correctness of Karl neverdoes. When he's chubby, flesh is de rigueur; when he's thin,bones are in. Rather than be assailed for his fickleness, he's tobe applauded for his iiber alles self-confidence. Take a tip fromKarl—and from Shelley and Totie and all the big gals—andlove the current you.

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■I

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aI have things in my closetthat even I wouldn't wear!"

PROFILE

BETH RUDIN DeWOODY

Art collector, philanthropist, mom, and New Yorksocial fixture responds to the Eccentric Glamourquestionnaire.

What are you wearing?

All white—I'm mad for white—with rock-and-roll bangles, aninsane orange rubber sculptural Gaetano Pesce ring, and a bigfat rock.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

Halloween! All the other posh little girls on the Upper EastSide came as ballerinas or princesses. I was always a hillbillywith a chalked-up face and big beard or Li'l Abner. I rememberbeing embarrassed at first and then stopped caring.

Were your parents horrified?

My mother was amused. In the '60s when I was growing upshe was mod and slightly groovy. In 1966 she took me to get

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a Vidal Sassoon haircut when he first came to America. It cost$25, or maybe it was $50.

Are you prone to mood swings?

No, but I love mood rings.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

No, but they've been used as evidence in someone else's di-vorce case.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

So many things! I have a vintage Pucci lime green empire dressthat was owned by Ginger Rogers. I love '60s futurist stuff:There's an amazing Rudi Gernreich gold lame jacket and oneof those incredible Paco Rabanne paillette dresses. I just boughta handbag shaped like a hat, vintage Moschino. I have one ofhis surreal runway outfits, with real knives and forks attached tothe jacket. I have things in my closet that even I wouldn't wear!My eccentricity is also expressed in the art I collect and my col-lections of weird stuff: vintage Bettie Page photographs, and Ihave a funny collection of butt plugs. They were advertised as"medical devices to aid digestion." I'm sure they were sexual,but I think they are sculptural.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

At a certain point my kids started with that why-can't-you-be-like-other-moms stuff. I told them, "When you're older, youwill be happy I am this way." Now my daughter steals every-thing out of my closet, including that Rudi Gernreich.

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When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When people take it too seriously and forget to have fun.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Auntie Mame. The real key to her is how she reacted when shelost her shekels: She went and got a job, acting, selling rollerskates, whatever! And she gave her last coin to Santa Claus.Her dignity and humor stayed intact in a bad situation. I wouldlike to think I could do the same. And she never got stuck. Shechanged her ideas and her decor constantly. I can relate.

Do men think you are hot?

Absolutely!

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

Intolerance, which brings us back to Auntie Mame. Rememberhow she fought against anti-Semitism and all that social climb-ing by her mundane in-laws?

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I want to be cremated and placed in a Chinese rock crystal in-cense burner.

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CHAPTER 13

Soothing or Annoying

The glam eccentric guide to love

Have you ever hung out in a small-town saloon or a dustysuburban mall or a Midwestern coffee shop? When youwere there, did you happen to notice a hideous, unapologeti-cally fat, blowsy woman with no teeth and a pierced navel?

Well, did you?

Yes, I knew it!

And this particular woman, though she may have been aperfectly lovely human being, did she look, to all intents andpurposes, like Buddy Hackett in a tressy blond wig?

Well, did she?

And she had a scar, didn't she? And a child's face tattooedacross her sunburned back, leading you to think that she mightbe, or have been at one point in her life, a biker chick.

And there was something else about this lady that stuck inyour memory, wasn't there?

Come on, admit it.

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You know what I'm talking about. Say it. Yes, she was witha man, wasn't she? And what was he like, this boyfriend, thiscompanion? Come on, fess up! Was he toothless and scaly? Washe grotesque?

No, he wasn't, was he?

Admit it: He was the hottest-looking guy you have everseen in your life. Am I right? Let me guess . . . face of GeorgeClooney, body of Brad Pitt. Bonjour! I knew it.

And after you finally stopped staring at him, you looked athis lady friend, and then you looked at your infinitely more at-tractive self, reflected in a storefront or mirror, and you said toyourself (with a somewhat singsong Barbra-Stxeisand-in-WZ/^rlrUp, Doc? Jewish intonation), "She has a boyfriend}"

We have all had the experience of spotting a rugged hunkwith a hideous frowsy companion. Such couplings are fre-quently featured on the more confrontational daytime TVshows. It happens all the time. But have you ever stopped tothink about what attracts these Patrick Dempseys to these be-hemoths? How does a woman who makes Quasimodo look likeSienna Miller manage to attract such a looker?

The answer is mystical and yet stunningly simple: What thisgal and those of her genre have going for them is an unassail-able belief in their own attractiveness.

Objectively, this lady may resemble Chris Farley—God rest hissoul!—but she believes that she is a dead ringer for Naomi Watts.

She believes that, given enough liquor and the right light-ing, Josh Hartnett or Jamie Foxx would abandon their signifi-cant others for her.

She believes that she is still in the running to become Amer-ica's Next Top Model.

She believes with every fiber of her being and every tuft ofher mustache that she is better looking and sexier than Pamela

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Anderson and Marilyn Monroe combined and then multipliedby Jennifer Lopez.

And she believes it with such contagious ferocity that shecreates a vacuum around her into which are sucked all the avail-able men in a twenty-five-mile radius, including some reallydishy ones.

Confidence, not physical perfection or power, is the ulti-mate aphrodisiac.

In our evil, elitist, looksist culture, there is a general feelingthat such a woman is somehow not entitled to feel beautiful.Maybe this is a good moment to remind ourselves that beautyis subjective. Children and dogs and God do not discriminateagainst people based on their looks.

Wallflowers and Big Stinky Peonies

As you begin to dip your toes into the luscious lagoon of ec-centric glamour, you will experience a jarring increase in theamount of amorous attention you receive. When you replacea limp wallflower with a giant, irresistible, gorgeously stinkypeony, you will find that everyone wants to cop a sniff. Thenew laissez-faire stylish you, the self-invented rule breaker thatyou are becoming, will prove instantly more attractive to thoseyou encounter than the previous you.

Is this a direct result of how fabulous and gorgeous you are?Non! It is simply a result of how gorgeous and fabulous youthink you are.

So amp up that confidence and brace yourself for someserious fan worship. Once you start exuding all this newfoundidiosyncrasy and self-love, men are going to whistle at you.Complete strangers are going to offer to pay for your Frappuc-

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cino. They are going to stare at your various areas and, if theyare naughty, they are probably going to try to touch them.(If they don't, then you are probably in a gay neighborhood.More about that in a minute.)

Feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of this intrusive atten-tion? Prefer to stay at home and watch Dynasty reruns? This isnot an option. Having worked so hard to become a glamorouseccentric, you cannot be allowed to hide your new disco lightunder a bushel. It is all a waste of time—yours and mine—unless you share it with someone. It's a "Life's a banquet andmost poor suckers are starving to death" Auntie Mame kind ofa thing. Or, if you prefer a bit of Kande and Ebb, it's a "Whatgood is sitting alone in your room7. Come hear the music play"Liza in Cabaret kind of a thing.

Sizing Up the Competition

It's important to start out with a winner's mentality.

Whatever you do, don't allow yourself to be intimidated byany so-called competition, especially not by the Evas. I refer tothat epidemic of ladies with the bleached hair and fake knock-ers described in Chapter 1.

These tacky broads have sacrificed any sense of individualityto turn themselves into man-trapping blow-up dolls. The Evasmay appear at first glance to have a distinct advantage over aglam eccentric like you. Don't get discouraged by them. It istrue that, because they look like whores, they have no problemgetting men to fornicate enthusiastically with them. However,because these women all look alike, men cannot remembertheir names and constantly mix them up:

Hairy semiclad bloke scratching belly: "Good to see you,Yvette. Thanks for the laughs."

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Tousled companion: "You son of a bitch! My name is Yvonne!'(Slams motel door and stomps toward ^77 Pontiac with drag-ging muffler.)

Rest assured, this scenario will never happen to you.

Why?

Because you are an insanely more memorable individual.

Sorting the Chaps from the Chaff

Though I will not permit you to cringe away from your hordesof new suitors, I cannot vouch for the quality thereof. Therecould easily be some real duds in the bunch.

Some may want to show you a good time, some may onlywant to show you dirty postcards.

Some may wear blousy pirate shirts from InternationalMale and try to woo you, a la Fabio, with lots of chest hair andhandmade chocolates. Others may feel it is enough to buy youa Clark Bar. Somewhere in this smorgasbord, I guarantee thatyou will find a quality product. The man of your dreams. It'sup to you to sort the chaps from the chaff.

