Oliver and Shand both work in fashion/celebrity PR. They first laid eyes on each other five years ago while employed by the same big-name firm. The night they met, they were were working late at the office on a pitch. Sitting together at a large conference table, chatting over late-night Chinese takeout, they were amazed to discover their mutual passion for all things camp. Neither one could believe he had met another human being who knew so much about obscure B-movie starlets and swinging-60s martini culture. It was love at first bite of General Tso's chicken. They’ve been together ever since.
Probably the grooviest gays in all New York, Oliver and Shand are famous for, among other things, their kitschy approach to decorating. Their East Side apartment is the absolute embodiment of Basement Rec-Room chic. Think Carol Brady, in a lime polyester pantsuit, shaking her frosted-blonde shag at Peter and Bobby, who are locked in sweaty, pre-Ritalin combat across the family pingpong table. Kinda makes you hot, doesn't it? My original intention for this post was to interview Oliver and Shand about their Budget Fabulous approach to creating this cool mid-century look without paying steep, early-millennium prices. But the minute I was greeted by a frantic and slightly-dissheveled Oliver, it was apparent there were more pressing issues to discuss on this sunny, late December afternoon.
"Oliver is so upset," Shand said, mixing up a batch of Manhattans in a chilled 1940s pitcher.
"Why?"
“WHY? I'll tell you WHY. WE’RE going to Paris Hilton’s BIG New Year’s Eve bash at Tao in Las Vegas,” Oliver said without breathing, as if the sentence were typed with no spaces between the words. “We’re flying out tomorrow morning and I’m FREAKING OUT. I have NO IDEA what I’m going to wear. You HAVE to help me!” Oliver also likes to speak with the CAPS LOCK key pressed. “And Shand is NO HELP, he’s already figured out HIS outfit. He’s going to wear this adorable Cub Scout top with plaid pants and a pith helmet. You know it’s so much easier for you, Shand. It’s SO MUCH easier when you’re butch.” Poor Shand could only roll his eyes.
“Calm down, Oliver," I interrupted, "and back up a minute. I didn’t know you were invited to that party. When did this all happen?”
“We found out last week. Thank GOD we could still get a flight out. My friend Judi, Judi with an ‘i’, is best friends with the girl who does Paris’ PR. Her friend called and said she would be supervising the door for a few hours, so if Judi wanted to come, she could. AND she could bring a couple of her friends, her COOL friends mind you. So Judi called me and asked if Shand and I would go with her. Oh by the way, it’s a BIG secret that Judi’s going. She does Mary-Kate’s PR, and if Mary-Kate found out, the sh*t would hit the fan. So DON’T put this on Budget Fabulous, Jon.” (We’ve since checked it out with Judi, Judi with an ‘i’, who okayed the story. She wasn’t worried. “Oh, nobody who knows Mary-Kate reads that stupid bl… I mean, reads Budget Fabulous.”)
Oliver made me follow him into their normally neat as a pin bedroom. There must have been a thousand different articles of clothing and accessories flung about the bed and all over the floor. There was even a shoe tangled up in their vintage 60s doorway beads. It looked like an outfit bomb had exploded, leaving fabulous fallout of blouses, bangles and baubles in its wake. It was fashion nuclear winter. “I can’t decide whether I’m going to channel a ‘Peter Allen on the Merv Griffin Show in 1969’ look, or if I should just do this basic black peasant tunic over wide gold palazzo pants. All vintage Halston, Fall 1974.”
“Well what about this?” I asked, holding up a cherry red, sequined stovepipe pantsuit with white fur trim at the sleeves and collar. “You know, this would look fabulous with those baby blue suede shoes you have. The ones with the huge buckles and the chunky stacked heels. The whole look would be very ‘Nan Kempner hosting Christmas lunch in the early 70s.’” By now Oliver was ignoring me and was rabidly stripping off his clothes, trying on endless stream of outfits, one crazier than the next. I would have taken photos, but I thought it would be too voyeuristic (even for me) to capture on digital media a full-on fashion meltdown. Finally, I sent Shand over to their fabulous bar setup, to mix up a fresh batch of Manhattans, hoping another round of Maker’s Mark and maraschino cherries would help calm the fashion beast within.
“THIS IS IT!” Oliver shouted, wearing a white sweatshirt with “Sexy” written across the front in puffy paint, and a pair of skintight, faux-leopard stirrup pants tucked into army-issue combat boots. “Very ‘Roslyn Richmond from Baldwin, Long Island meets trailer park slut waiting for her government cheese, riiight?’”
“Perfect! Let me take a picture.”
