Budget Fabulous

What to Wear to Paris Hilton's New Years Eve Party

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!

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Hanging out with Heidi Klum and Linda Evangelista

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Dan (Boyfriend Fabulous) and I arrived at the Guggenheim’s Artist Ball Thursday night, in what we thought would be the last available taxi, hours from an impending transit strike, in an ice storm that stung our faces like Botox needles. Proudly sniffing the air in our Burberry outerwear, we pushed past a gaggle of PETA nutjobs who were foaming at the mouth in front of the museum. They were waving signs with images of animals, shiny pink from being skinned alive, to protest the event’s fur coat-producing sponsor, Yves Saint Laurent. Whatever. I’m certainly no fan of fur coats, I think they’re cruel, but I’m even less fond of PETA’s thug-like bullying. Besides, I’m convinced that all you’d have to do to put an end to PETA is force-feed foie gras to all its members. When they realize how delicious meat can be, I think they would forever shut the f*ck up. Especially if the meat in question is the enlarged, excessively fatty liver of an exercise-deprived goose that’s been intentionally kept in a carefully maintained state of ill health. See, we at Budget Fabulous care about the issues too. It’s not just parties and models and cute boys. I mean, we’re never going to be as hard-hitting as, say, The Tyra Banks Show, but we’re not uninformed morons. Why, just last week I got into a heated debate with a Republican over the fact that Condoleeza Rice hasn’t changed her hairstyle once since elected First Lady.

Once inside the museum, we skipped down the red carpet, giddy like little bitch-schoolgirls flaunting their expensive new Sunday dresses in front of the poor kids, just to make them feel bad. Correction: I skipped down the red carpet while Dan rolled his eyes and pretended not to know me. Perhaps he was embarrassed by my desperate posing for photographers who clearly were only interested in real celebrities like Thom Filicia, or my new best friends, Linda Evangelista and Heidi Klum. Did you get that, people? I said Linda Evangelista and Heidi Klum, okaaaay? Touch me. Feel me. Drink me in. Love my bulbous, model-befriending buttocks. Desperately wish your craven soul were as fabulous as mine, so that you too could hang out with Supermodels and eat toxic goose liver in their company. Revel in the fact that there is no end to the fabulosity of Budget Fabulous. Know that some people actually thank their lucky stars every day that they are in close proximity to all this attractiveness and hi-touch glamour.

The Guggenheim itself seemed magically transformed into an undulating otherspace bathed in red and sound. Above the din of kronik beats and shimmering Hindi vocal tracks, sexy high-heel girls giggled and flirted and looked fierce in couture (like this little number worn by model and accessories designer, Anouck Lepere). Mechanical bulls, set smack in the middle of the ground floor, bobbed up and down all evening, drone-like, plodding, making some sort of statement on banality, while casting evil satanic shadows on the scarlet rings of the rotunda. The FABULOUS Laura Gregor arrived and did not disappoint: pencil-slim, honey-blonde and sexy-as-hell in Carolina Herrera. The Enchantress, artist and psychotherapist Dr. Susan, displayed the exquisitely toned extremities of her Pilates-fabulous body in a black strappy number designed to kill. Great Moments, there were many. My favorites: a gorgeous wrap dress on a gorgeous woman. Eva Lorenzotti, founder and CEO of L'Art de Vivre, wearing gigantic necklaces. Cute young partygirls—thrilled to be at such an event, especially with each other. Damon Dash, CEO of Roc-A-Fella Records, getting down. Mrs. Damon Dash, the lovely and talented fashion designer Rachel Roy. Models Ines Rivero and Zoya Todorovic. The Fabulous Cynthia Rowley, who was seen chatting with artist Rachel Feinstein. Random Hot Guys. Foppish dandies. And modeling legend, Mrs. Keith Richards, Patti Hansen. And did I mention Heidi and Linda?

And that was our night at the Artist’s Ball. Now I'm off to Florida for one week of food, family and self-medication to forget the pain of being born beautiful in a society that only respects intelligence. Until then.

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Protagonista Fashionista

We at Budget Fabulous are exhausted. And fat. The endless holiday parties have wreaked havoc on our fashionably low BMI scores. We’ve inhaled so many free hors d’oeuvres and cocktails that we’ll die happy if we never see another mini-Kobe beefburger or foie gras lollipop. Thankfully I’m going home to Florida in less than a week. There’s NOTHING going on there and no good food for miles (just kidding, Mom). So I’m hoping to get my buff body back. What do you MEAN “what buff body?”