Dudes and Poofs

When it comes to finding a life partner, the glamorous eccentrichas two choices open to her: She can marry either a "regularguy" or a big screaming poof, a homosexual. It's just that simple.

Let's start with the regular guy, the good bloke, the normalkind of dude.

A conventional man makes perfect sense for the glamor-ous eccentric. There is room for only one spotlight-grabber inevery household. And you're it. The last thing you want in a

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man is some Weird Ai Yankovic type who wants to borrow youreyeliner or upstage you at your annual block party.

There are higher concentrations of conventional men insome locations than in others. In order to speed up the wholeprocess of finding your earnest, worthy mate, I would stronglyadvise you to propel yourself into as many obvious, straight,boring, male-dominated environments as possible.

If I were a woman—and I sincerely hope I never become onesimply because it's so insanely more complicated than being aman—I would spend loads of time at Home Depot. Your visitsto this national emporium will never be wasted. While you arecruising for Mr. Right, you can bone up on the latest advances insheet rock construction. In need of a little exercise? The majesticHome Depot aisles are great for practicing your runway walk.

The highest concentration of "good men" is to be foundin stadiums. One of my own man-trapping fantasy scenariosinvolves getting a part-time job selling Cokes and beer at sport-ing events.

In this scenario I see myself flirting with the spectators andsassing the competitors. What fun it would be to get into a spatwith a highly strung cheerleader! The other servers would bejealous because, with my sense of fun and general savoir faire, Iwould get bigger tips and, eventually, a date with Mr. Right.

Mr. Right and I would then walk off into the sunset to-gether, returning in glory to claim our front-row seats fromwhich I would throw popcorn at my former co-workers.

Le Marriage Blanc

And now let's deal with the poofters. If lummoxy straight menare not your bag, don't panic. You still have another option:Marry a Mary.

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This suggestion is aimed at women who are either pastchildbearing age or have low sex drive and no interest in pro-creation. If I were such a woman and I wasn't having any luckrinding a good man, I would marry a good gay instead. Yes, afabulous poofter. No question about it. The average gay, withhis high tolerance for theatricality, maquillage, amd general sil-liness, is the perfect co-conspirator for a glamorous eccentric.

This kind of gay/straight union is not a new concept. TheFrench call it a marriage blanc. I'm not sure why. I guess it isbecause, devoid of passion and red corpuscles, such a marriageis not really rouge and must therefore be blanc, the same blood-less color as the exquisite bone china that your new husband isbound to collect.

The fabulous upsides and advantages of un marriage blancare almost too many to name. First, imagine how fab yourhouse would be! It's no secret that the gays are full of nifty ideasfor smartening up the home: It is, apres tout, their screechingraison d'etre. Even if money is tight, most homosexualists knowtheir way round a staple gun and can, thanks to their innateverve, work miracles on even the most grim abode.

Regarding sex: As previously stated, if you are the kind ofgal who is not really so into it, a gay is perfect for you. You slipinto bed at night in matching jammies, safe in the knowledgethat you are not about to be forced into one of those coiffure-destroying primitive positions while being obliged to yell ab-surd encouragements such as "Go, Daddy!" and "You're theking!" It's just not going to happen.

Life with a nellie is not all bedtime giggles and gourmetdinners; there are a couple of issues you must address beforeyou throw in your lot.

Regarding hair: The average gay is overly fixated on hairdos.Your follicles can all too easily become his obsession. There is astrong possibility that he will begin to annoy you by constantly

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futzing with your coiffure. Hubby may try to rationalize hisbehavior by telling you he is trying to "create volume" or "reen-ergize your follicles." Either way, once he has started, it is alwayshard to get him to stop.

If your gay is getting hair-happy, I suggest that you immo-bilize him with a spritz of Aqua Net professional hairspray. Onthe average gay, this product has the same paralyzing effect asMace.

Is he into show tunes?

If so, then exactly how much is he into show tunes? You donot want to spend the rest of your days listening to various castrecordings of Pippin.

Is he a crook?

Why is Julian/Jeremy/Sebastian marrying you? Most gaysdo not want to marry straight women. Does he have creepyulterior motives? Maybe he's the heir to a vast fortune who willinherit money only if he makes a traditional union. Make sureyou aie in line for a slice of the action.

I make no apologies for my stereotyping of the gay popula-tion, or any other, for that matter, especially as the characteris-tics identified^-creativity, a love of decor and good food—areall positives. Stereotypes are the lies that tell the truth.

Bend It with Beckham

If you cannot decide between a Home Depot hetero and a full-on hair-yanking homosexual, there are shades of gray availableto you. I'm talking about that new breed of heterosissies. I'mtalking about the original metrosexual, Mr. David Beckham.

Mr. Beckham is a great example of this genre. His poofyways, including his penchant for traveling with scented candles,

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have been perennial fodder for the UK tabloids. An obses-sive tidy queen, Beckham loves to rearrange the furniture inhotel rooms. His habit of offsetting pregame nerves with acalming manicure has earned him the nickname the PerfumedPonce.*

Before you cast nasturtiums, bear in mind that his wife,the reed-thin Victoria Beckham, aka Posh Spice of the SpiceGirls, attributes her slender figure to the fact that her candle-totin' husband is "an animal in bed." He's romantic, too: In agesture reeking of old-fashioned working-class chivalry, Beckssends Posh a yellow rose every day. Awwh!

I Want to Marry Liberace

Another option: At some point during the long, drawn outgay marriage debate, a horrified dissenter suggested that oursociety was on the verge of a national moral collapse and that,if the gay marriage thingy was approved by Congress it wouldbe only a matter of time before people wanted to—horror ofhorrors—marry their pets.

When I heard this, I gasped with incredulity. My partner,Jonathan Adler, and I have always wanted to enter into a po-lygamous union—minus any bestiality—with our Norwichterrier Liberace. We were just waiting for the powers that be togive us the go-ahead.

How could gay marriage critics not know that every singlepet owner throughout history always wanted to marry his orher pet? Most consider their bond with their pet to be infinitelysuperior and more emotionally rewarding than anything theyever got from another Homo sapiens.

* Ponce: Old-fashioned Brit slang for pimp.

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Pets are incredible. Pets are always ready with some positivefeedback. Every glamorous eccentric needs a pet of some de-scription to wag an approving tail when she throws on an outreoutfit. Pets always think you look great. And they rarely try tohog the limelight. Pets will eat Spam while you eat steak. Petsare always ready with a lick. Pets think homeless people lookgreat and smell great, that's how eccentrically glamorous petsare.

One final word . . .

Do not, whatever you do, worry about finding a smart man.Clever men are often prone to introspection The best menare—like happy Labrador dogs—a bit on the dopey side. Letbeauty trump brains: Which brings us back to David Beckham,who apparently thought pas de deux meant "father of two."Bless him.

Despite his lack of intellect, Mr. Beckham has earned Posh'sundying loyalty. When he publicly lamented, "Everyone thinksI'm stupid," Mrs. Beckham snapped back like a protective lion-ess, "Well, they're all ugly."

Talk to the hand . . . with the limp wrist.

Communicating Through the Hamster

Finding Mr. Right is a cause for celebration. A mild, low-key,tentative, nonelaborate sort of celebration. No floats. No fire-works. Keep the champagne in the cellar. Why the tepid lack ofjubilation?

Finding a nice bloke is an accomplishment of sorts, but it'snothing compared with building, brick by brick, an eccentricallyglamorous life together. Snagging your chap was a challengingdiversion. Now that you've got him in your butterfly net, the

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real toil begins. Straight, gay, or in between, the chances arethat he will not contribute much to the process. The burdenof the creation of a stimulating shared life will fall to you. Youmust now take a blank, slighdy turgid, work-focused individualand transform him into a world-class fun seeker.

He may take out the trash and unblock the gutters, but it'syou—the rule-breaking, taboo-busting good-time gal that youhave now become—who is going to add the sizzle and joie devivre to your shared life. And it will require some effort. Thesame kind of ingenuity that you applied to the development ofyour personal style must now be channeled—times a million—into the creation of a beautiful "us."

The most important ingredient to a successful relationshipis hostility. Let me rephrase that so it doesn't sound quite sovile. The most important ingredient of a successful relationshipis the functional, creative expression of day-to-day hostilities.I'm not talking about a Jerry Springer scenario with flying fists,missing teeth, foul language, and torn brassieres. I'm not talk-ing about Naomi-ing each other with cell phones and Black-Berrys. I'm not talking about Russell Crowe-ing each otherwith hotel front desk paraphernalia.