“Oh honey, I’d LOVE to, but I want to save the look for Patrick McMullen and the red carpet. Know what I mean?" I did. "And, by the way Jon, drink up. You need to get the hell out of here cuz I have to pack. We fly out first thing tomorrow morning. Love you, mean it. And thanks for your help. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Two sets of triple airkisses (and one apartment door hitting me in the ass) later, I was back out on Lexington Avenue, looking for the always-elusive available cab at rush hour. I started thinking about the tremendous pressure placed on New Yorkers to be fabulous. Oliver is certainly not alone in this. We obsess about wearing the right designer clothes, not caring that one jacket can cost a month’s salary. We drink the trendy new cocktails, despite the fact that they’re the color of Windex and cost $14. We eat at the hippest restaurants and think it’s amazingly clever that the food is served in dog bowls, the wine in baby bottles. And we do all these things preferably before anyone else does. Because, if not, we might as well live in the suburbs, or be deemed insignificant by the reigning Fabulazzi. As I patiently waited for the taxi that never came, I questioned my role in all this. Was I adding to the pressure by glamorizing these types of things on Budget Fabulous? Am I sending the message that how fashionable a lifestyle one leads is a measure of personal validity? Well, yes I am actually, and what exactly is wrong with that? After all, the ability to achieve fabulosity is what distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom. It’s what places us firmly at the top of the food chain. And I consider it my personal mission to make sure all mankind is achieving it fullest potential.
Happy New Year!













Fiona Slice. Recently left her high-level design job at
Wallace Price Brooks. Rebellious former Upper East Side debutante, now Fiona’s PR director. Her impeccable manners and gracious style reveal her decidedly patrician breeding, despite her desire to downplay it. After dutifully serving her sentence at Dalton, then Bryn Mawr, she promptly returned to Manhattan to embark on a high voltage career in fashion. Which unless we’re talking Talbots or Lilly Pulitzer, fashion is as undesirable an industry as show business in the privileged world from which she emerged, like a rarefied bird from a gilded cage. Famous for her ability to dance all night on tables at
Lucien Sandoval. Anthropologist, photographer, artist, playboy. Equally comfortable in top hat-and-tails or pith helmet. Appears regularly in Page Six, squiring around beautiful fashion models, sometimes two at a time. Has his own table at Per Se. He’s currently in New York to prepare an upcoming show of sepia-toned portraits of tribal Africans. The images are painted not with paint, but with espresso, mud and his own blood. In the early 80s he had long bangs that flopped over one eye and played drums in a new wave band called Glitter Scene.
Debi. Mono-named, Australian dance-music diva whose breakout single, “Love the Love”, is crossing over the Aussie club charts into lucrative pop territory. An old friend of Fiona’s from Sydney, Debi’s in America to promote her new album “Debilicious”. She's also in heavy contract negotiation with a major US label. It’s just a matter of time before Debi’s infinitely danceable combination of synth-based techno and “he done me wrong” love-song lyrics strikes a chord with American youth. Watch for Debi, a star on the rise. And you will say you knew her when.
Pru Bartles. Stunning Australian model, famous for her show-stealing runway antics. Caused a scandal under the tents last September when walking
Anjelica James. An actress, and Pru’s best friend from boarding school. Everyone still laughs that their last names make a wine cooler. Anjelica spent the better part of the evening reclining on a chaise lounge, plucking grapes from a silver bowl with her impeccably-pedicured toes, feeding them to an obedient footslave wearing a rhinestone dog collar. He seemed to especially enjoy it when the juices trickled across Anjelica’s frosty blue nailpolish down the front of her foot. Anjelica can be seen in an upcoming episode of Showtime’s “
Todd Strong. Fiona’s beleaguered, much put-upon assistant. The only person alive that could manage Fiona’s ridiculously overscheduled existence. Todd is amazing. He sets Fiona’s appointments, fields her calls, feeds her cat, picks up her dry cleaning, and even buys her Fruit Loops. This is all just in the first two hours of the day. Somehow he found the time to write a hilarious book about the challenges of being a personal assistant. A major publisher just picked the book up and now Todd could be looking at a bright new career. Fiona is hoping to all hell that it doesn’t even sell one copy. How could she ever find another Todd?
Anastasia Winterborne. Another modern day aristocrat and Wallace Brooks’ Bryn Mawr roommate. “Nothing. I’m bored to tears,” she replied when I asked her what she did for a living. Turns out she was being cheeky. You see, Anastasia has one of those coveted, amazingly fun, rich girl jobs. She is an event coordinator for a young benefactors group at one of the major New York museums. Which means it is her responsibility to make sure all the Fellows of the museum receive invitations to exhibit opening receptions and other events. “It’s not very taxing work,” she drawled, “and I get to go to parties.” Hmm, sounds like a career path for me.