Despite the calories, one party I was definitely not going to miss was the big fashionista Christmas bash hosted by the fabulous Australian fashion designer Fiona Slice. Fiona’s parties, which are held in her airy duplex high above Sheridan Square, are famous not so much for the food and wine (which are nonetheless fabulous), but for the cast of characters she assembles at each fete. And for the Pagan Rome-like shenanigans that take place. This year's shindig did not disappoint. For your reading pleasure, a Who’s Who of Fiona and her Fabulous Fashionista Friends. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Fiona Slice. Recently left her high-level design job at Stella McCartney to start her own punk-meets-couture label called Anthrax. The line is so hot, it sold out at Jeffrey within a week. The buzz on 7th Avenue is all about her $5,000 hole-riddled cashmere t-shirt. Each shirt is individually distressed through controlled exposure to live moths. Anna Wintour couldn’t even get one. Fiona, a well-known jet-setting partygirl, recently dumped a gorgeous oil-rich dude from Dubai. “He had great taste in jewelry and, lucky me, he liked to share it. But he just bored the sh*t out of me. I had to bid him adieu.” Fiona’s excited by the upcoming launch of Toxin, her inaugural line of cosmetics and skin care.

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 Le Souk in terrifyingly high stilettos.

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 Luca Luca. Just as she was due to hit the runway, she peeled off the dress she was supposed to model, and cavorted down the catwalk nude, her body painted with dozens of anti-fur slogans. All was forgiven--Luca Luca’s sales went through the roof. Pru is married to an Australian novelist and has a gorgeous four-year-old daughter named Belle, who told me she wants to design garbage cans when she grows up.

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 “The L Word”.

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.

This is only a random sampling of the players that night at Fiona's Fashionista Fiesta. Don't you wish YOU could have gone? Folks, the year is coming to a close, but please stay tuned to Budget Fabulous for a couple of more exciting posts. Including a star-studded event from last week. Until then...

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Empanadas and Tango

“What you need to do is stand right here by the kitchen door. Try to look cool, not conspicuous. Just be breezy and causal. You know, raise your chin a little and look around the room. Act like you’re leisurely scanning the crowd for your fabulous friends. Then the minute you see someone leave the kitchen with a tray, bolt to the next room and wait by that big, long table. That’s where he’ll put the tray down and you’ll get first dibs.”

It was Friday night at the Consulate General of Argentina and I was explaining to special guest star Dan, Boyfriend Fabulous, my proprietary technique for beating fellow moochers to the free empanadas that are always served at these Consulate events. I know it's ghetto, but this stalk-the-caterer routine is the only way to get food in your face. Cuz honey, once that tray is placed on the table, the empanadas disappear faster than flesh from a human limb dangling in piranha-infested waters. It always amazes me to see the local gentry turn into a Shirley Jackson-esque mob, in what has to be the scariest feeding frenzy witnessed in polite society. And mind you, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with this. In fact it’s totally Budget Fabulous. And I’m the worst offender. I nearly knocked down an old lady over a rumor that guava and cream cheese empanadas were in the building. Thankfully she was holding on tight to her walker. Oh come on, if she had actually fallen, I would have done the right thing. I would have brought her an empanada for the ambulance ride. Dan, who already thinks I’m crazy, was clearly horrified by my behavior. I think he was pretending not to know me.

Empanada-snarfing aside, we were gathered for a good cause. Our $15 ticket went to support ProyectArte, a non-profit school in Buenos Aires that provides talented young people with a tuition-free art education. There was a silent auction, a tango show and another special guest star, fellow Argentine, Brother Fabulous. Oh yeah, and the crowd was, shall we say, highly presentable.

EVENT: A reception and silent auction to benefit ProyectArte
VENUE: The Consulate General of Argentina
BEVERAGES: Unlimited red and white Argentine wines
FOOD: I believe we’ve established this already
ENTERTAINMENT: Tango!
CHA-CHING: $15

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Ultra Fabulous

Warhol Superstar Ivy Nicholson, and daughter Penelope Palmer at the 40th Anniversary of Max's Kansas City

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As we begin our final descent into holiday land, why not take a moment to reflect on the wonderful things that make your life beautiful. Perhaps it's the loving spouse who is simultaneously your best friend, spiritual adviser and red-hot lover. Maybe it's the fabulous career that rewards you with immeasurable personal and financial success. Or it could be your beautiful children, whose laughter fills your home and heart with unending joy. Whatever these things might be, please, take a break from the shopping and from the business of busy-ness to thank whomever you usually thank for the blessings you count. Because, unlike iPods, XBOX's, and long underwear, these are the important gifts to cherish during the holidays. These are the gifts that last forever and enrich your life with meaning and substance.