I'm talking about a certain nonviolent, functional statewherein a couple feels comfortable enough to highlight and tomock each other's foibles on a regular basis. This kind of mu-tual debunkery is the equivalent of deep breathing: It oxygen-ates a relationship and allows it to grow. The goal is to avoidthose scenarios where unexpressed annoyances accumulate,turning you into Liz Taylor in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?or, worse yet, Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, or worserer yetCharlize Theron in Monster.

The best and most fun way to prevent grievances from ac-cruing and becoming a nuclear threat is game playing. By in-

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venting your own infantile and eccentric games—custom madeto suit your particular relationship dynamic—you will build thefoundation for a fabulous, loving future.

My husband and I have built quite an arsenal of these jollyjapes. We have found that the best time to invent these kindsof insulting and mildly sadistic games is during our vacations.It gives one something to do. Who doesn't get a little boredwhile on vacation? What better way to fill up those long, emptyhours than to think of creative ways to pillory one another?

Soothing or Annoying?

One year, while vacationing in Saint Barths, I invented a won-derful game that we dubbed Soothing or Annoying?

Though Soothing or Annoying? took about half an hour toinvent, it has become an important load-bearing foundation inour relationship. Each year when our anniversary rolls around,I often pause and say to myself, "Aaah! All thanks to Soothingor Annoying?"

The rules of Soothing or Annoying? are quite simple. Themost important thing to remember is that at no time shouldeither party be allowed to feel soothed. Each player mustdream up some heinously unsoothing physical torture whichhe or she can inflict on his opponent, using whatever tools areat hand: e.g., grinding the mesh of an adjacent tennis racketinto the end of your loved one's nose, or whacking a calf with awet rubber swimming flipper. The average bout should last nomore than thirty seconds.

During the infliction of the Annoyance, the Annoyer mustrepeatedly ask the Annoyee, "Soothing or annoying?" The An-noyee wins or loses depending on his or her ability to endurethe discomfort and maintain the lie that it feels "soothing." If

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the Annoyee capitulates before the thirty seconds are up, he orshe automatically loses his or her turn to annoy.

Here are some more examples of acceptable annoyances:tapping your partner on the head with a long-stemmed dessertspoon; poking the temple with the sharp corner of a manilaenvelope or restaurant menu; stuffing handy greenery, such ashouse plants or fresh arugula, up the Annoyee's nostrils.

Try not to ratchet up the hostility too much. Anything thatleaves unsightly welts or draws blood is verboten.

When you tire of Soothing or Annoying?—after four or fivebouts, most couples are ready to call it quits—you can try a fewrounds of another of my favorite games.

Concerto

It's quite a simple game and not dissimilar from Soothing orAnnoying? in that it involves the infliction of as much annoy-ance as possible on someone you purport to love, this timeunder the guise of "making art."

A sound track is necessary for this game. A CD of a favoriteclassical piece, preferably one with a complex orchestration, isideal. If there are outdoor concerts in your area, this is evenbetter: You will have a guaranteed audience for your game.

Start the music. The two players face one another and flip acoin. The winner approaches the loser and begins to "play" his orher body in time to the music, as if it were a musical instrument.

Imagine that every aspect of your partner's body representsa different part of the orchestra. Nothing is off limits. Nosescan be twanged like double bass strings, love handles can befingered ferociously as if they were piano keys, the top of ahead can become a bongo drum.

When the Instrument starts to whine and complain about

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the irritating nature of the game, the Musician must counterthese protests by vociferously defending his or her right tomake art:

"Shh! I'm creating! How dare you! This is my art! Whywould you want to prevent me from having freedom of expres-sion? What kind of person are you?"

Though undeniably hilarious, this game is extremely hardto judge. There are no real winners or losers. The only way tomake it fair is to alternate the bouts.

Re the score: If you hate classical music, feel free to use gang-sta rap or '70s funk instead. The insistent beats will give youample opportunity for much vigorous tickling and thwapping.

Innocent bystanders are often appalled by both Soothingor Annoying? and Concerto. Ignore them. It does not matterwhat they think: The important thing is that you, the two play-ers, experience spiritual growth and closeness.

Who Knew ChihuahuasCould Have Such a Mouth on Them?

The most efficacious game which we invented—the ne plus ultraof therapeutic activity—is called Talking Through the Hamsterand, quelle surprise, it requires owning a pet.

Though it's called Talking Through the Hamster, this gamerarely involves one of those honey-colored little charmers. Mostpeople will, due to their ubiquity, use a dog or a cat. I dubbedit Talking Through the Hamster—TTTH for short—in orderto emphasize that there was no limit to the scale or intellectuallevel of the animal in question. You can play this game whetheryour pet is a buffalo or a stick insect. TTTH is nothing if notinclusive.

Start by giving your pet a voice.

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This can come out of nowhere or be based on some aspectof the pet personality or provenance. My dog Liberace is atough little Norwich terrier: I gave him, therefore, the voice ofan English working-class yobbo. Since Liberace was castrated ata fairly young age, I dragged the voice up a couple of octavesto a match that of a slightly irate UK housewife.

Phase one. Most people ask their pet questions: "Are you ahungry gal?" "Who's the most beautiful boy?" but not every-one has what it takes to channel his or her pet's voice and actu-ally to answer those questions. By doing this you are becominga ventriloquist of sorts. Instead of a Charlie McCarthy doll youhave a real flesh-and-blood animal to play with.

You are well on your way to being able to play TTTH.

After a week of ventriloquizing via your pet, you are nowready to graduate from merely answering on behalf of your petto making bold statements. These could relate to the weather orto geopolitical matters. Liberace can now comment on every-thing from Oscar fashions—"She's mutton dressed as lamb!"—to international geopolitical turmoil—"Why doesn't the Talibanlike dogs?"

Gradually and organically, an independent personality willemerge.

Phase two. Once your pet's voice is established, the impor-tant work can begin. You can now use your pet to say criticalthings about your boyfriend or husband which, if they camedirectiy from your mouth, would be a little too abrasive—notto mention accurate—for comfort.

Here are some examples of things your pet might say. Foryour convenience I have paired these verbal assaults with thecircumstances under which such statements might be appropri-ate.

Example: Your husband's love of food is causing him to

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pack on the pounds. He's a nibbler. Every time he enters orleaves the house, he makes a pit stop at the refrigerator for alittle quelque chose.

On seeing your loved one stuffing his third ice-cream sand-wich into his mouth, Your pet says (via you): "Paging RichardSimmons!"

Before your husband can become hurt or irate, or remindyou that you yourself are no stranger to the refrigerator, youleap to his defense and castigate the impudent beast: "Boy, whoknew Chihuahuas could have such a mouth on them." In themeantime, I guarantee you that the ice-cream sandwich will beback in the freezer before you can say "gastric bypass."

Example: Your husband, though delightful in many ways,is crucifyingly long-winded. Most men tend to be a trifle bom-bastic. Whenever you have company, he launches into a horri-fyingly drawn-out anecdote. You love him, so you are reluctantto attempt to curb this behavior with a deflationary criticismin front of guests. Your pet, however, has no such genteelqualms. When your husband is going full throttle on that tiredold story about how you got the price of the house down from$122,000 to $121,000, your pet says (via you), "Shorter! Fun-nier!" or, "Anyone got a cyanide capsule handy?"

Before your husband has time to be hurt, you once moreleap in to take his part, cautioning your pet that any furtheroutbursts will result in a withholding of tomorrow's treats.

Spoken in the accented croak of your iguana, or the treaclypurr of your Siamese cat, these sarcastic assaults are the stealthmissiles that enable you to shape your bloke's behavior in anonthreatening eccentrically glamorous way.

After a year or so of hearing you ventriloquizing via yourpet, do not be surprised if your husband learns to imitate Roveror Polly's voice and starts to throw it right back at you. Your

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attempts at nouvelle cuisine, your penchant for unflatteringpegged pants, your annoyingly flamboyant arm gestures will allbecome grist to his mill.

If this becomes unbearable, you can claim that Fluffy theshih tzu has been subjected to a great shock—an attemptedrape by that nasty Weimaraner from number 15—and thatFluffy is now mute. It will be a few days before your guilelesshusband figures out that, while you were away visiting yourmother, a lightning storm descended on the city, the shock ofwhich miraculously restored Fluffy's voice. But when he does,watch out!

By the time you two reach your glamorously eccentric oldage, you will be seasoned players. I can see you both now, ap-palling the other inmates at your old folks' home with yourendless rounds of Concerto. Every morning you castigate yourlitrie shih tzu for commenting on your loved one's loose den-tures. He looks back at you with love and adoration . . . andthen grabs your knitting needles for a quick bout of Soothingor Annoying?

Ah! True love!

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aI mock myself for the Matrix trench coat.

Doc Martens, black eyeliner, 'Riunite on icey

look I had in high school. *

PROFILE

LUCY LIU

The Anna May Wong of the twenty-first century,the most glamorous Asian eccentric ever to emergefrom the streets of Queens responds to the EccentricGlamour questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

Black Evisu AG celebration jeans and a Rachel Roy Elizabethancollared cotton shirt with Christian Louboutin silver, gold, andblack patent deco-inspired sling-backs.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When Canal Street Jeans was my mecca and I wore only one-of-a-kind thrift store pieces that were no doubt original but alsohad that oh-so-chic parfum de mothball.

Were your parents horrified?

They built a shrine and had a ritual bonfire every Shabbat andburned shoulder-padded Ralph Lauren pussy-cat-bowed suits

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as an offering to my ancestors in hopes that they'd impressupon me via dreams, visions, etc., to dress as a dutiful Chinesedaughter who was not a punk rocker. Saving face is everythingin Chinese culture.

Are you prone to mood swings?

No. Yes. Maybe. Why're you asking me so many questions?!

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I mock myself for the Matrix trench coat, Doc Martens, blackeyeliner, "Riunite on ice" look I had in high school. Let's notforget the Duran Duran "her name is Rio" hair-sprayed bangsthat completed the ensemble.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

A nineteenth-century exquisitely fitted camel-colored woolriding jacket with tortoiseshell buttons and elaborate appliquedetailing.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

Never.

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

Are thirty-two pairs of black Louboutin shoes idiocy? I don'tknow.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Babe Paley, Audrey Hepburn, Shakira Caine, Anna Piaggi, Isa-bella Blow.

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Do men think you are hot?

Duh.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

When people limit their imagination to thinking only themost expensive things in the world are chic. I love to mix andmatch—it's important not to forget the 718 even when youlive in the 212 or the 310.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

I wish be to be cryogenically frozen in Nan Kempner's closet,and when I wake up, I can choose from her incredible collec-tion.

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CHAPTER 14

Splash Your Breastswith Ice-Cold Water

Lousy advice with chilling consequences

There's nothing quite like the first time. You might forgetthe second or the third. But not the first time. Everyone re-members it. I know I will never forget my first time. I am talking,of course, about the first time I was ever given a piece of reallycrappy advice.

My sister Shelagh and I are standing in the backyard of ourchildhood home.

"Close your lips really tight. Do it!"

I have no idea why Shelagh wants me to lock lips with ourfilthy, prewar green rubber garden hose. Shouldn't she be water-ing the herbaceous borders, as per my mother's instructions?

"Now, close your eyes."

I obey my sister. She, like so many of the great dictators ofhistory, deploys a warm and encouraging tone. This deceptivedelivery hypnotizes the victim and leads him or her to believe

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that the persecutor has only the victim's best interests at heart,and that any questioning will only delay what must certainly bea positive outcome.

"Keep quiet. Now, without opening your mouth, I wantyou to slowly count to five."

"One. Two "

I hear the squeak of the rusty garden faucet being turned,followed, milliseconds later, by a massive oral deluge.

"Threeeeeeeeeeeaaaahhyyaow!"

Suddenly I feel as if my skull is exploding. Forty gallons ofH20 have entered my body. I cough and splutter, and I openmy eyes. My sister is rocking with laughter. My nasal passages,lungs, ears, stomach have been machine-gunned with high-velocity freezing-cold water.

"Okay. Let's do it again. Only this time let's see if you cankeep the hose inside your mouth for longer."

"Why?"

"Okay. Stick it in. Good. Now start counting ..."

Looking back fondly, I realize that every exciting eventuality inmy life, regardless of how much discomfort was involved, hasbeen precipitated by a reckless or malevolent piece of advice.The bad dates, the skin rashes, the freak accidents, the blush-making style excesses—all the really character-building stuff.—seem to have occurred after heeding a really crappy suggestionfrom some "well-meaning" friend or relative.

And I survived them all, stronger and fitter, with my lifeinvariably enhanced in some way or other.

Bad advice is, therefore, something of a misnomer.

Like bad taste, a dollop of bad advice is really quite neces-sary, especially for the glamorous eccentric. It's important togive it. It's important to receive it. In many ways, bad advice

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is, especially for an unconventional gal, good advice in disguise.

I find it odd that Darwin's theories contain no mention ofthe critical role played by lousy advice. After all, the only way totest those theories of natural selection is to catapult somebodyinto a sink-or-swim challenging situation. And what better wayto observe the survival of the fittest than by monitoring thefallout from a piece of dreadful advice?

To those who would disagree, I say this: Imagine a worldwithout bad advice. Imagine, if you will, a Utopia where peoplemind their own business. Imagine a world where a friend willnot advise another friend to "get an asymmetrical haircut" or"splash your breasts with ice-cold water" or "try one of thosemolasses and wheat germ colonics." Imagine a world wherenobody tells anybody to shave a shamrock into a private area orlearn to play the zither.

What would it be like?

Close your eyes and allow a vision of this edict-free, dreamyland to take shape in your mind's eye.

At first it seems like paradise: no broken hearts or crackedshins. No white knuckles or red-faced humiliations.

Squint and try to envisage the look and feel of this bravenew world, a world where people function happily without thepromptings of others.

It's a misty sort of place. There's not a lot going on. Infact, if you look carefully you'll see that the landscape looks atrifle bleak. Stagnant, even. Nothing is happening and nobodyis moving or talking. The mise-en-scene recalls the scene inthe sci-fi cult classic Lojjan^s Run featuring the Apathetics,lazy hippie-looking slobs who just lie around all day lookingas if they have been shot with Daktari tranquilizer darts. It's avacuum. A black hole.

The truth is, without a constant flow of wacky suggestionsflying back forth, all meaningful activity, from liver transplants

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to cake decorating, would come screeching to a halt. Without abarrage of goading advice, we Earthlings would just sit aroundeating lotuses and watching telly, except there would not be anytelly because nobody would have advised anyone to invent it.

We would fester and rot and watch the clock while bluebottleflies crawled across our unimaginatively attired, indolent bodies.

Advice, bad advice in particular, is vital for our survival.

The baddest thing about bad advice is that you never see itcoming. Bad advice is always mislabeled. It doesn't come in apackage labeled "bad advice." It's like eating spinach leaves andcontracting E. colt. You would never eat the spinach if it werepackaged as "Delicious spinach with extra E. coli"

Bad advice always comes packaged as good advice. Younever know it's bad until you are wincing in pain or writhingwith embarrassment. This adds to the surprise and excitementof really, really bad advice.

There's Nothing Like a Good Cringe

Once upon a time I found myself at a Barneys store opening partywith a group of friends. Across the room, ogled by us, sat SharonStone. She was perched on a black cocktail stool, nursing a half-drunk flute of champagne in a confident, knowing sort of way.

"I am the most fabulously bitchy and glamorous actress inthe history of the cinema. You know it and I know it, and that'swhy you love me," her expression seemed to say.

La Stone was wearing a glitzy black tube top and pants;there was, therefore, no chance of her flashing her Basic In-stinct. Not that I cared. I was far more interested in inspectingher psyche than her nether regions. I was desperate to know ifshe was as ruthless and intimidating as Catherine Tramell. Howmuch of Ginger, the dope-crazed bombshell from Casino, was

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lurking in the real Sharon? Was she as cold and calculating asMiss Horner, the evil schoolteacher in the mauve sweater setfrom Diabolique?

She runs her hand through her choppy urchin hairdo, tossesback her head and, on hearing some witticism from her com-panion, lets forth one of those Sharon Stonian peals of laughterthat are such a big part of that public awards show personality,the one she uses to hide all the evil ones that I know in myheart of hearts constitute the real her.

"Why don't you go and talk to her?" asks an adjacent col-league.

"Me?" I reply, theatrically splaying a nervous hand acrossmy upper chest.

"You're so obsessed with her. Don't you want to find outwhat she's like?" demands another.

"It's simple. Tell her you work for Barneys and you justwant to hang out with her!" shrieks another, as Sharon-maniaignites our entire table.

"Yes, go tell her we all want to hang with her."

"Invite her over! She can only say no."

"There's a spare chair right here. Do it!"

"Doit!"

"Doit! Doit! Doit! Doit!"

This avalanche of good advice works its pernicious magicon my squishy brain. The "do its" are stated with such coerciveenthusiasm that the whole notion of befriending Miss Stonebegins to seem not just feasible but necessary and important.Propelled by this ghastly counsel, I am now at some halfwaypoint between my old life, sans Sharon, and a fabulous, newSharon-centered existence. There's no turning back.

Unconsciously, I find myself lurching to my feet and stumbl-ing toward the gamine glamour-puss like a drunk staggering intotraffic. I reach her shins and look up. Perched high on her cock-

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tail stool, she is about four feet taller than me. I am completelyout of her field of vision. She is totally unaware of my presence.

"Hello there!" I holler up, in a spirited, hearty way.

Grudgingly, Miss Stone lowers her gaze and angles it in mydirection.

"My friends and I love you and ..."

Sharon Stone raises an eyebrow, which is no doubt pluckedby that bloke who has become famous for doing all the Hol-lywood brows.

"We thought it would be awfully good fun if you ..."

I hear myself sounding more and more like a flustered En-glish spinster inviting the handsome new vicar over for sometea and cucumber sandwiches for the first time.

"... when you come offstage ... it would just be so marvel-ous . . . if you would come and sit with us so that we might. . .get to know you?"

Nothing.

"... so, if you have a minute, it would be just great... and ..."

Without the slightest glimmer of emotion, Miss Stone putsme out of my misery.

"No thanks," she says.

She recrosses her legs and raises her gaze.

There's a painful silence.

I can feel the expectant eyes of all my goading colleaguesburning into my back like the fangs of a billion poisonous asps.

Slowly but surely, every orifice of my body begins to con-tract with hideous cringing embarrassment. If cringing made anoise like, for example, shattering glass, Sharon and I and theentire room would all have our hands over our ears, such is themagnitude of my cringe fest. But it doesn't. Cringing is silent,painfully silent.

"Okay. Well, thanks anyway," I say while simultaneously pray-ing that I have not become incontinent. "You have a nice evening."

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I pause slightly, waiting for a "you too." There is nothing. Justthe confident stare of a woman who does not care if I live or die.

Death, I ponder as I waddle ignominiously back to mytable, is infinitely preferable to the overwhelming, bowel-curdling embarrassment that I am currently feeling.

Vengeful feelings begin to meld with my feelings of shame. Iresolve not to meet my maker alone. I will take others with me.

Upon reaching my seat, I am barraged with questions. Iignore them. I smile at my team of helpful advisers and silentlyvow to destroy them. They, with their horrifyingly stupid sug-gestions, are, I now realize, the cause of my misery and all themisery that exists in the world. I will murder them all with anice pick, a la Sharon. Then I will throw myself in front of Sha-ron's Alfa Romeo, and we will all die because we deserve todie, because Sharon Stone thinks we suck.

The aftermath of lousy advice can be complex. Sometimesthere are hospital bills to be paid. Sometimes there are legalmatters to be resolved. But more often than not the damageis emotional rather than physical or financial. Time is a greathealer. As the mists clear and the agonies subside, you come torealize that what you actually received was not bad advice, butgood advice in disguise.

Eventually the Sharon wounds healed. After a few days Ibegan to "put back the pieces" and move on with my life. Erelong I was able to extract something positive from my Sharonexperience.

I took satisfaction from the fact that La Stone had, duringour brief interview, revealed herself to be every bit as fabulouslyhaughty and grand as I had ever wanted her to be. If she hadlet down her guard and spent the evening "shooting the shit"with a bunch of us fawning acolytes, she would undoubtedlyhave deconstructed herself and lost her mystique. My image ofher was intact.

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Simon doonanIt's a Totally Heavy Scene, Man

The advice game works both ways. For the glamorous eccentric,doling it out is just as important as receiving it, if not more so.This is because you are more imaginative than other people. Yourability to concoct wild schemes and think outside la boite makesyou uniquely qualified to produce an endless stream of wackysuggestions that will shake up the lives of the less fortunate.

Your mission is to propel your fellow human beings off theircouches—thereby preventing bedsores—and force them intomemorable and challenging situations. Don't hold back. Youwill enjoy it. Trust me: Giving ill-considered advice is definitelymore fun than giving earnest, wholesome, tried-and-true ad-vice. I know whereof I speak. Don't let the garden hose andSharon Stone anecdote fool you. I have doled out more thanmy fair share of horrible suggestions, with invariably gruesomeconsequences.

What about the time, back in the glam-rock 1970s, I insistedmy transvestite roommate run across the street to catch a buswhen he was wearing a full-length gown—and he wasn't wear-ing his glasses—and he fell over a low, swagged chain fence?

His mangled shins swelled to the size of beer barrels. Hecouldn't even squeeze them into his cerise chiffon palazzo pants.

This testing encounter with fate taught him so much: Helearned about his own pain threshold; he learned about theintrinsic dangers of chiffon. In retrospect I almost feel as if Ishould have invoiced him.

Then there was my first time. Ah! You can never forget thatfirst time.

The very first piece of dreadful advice I ever doled out wasdirected at a couple of teen runaways. It was a really heavy scene.(The word "heavy" was, at this point in the late 1960s, thrown

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around like one of Janis Joplin's marabou boas.) He was my bestfriend at school and she was a local factory girl who was "in afriendless condition," courtesy of my friend. This in itself washeavy enough. Thanks to me, it was about to get much heavier.

Their names were Rita and Tony. Scared of parental wrath,the two star-crossed lovers were totally at a loss. What shouldthey do? Where should they go?

Foolishly, they turned to me. They actually asked me foradvice.

I found this extremely heavy. It was the Summer of Love, orthereabouts. I was sixteen. Nobody had ever asked me for anyadvice before. I was also flattered. It gave me a weird sense ofheavy omnipotence.

Instantly I came up with a brilliant suggestion: I told Ritaand Tony to head immediately to Glastonbury, the site of Brit-ain's big annual music festival. By the time the solstice rolledaround, the whole place would be filled with druids and car-ing flower children who would share their food and other re-sources. It would be totally heavy, but in a positive way.

At my suggestion, they packed a beige vinyl suitcase—stolenfrom Rita's mum—and split the scene, man. The suitcase wastotally heavy, literally and figuratively. They had filled it withcanned goods stolen from their family larders.

They did not get far. Rita and Tony were nabbed by the po-lice while wandering aimlessly around Glastonbury and lookingfor druids. They were ID'd by the heavy beige vinyl suitcase.

Our reunion, a couple of days later, was not quite the lovefest that I had anticipated. It was, in fact, quite heavy.

"You wanker!" yelled Tony in a menacing and unhippielikeway. "The solstice happens in the summer. It's the summersolstice!"

"It's nine months away," added Rita, touching her expanding

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and heavy belly. "How were we supposed to survive the bloodywinter?"

Though my advice was flawed and impractical, it had ulti-mately turned out to be good advice. I had, albeit very indirecdy,facilitated a kumbaya with the hapless lovers and their respectivefamilies. The facts of the situation were now on the table.

And, most important, my rotten suggestions had sent mytwo chums off on an unforgettable adventure. My advice had asense of romance. It had verve. It had panache!

Picnicking with Rabid Raccoons

Much of the advice that is doled out to women today is decid-edly panache free. It's mundane. It's cautious. It's riddled withPC disclaimers and warnings. Worst of all, it lacks imagina-tion and a sense of infinite possibilities. "Start online bankingtoday!" "Minimize your UV exposure!" Yawn!

If you are going to go to the trouble of inflicting advice onsomebody else, at least have the decency to be imaginative.

Want to catapult a depressed friend into an inspirationalsituation?

"What you need is a clothing-optional vacation!"In the mood to subject a colleague to some fashion experi-mentation?

"Cut the sleeves off that trench coat and wear it as a dress!"See a pal who's in need of a lifestyle change?"Adopt an abandoned psychotic marmoset!"As a glamorous eccentric, it is your obligation to give advicethat is exciting and challenging.

How about doling out some relationship advice for Valen-tine's Day?

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ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

"What the hell! Marry that one-legged asylum-seeker neigh-bor of yours! There's nobody else on the horizon. Why not?"

Don't sit on the sidelines! Join in the fun! The key is to giveas good as you get! Catapult a friend into a challenging situa-tion! Send someone off to chat to Sharon Stone! Better yet, tryCourtney Love. I hear she loves to meet her fans first thing inthe morning. Drop by with some Dunkin' Donuts and bang,really, really loudly, on her front door. Give it a whirl!

I would love to see us all return to the halcyon days whenDiana Vreeland—that patron saint of glamorous eccentrics andof fabulously inspiring advice—famously screeched reckless edictsfrom her "Why don't you . . . ?" column in Harper's Bazaar.

"Why don't you . . . waft a big bouquet around like a fairywand?"

"Why don't you . . . have a white monkey-fur bed covermounted on yellow velvet?"

"Why don't you . . . have your cigarettes stamped with apersonal insignia?"

"Why don't you . . . wear violet velvet mittens with every-thing?"

Her advice was crazy and bankrupting yet totally life en-hancing and life affirming. If you followed it, you always ranthe risk of being carted away by men in white coats or arrested("Your honor, the defendant, who was wearing violet velvetmittens at the time, was observed brandishing a floral bouquetin a menacing fashion . . .") But so what? At least Mrs. Vree-land's advice was never ordinaire. When she told you to "dragyour Aubusson rug to a waterfall and have a picnic," she didnot care if you got eaten by rabid raccoons or killed by fallingrocks or shot at by Unabomber-type people with banjos. Sheknew that your alfresco lunch would be so utterly fabulous thatany bloodshed or mayhem was totally justified.

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aI failed to notice that the trailing end of a

blue chiffon scarf I had knotted insouciantly at

my neck had caught in the turntable, and the

next thing I knew my face was smack against

the spinning disc and I was gasping for air"

PROFILE

HAMISH BOWLES

Vogue editor'-at-large, couture collector, wit,

and bon viveur responds to the Eccentric Glamour

questionnaire.

What are you wearing?

Chartreuse seersucker suit, lavender shirt, "monkey king"cuff links that Tony Duquette made for Tyrone Power, rose-sprigged lavender tie, silver and bottle-green serpent belt fromthe German hippies in Santa Gertrudis in Ibiza, lavender socksfrom the Tangier souk, and ancient Lobb shoes.

When did you first realize that you might in fact be aglamorous eccentric?

When I nearly died an Isadora Duncan death aged nine, whilelistening to a Gertrude Lawrence 78 on a windup gramophoneI had compelled my parents to buy me. Lost in the evocativemagic of La Lawrence's crackling trills, I failed to notice thatthe trailing end of a blue chiffon scarf I had knotted insou-ciandy at my neck had caught in the turntable, and the next

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thing I knew my face was smack against the spinning disc andI was gasping for air. Happily, I just had a moment in hand tolunge for the "off dial. Glamorously eccentric death rathernarrowly avoided.

Were your parents horrified?

My parents were highly supportive. If they were alarmed at mychanneling Gladys Cooper in My Fair Lady as a pre teen, theysweetly never let on.

Are you prone to mood swings?

Not really. But I do get terribly excited if I find an unlabeledCristobal Balenciaga at the thrift store.

Have you ever been mocked for any of your glamorouseccentricities?

I wore a burgundy pin-striped skirt (fetchingly cut to the knee,gaiters) that John Galliano made for me to the Paris collectionsin about 1984. In retrospect I think the French cabdrivers werehostile, but at the time I don't believe I thought for one min-ute the catcalls and hollering could possibly have been directedat moi.

What is the most eccentrically glam thing in your closet?

A Philip Treacy violet whirling dervish fez sprouting a panacheof flame-colored bird-of-paradise plumes and a detachable yash-mak made from tarnished silver coins.

Have you ever wished you could trade in your life ofglamorous eccentricity for one of dreary conformity?

No.

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ECCENTRIC GLAMOUR

When does eccentric glamour become idiocy?

When it is studied or self-conscious.

Who is your inspirational icon of glamorous eccentricity?

Isabella Blow was and always will be, although she loathed theword "eccentric."

Do women think you are hot?

Oddly enough, they sometimes do. It is very disquieting.

What is the thing that most offends your glamorouslyeccentric sensibilities?

The way people dress for the theater and international airtravel.

Where do you wish to be buried, and in what?

At Saint Andrews' Church in Tangier in a lavender djellaba.

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CHAPTER 15

Dressing Down Isa Crime Against Humanity

Don't hide your eccentric glamour under a bushel

You have now, if you have been paying attention, joinedthe ranks of the eccentrically glamorous. Be proud. It'san achievement. You have reimagined, reinvented, and revital-ized your personal style and—wow!—you managed to do itwithout turning into a hoochie blow-up doll. Mazel tov!

Whether in the Existentialist, Socialite, or Gypsy category,you are now armed with a very clear sense of your own veryclear idiosyncratic self. You have le chien. Woof! Feels good,doesn't it.

Was it as difficult as you thought? Probably not. Tradingin your old life for one of eccentric glamour has, after all, anintrinsic logic to it. Why would you want to look nondescriptwhen you could look fierce?

Why would you want to wear an institutional-looking itchy

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flannel A-line prison wardress suit when there's a set of unworn,lightly beaded, mint-green crepe de chine hostess pajamas in adrawer in your closet?

Why wear a heavy, heathered, sludge-colored Shetland mock-turtle when there's a feather-light, tangerine angora cardiganwith rhinestone buttons at your disposal?

Why wear bunion-friendly sneakers when gold strappy eve-ning sandals are, after a couple of martinis, just as comfortable?Why wear one strand of pearls when eleven make more noise?

Why wear a greige career suit when a black leotard, forest-green crocodile thigh boots, and a Peruvian mini-poncho arebeckoning to you?

It's not hard to resist tuna melts once you have nibbled afew crepes suzette.

But don't get too smug too soon.

There will be moments when you—yes, the new insanelymore fabulous you—will freak out and abandon the coura-geous path you have chosen. You will lose your nerve. You willfalter. You will desert your post.

To ram home my point, I will tell a monumentally caution-ary tale. This story clearly demonstrates that nobody is safe:Even the most eccentrically glamorous among us can occasion-ally backslide. A lady can, if the circumstances are dire enough,lose sight of the complete and utter pointlessness of caringabout what others think and capitulate to the pressure to con-form.

This is not okay. These kinds of relapses are totally unac-ceptable. When she falls off the wagon, the glamorous eccen-tric lets down not just herself but the entire universe. Naughty,inconsistent glamorous eccentric!

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Belfast, 1962

Jackie Kennedy is in the White House, and I'm not. WeDoonans are across the Atlantic enjoying our annual vacationin sunnyish Northern Ireland with my monosyllabic, hard-drinking grandfather. I am ten years old.

One morning my mother Betty informs us that today wewill break the rainy monotony with a day trip. Our destinationis a far homestead inhabited by some of our relatives. Bettydescribes them as "good people," which bodes well. Anythingthat Betty describes as "good" invariably has a whiff of glam-our to it.

The preparations are intense. We all take baths. This neces-sitates taking the junk out of the tub and boiling endless kettlesof water. Normally, while sojourning with my granddad, wedid not bathe much. Why would we? Our personal hygiene ismaintained by daily frolics in the oily polluted waters of BelfastLough.

While Betty irons our shirts and combs our hair, my dadbrushes his suede Hush Puppies. All the adults scrub and inserttheir dentures. I am happy. I like the idea that we are all getting"tarted up."

To tart up, to be a tart, to tart something up, to tart your-self up—these phrases are frequently heard during my child-hood. Though clearly deriving from "tart," as in a prostitute,as in streetwalker, the verb "to tart" has only positive conno-tations. To tart things up is to banish postwar grimness witha dash of Technicolor modernity. When something becomestarted up—a person, a street, a front yard, a living room—itgets a new lease on life. Dusty austerity is replaced with shinyoptimism. The humdrum is vanquished by the snazzy. Neglectis replaced with mascara.

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The adjective "tarty" has less favorable connotations. Ifthus described, one can safely assume that a particular lady has,when engaged in the otherwise harmless pursuit of tarting her-self up, gone too far. Or maybe she is a bona fide tart, in whichcase she has simply costumed herself for work.

Lest I confuse, permit me to emphasize the difference be-tween dressing slutty and tarting yourself up. While dressingslutty—the horrifyingly ubiquitous contemporary version ofwhich was the springboard for this book—denotes a full-oncommitment to porno-chic and hoochie style, tarting oneselfup connotes a life-enhancing commitment to flair, adornment,and eccentric glamour. Whether you are an Existentialist, a So-cialite, or a Gypsy, you are entitled to your fair share of sizzleand panache. You are entided to tart yourself up. Just don't gotoo far, that's all.

Back to Betty.

After she has given us all the once-over, my mother grabsa cup of tea, lights a fag, and retreats to her bedroom "to tartmeself up a bit." Mrs. Doonan—the piece de resistance of anyouting—has saved herself for last.

Half an hour goes by. An hour.

I do not mind waiting. On the contrary; I like the idea thatmy mother, the glam eccentric with the improbable vintage'40s style, is going to knock 'em dead with a whole heapin'helpin' of her particular brand of style and pizzazz.

The sun comes out. Bees buzz. It's going to be a fine day.Maybe my mother will wear one of her bustier sun tops with apencil skirt and white spike heels.

We stand in the front yard waiting for her big entrance,doing nothing much. Our hands are at our sides or in ourpockets. It is the 1960s. People often stood about doing noth-ing while staring into the middle distance. There are no cell

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phones to whip out or iPods to twiddle. It is enough to be outof doors. Being out of doors, just like being indoors, is a le-gitimate activity. There is no pressure to be more meaningfullyoccupied. To this day I have retained this ability to do noth-ing and consider it an important part of my personal beautyregimen. Now, when people say, "You look great for your age.What's your secret?" I always reply, "Green tea and staring intothe middle distance as often as possible."

Caution: Doing nothing is so totally out of whack with thecrazed techie culture of our time that people will invariablymisconstrue your motives. Bystanders will assume you are ei-ther on day release from a loony bin or ill-intentioned in someunimaginably horrid way. Once, when I was in the middle ofdoing nothing, someone asked me if I was having a stroke.

"Wur the haal is Batty?" growls Betty's dad in his incompre-hensibly thick North Irish accent.

Suddenly he stops doing nothing and bangs on Betty's bed-room window with his huge gnarled peasanty hand. (It was abungalow.)

"Wahl yeh gammy a mannut!" responds Betty loudly andirritably.

More doing nothing.

Ten minutes later the front door opens.

Out steps somebody quite unfamiliar.

Gone is the nail varnish.

Gone is the meringue of blond hair.

Gone is the boldly applied lipstick and mascara.

Gone are the chunky gold and fake-pearl earrings, the jan-gly charm bracelet.

Gone are the seamed stockings.

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Gone are the white spike heels and matching purse.

Gone is the tartiness.

Gone is Betty.

The depressing apparition before us is a pale shadow ofBetty's former self. To say Betty looked dowdy would be a hor-rifying understatement.

She is wearing one of my dead grandmother's old midcalfgray skirts. On her feet are flat shoes, borrowed from AuntieMuriel, a Belfast policewoman. Thick surgical hose cover hershapely legs. On the top is a navy and white cardigan that Bettynormally wears as part of a crisp snappy nautical ensemble.Teamed with the gray skirt it now looked positively institu-tional.

"Your fingers look funny," says my sister Shelagh. Neitherof us has ever seen my mother's nails before: They are alwayshidden by a thick coat of vermilion varnish. Having hastilywiped off the color only seconds before, Betty now reeks ofacetone, as opposed to Nina Ricci's VAir du Temps, her signa-ture fragrance.

"They don't like nail polish. They think it's tarty," says mymother in a tone of barely concealed resentment. In tandemwith her appearance, her mood has gone from fabulous to dour.

"Where is your hair?" I ask. Betty's proud 1940s pompa-dour is squished under a tightly knotted headscarf.

"They think blonde is tarty."

I begin to have misgivings about this trip. After ten years ofobserving Betty, I have a high comfort level with anything andeverything that has been tarted up. This aversion to any kindof up-tar ting is very alien to me. I had hoped, by embracingthese new relatives, to increase the glamour quotient in ourfamily, not decrease it.

The bumpy bus ride takes us from Belfast to Antrim. From

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here we take a taxi to the back of beyond. It stops at the bot-tom of a long lane. In the distance is a humble cluster of whitefarmers' cottages. As we trudge up the hill, Betty, smokingwhat is to be her last cigarette for about six hours, gives us alittie backstory on these good people, our people.

Most noteworthy among her tidbits is the fact that theyfunction without gas or electricity or indoor plumbing. Theylive off the land and throw lumps of dried peat on the fire inorder to keep warm. To my already fashion-obsessed ears, allthis sounds quite grim and shockingly untarty.

As we approach the main cottage of the good people,various women come forward to greet us. They too wear knee-length gray skirts. These ladies are soft-spoken and so monu-mentally untarty that they make Betty, even de-tarted Betty,look ever so slightly tarty, proving, if nothing else, that tartinesswill out.

It was a surreal kind of a day.

First we sat for four hours in Cousin Esther's house. Theclock ticked. There were epic, Pinteresque pauses broken onlyby a crackle from the peat-burning fire. Men in flat caps andcollarless shirts joined our group. Though conversation wasthin, our hosts seemed not to mind. They loved doing nothingeven more than we did. They were contented and comfort-able in their goodness. If somebody said something jolly, therewould be a burst of laughter followed by an even longer lon-gueur of silence.

I contemplated this rustic, religious milieu.

It was all very mysterious. The fact that these individualsshared their roots and DNA with Betty seemed preposterousand implausible. My mother must surely be some kind of alienreplicant from Planet Tart or a strange changeling.

I could imagine her as a child staring out at the misty peat

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bogs, longing for the nylons and high heels of the big city.Longing to get away from all this sensible goodness. Longing toprimp. Longing for silks and satins. Longing to tart herself up.

We leave before teatime. We are trying to be polite. It is thatbaroque constipated politeness which is common to northernclimes. It would have been rude to stay too long; this wouldhave obliged our hosts to ask us if we wanted to stay for tea.They probably wanted us to stay for tea, but asking us would,in turn, have placed an obligation on us. If they invited us tostay for tea and we were not able to, then we would have hadto endure the agony of declining, and they would have ruedthe day they set the whole thing in motion by asking us to stayfor tea.

This insane game of snakes and ladders—a intricate circuitdiagram of unspoken communication and wacky iibergentil-ity—made me wish we were Italian.

At the time of this visit, Italian culture was starting to pen-etrate the British Isles and my consciousness. The Ciaol CiaolManila! Mangial of Italian life seemed like the opposite of notasking somebody to stay for tea in case they were unable tocomply. Italians knew how to cook and entertain. Italians knewhow to dress. Italians knew how to tart themselves up.

Italian movie stars of the 1960s represented to my burgeon-ing sensibilities the ne plus ultra of stylish tarted-up glamour.I spent an inordinate amount of time wishing that I was VirnaLisi, wiggling down the Spanish Steps in a chic Pucci dress—or,better yet, riding down on the back of a tomato red Vespa—and throwing myself in the Trevi Fountain in full view of myadoring fans and frantically snapping paparazzi. Ciao, Roma!

Even their names were gorgeous: Claudia Cardinale, Sil-

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vana Mangano, Anna Magnani, Gina Lollobrigida. No self-respecting Italian chick would ever allow herself to be calledsomething like Judi Dench or Kate Hudson.

Like my mother Betty, these stars and starlets were a greatmixture of tarty and classy. Two words: Sophia Loren. Caseclosed.

Sophia and her ilk raised the bar on our notions of volup-tuous, tarted-up femininity, leaving everyone else, with the pos-sible exception of Brigitte Bardot and Marilyn Monroe, in thedust. Ballsy, busty, and fiery, they have no peer among today'sred-carpet chippies. Come back to the five-and-dime, MonicaVitti, Monica Vitti!

We took a taxi back to Antrim. During the ride the adultsbegan to revert to type. My grandfather removed his teeth andstuck them in his pocket. Betty began to re-Bettify herself witha spritz of Uair du Temps. She lit up a cigarette and reappliedher lipstick.

Complaining that they all needed a drink, the adults disap-peared into a pub. My sister and I guzzled lemonade outsideand practiced the fine art of doing nothing for an hour.

When she emerged, Betty was more like her old self again.

She had clearly spent time in the ladies' room. I was hugelyrelieved to see that she had begun the process of retartingherself. The sensible head scarf was gone. The nails were stillunpainted, but bracelets and the mascara were back. With hercustomary aplomb, she had turned her sweater back to front.She had reaffirmed her commitment to eccentric glamour, andshe looked all the better for it.

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As I think back on that long-lost afternoon with the goodpeople—my people!—of Antrim, I feel a tinge of sadness. I feelwaves of regret for what might have been. What would havehappened if Betty had not detarted herself for the occasion?What would the good people have made of the real Betty, theflashy, fabulously idiosyncratic Betty, as opposed to the depress-ing, inhibited, unrecognizable mutant who sat eating sconesby their fire, desperately pretending she wasn't jonesing for anicotine fix?

There's no doubt in my mind that they would have reallyliked her. She would have lit up their afternoon with her styleand her brassy urban sophistication and left them jonesing foranother visit. And now it's too late. They are all long gone.

For this missed opportunity I cannot help but blame Bettyherself.

This was not Betty's finest hour. Far from it. By lowering thebanner of eccentric glamour, even for that one afternoon, shedid the universe a horrible disservice and committed what wasin many ways a crime, albeit a minor one, against humanity.

For a contemporary example of this brand of folly, one neednot look farther than Angelina. Yes, I'm talking about the MissJolie.

Why is it that, whenever she heads off to Africa or Vietnamto visit those less fortunate than herself, she does a total Betty.She always insists on shedding her Hollywood glamour andsubjecting the underprivileged people of the world to a strangedeglamorized version of herself. Where is the maquillage andwhere, more important, is that leather halter dress when it'smost needed? If the most deprived people on earth don't de-serve full-throttle movie star Angelina, then who does?

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Why is she depriving the very people who are in such direneed? By dressing down she is violating the human rights ofthe very people she hopes to protect.

And Madonna is just as bad. Which of us has not gaspedwith uncomprehending shock at those earnest "children's au-thor" outfits? You know the ones I'm talking about: the knee-length shift dresses and pastel cardigans. Whenever the greatMadge launches one of her books, our lady of the whips andcone-bras looks like a depressed missionary.

Madge, you better watch your back. Those little brats arenot as dumb as you think. They can see straight through thosechoreographed attempts at wholesomeness.

My fantasy is to dress myself up as a child—given my lack ofheight, this is not beyond the bounds of possibility—infiltrateone of her book signings and, when the moment is right, yell,"Hey, lady! What happened to the fishnets and spangled cor-sets?"

Angelina and Madonna have regal obligations, and so, nowthat you have graduated from the Academy of Eccentric Glam-our, do you.

Noblesse oblige!

Your subjects are depending on you. Gird up your loins!Grab your scepter! Polish up your orb! And if, upon leavingyour abode, you find that your doorman fails to commentupon your general magnificence, don't get in a snit. Look uponit as a compliment. If he is taking your eccentric glamour forgranted, this is an indication that you have already successfullyraised the bar. If, on the other hand, he is simply ignoring you,then run back upstairs and change into something insanelymore fabulous.

Long live eccentric glamour!

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POSTSCRIPT

Isabella Blow

The glamorous eccentric who got away

Immediately prior to finishing this book in the late springof 2007, I placed several calls to Isabella Blow. It seemedchurlish to hand in my text without at least a cursory conversa-tion with the woman generally acknowledged by fashion insid-ers to be the Nancy Cunard/Peggy Guggenheim/MillicentRogers/Marchesa Casati/Ottoline Morrell of our time. Isa-bella Blow may not have been a well-known name, but she was,at least as far as the cognoscenti were concerned, the reigningqueen of glamorous eccentrics.

Why had I waited so long to approach Miss Blow? Why thereticence? Any woman who wore Philip Treacy hats shapedlike lobsters and ships and never left the house without beingdressed head to foot in surrealist couture clearly deserved in-clusion in this oeuvre.

In hindsight, I realize my reluctance stemmed from reverse

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snobbery: Why give prominence to a pampered aristocrat?The populist in me—he's an irate little chav with missing teethwho lives near my spleen—was determined to keep the focuson those self-invented, self-styled gals who were not on KarlLagerfeld's Christmas card list. I was, in other words, discrimi-nating against what I assumed was an undeserving bastion ofmoneyed privilege.

My populist approach was very conscious and stemmedfrom a lifetime of navigating the follies and self-referentialfoibles of la mode. The often exclusionary world of fashion isfilled with high school notions of "in" and "out." It is drivenby a desperate desire to draw lines in the sand and identify thestuff that was once so groovy and can now be gazed upon withcontempt because it is over. But take an objective look at theworld of fashion and you will immediately see that it is all 100percent subjective. One person's Balenciaga is another person'sQuacker Factory.

While certain people are more gifted than others in theirability to execute the craft of fashion—contemporary examplesinclude Alber Elbaz, Olivier Theyskens, Narciso Rodriguez,and Isabel Toledo—the fact remains that, at the end of the day,it's all a matter of opinion and context. If you don't believe me,try wearing a John Galliano Dior topiary confection to a Chel-sea gallery art opening and then hop over to New Jersey andwear it to the Secaucus branch of Dunkin' Donuts.

The bona fide glamorous eccentric is an accepting popu-list who understands that on judgment day the hippest MarcJacobs catwalk chick and the frowzy housewife in the bunnysweater are equals. If a gal really and truly has le ehien, then shehas no need to look down her nose at anyone.

As Andy Warhol said; "If everyone's not a beauty, then no-body is."

Back to Miss Blow.

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I began to leave messages for Isabella in late February, earlyMarch. If I expected to get any phone time with her, I knewI would need to be persistent. A highborn party gal like MissBlow would never make time to return the calls of a lowly com-moner like me. She would be too busy shooting grouse withher fancy-pants chums, or quaffing champagne during endlesscouture fittings with Alexander McQueen. Or maybe she waslying under a massive cedar of Lebanon in the grounds of hercountry estate wearing vintage Zandra Rhodes and reading firsteditions of Aldous Huxley and Evelyn Waugh.

Her unresponsiveness only fueled my persistence. Graduallytenacity gave way to mild hostility. After leaving the umpteenthmessage, I began muttering things like, "So much for goodbreeding!" and "Call me back, you bloody Sloane Ranger!"

When I opened the newspaper on May 9 and read that thepoor darling had died, I was stunned. More shocks were instore. I quickly discovered that my preconceived notions aboutMiss Blow's life could not have been more off the mark. Oh!The folly of judging a broad by her couture!

The reports of her last months on this planet painted adesperate picture. In place of that cavalcade of snooty self-absorption and country house grandeur there was only miseryand, most shockingly, a crushing lack of cash. Long since dis-inherited, abandoned by her husband, diagnosed with ovariancancer, Isabella's life—she was forty-eight when she died—hadgone from magic to tragic to allegedly drinking weed-killer.

Just as I had been ignorant of her last struggles and her sui-cidal sufferings, I was also ignorant regarding the true scope ofher accomplishments. Reading the scores of obits and profiles, Icame to understand that the great Isabella was a down-to-earthwoman of almost Vreelandesque influence and creativity. The listof models, photographers, and designers who were discoveredand propelled to stardom by La Blow's unstinting support and

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patronage is truly astounding: From Juergen Teller to Stella Ten-nant to Julien Macdonald, the roster of Blow alumni is endless.

The week she died I was in the UK staying with my dadin a senior citizens' home in Brighton. On Tuesday, May 15,2007,1 seriously toyed with abandoning Terry Doonan for theday, jumping on the train to Gloucester, and paying my last re-spects to this incredible woman on whose answering machine Ihad left all those unrelentingly gnatiike, annoying messages.

"Maybe you should go," said Terrence Doonan. "She seemedlike such a nice, good-natured trout."

When, the following day, I saw the outfits of the attend-ees—the capes, the plumed hats, the trains, the finery (andthat was just the men)—I was glad I had not gone. Having noeccentric glam attire with me, I would have felt like a chav ver-sion of Agnes Gooch.

"If Isabella could have seen the glamorous send-off she got,she would never have killed herself," one funeral attendee toldme upon returning to New York.

I have decided I like this daffy notion. For purely selfish rea-sons I wish La Blow could have somehow previewed her send-off in a magical crystal ball and changed her mind. Maybe thenwe could have chatted over tea and scones. My treat!

Instead I am left with the gnawing feeling that I missed outon someone truly exceptional and that the armies of eccentricglamour have lost an important general.

The best way to honor the memory of this fallen hero-ine is to keep the flame alive. Unfurl the banner of eccentricglamour every single day of your life and, in the name of MissBlow, wave it at the neighbors until the neighbors start wavingback.

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SIMON DOONAN «the„*.

director of Barneys New York, writes the "SimonSays" column for The New York Observer, and isthe bestselling author of Nasty, Wacky Chicks, andConfessions of a Window Dresser. You can visit himonline at www.simondoonan.net.

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