I, for example, wake up every single morning and thank my lucky stars to have been blessed with extraordinary physical beauty. When you're beautiful, many more doors are open, and there are significantly greater opportunities for you than for the unattractive people. That's not to say I don't have to work at it. I mean, great genetics only provide a blank canvas. The rest is up to you and the plethora of beauty-enhancing products on the market. Why just last Tuesday morning (after thanking my lucky stars for having been born so incredibly attractive), I endured an elaborate pore-cleansing ritual that resulted in skin tighter than even Photoshop can provide. I cannot say enough wonderful things about Bigelow's Clay Purifying Cleansing Mask. It absolutely shrinks those nasty enlarged pores we all suffer from (yes, even the attractive people like me).

Actually, I was clay-masking so I would look my very best that evening at the Guggenheim. I was meeting super-attractive power couple/poodle breeders Nancy and Joe at a reception for Robert Whitman's Local Report, a video installation recently acquired for the museum's permanent collection. We drank wine and ate hors d'oeuvres while mingling in a maze of elevated movie screens, upon which was projected low-tech video of the "camera-phone" variety. Super-pixelated and very D.I.Y. An interesting irony. Made some fabulous new best friends, like Laura, software consultant to the stars. We were debating whether or not we'd be attending the Guggenheim's gala "Artist's Ball" next week, doing the "I'll go if you go" dance. Spotted what has to be one of the most physically beautiful men on the planet. But the highlight of the evening was when I absolutely pooped my pants after realizing I was standing right next to legendary Warhol Superstars, Ultra Violet and Taylor Mead. Ultra and Taylor were major instigators of the 1960s creative and cultural upheaval. As we were chatting, Ultra asked me if I realized I was in the company of art history icons. Ohh, did I. They suggested I crash the party they were going to right after the Guggenheim shindig. It was the 40th Anniversary of Max's Kansas City, the nightclub that was home to the New York avant garde in the late 60s and early 70s. Taylor thought if I showed up with my camera, they would probably wave the $40 donation to the Max's Kansas City Project, a fund set up for artists in crisis. They did. So, not only did I crash, I crashed for free. Dare I say it? How Budget Fabulous!

Taxied over to The Hit Factory, the famous recording studio where artists such as Madonna, John Lennon and David Bowie recorded some of their biggest albums. The first thing I saw when I walked into the party was the rhinestone encrusted Baldwin piano that apparently once belonged to Liberace. Then I met one of the most amazing people: the FABULOUS Ivy Nicholson. Ivy used to be a top fashion model in the 50s and 60s, and was a member of the Warhol creative team. She said she was looking for a writer. Hmm, well here I am (heavily retouched for your viewing pleasure)! Ivy was accompanied by her daughter, actress Penelope Palmer, who really fell in love with my camera. Spotted the beautiful Misha Sedgwick who was modeling a special Betsey Johnson design that was auctioned to benefit the Max's Kansas City Project. Met the artist Matuschka, pictured here with a friend. But the highlight of the evening was hanging out with my other new best friend, the uber-cool Sharon, who was there with her friend, photographer Kevin Kushel.

The party was winding down (the pizza had run out). Shot, oh, just one or two more pictures of Penelope Palmer, grabbed a goody bag, then ran home and called everyone I knew to gloat about how I just spent the evening hanging out with 60s royalty. Which begs the question, is there no end to my fabulosity? First I'm hanging out with Naomi Campbell and Beyonce. Now it's Warhol Superstars. Who's it going to be tomorrow? Britney? Madonna? Who knows. What I do know is that from now on I will be thanking my lucky stars that I'm as Ultra Fabulous as I am Ultra Attractive. Happy Holidays.

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Candy Land

“See that ledge over there?” David asked in a hushed tone that somehow made me feel like I was wearing dirty panties, “that’s my c*cksucking shelf. I designed it myself.” He was referring to a 2ft. recess in the wall, which formed a built-in shelf above the head of his bed. “See, I lay on the bed while the guy straddles my chest. He rests his arms on the ledge to support his weight. This way he can really lean in and f*ck my face. And the angle’s perfect--no gag reflex. Unless, of course, he’s unusually endowed. Which in that case, who cares about a little gagging?”

David was a 40-ish Wall Street executive who had recently been downsized from the blue-chip insurance company he had helped succeed for years. “Early retirement,” he was fond of saying. A Fulbright scholar from an old-moneyed Connecticut family, David was also one of the oink-iest gay sex-pigs in Greenwich Village (quite possibly all of Manhattan). On this freezing cold Saturday night in December, he was giving me the grand tour of his bachelor pad while we got tipsy on thick, lusty Bordeaux. He lived at the gayest address in the universe (the corner of Gay and Christopher Streets) in two cozy, fire-lit rooms connected by a railroad hallway, and fronted by a fabulous sunken garden. You had to walk through the garden in order to reach the apartment, past fountains, climbing wisteria, multi-colored impatiens (in the warmer months) and two flags that flew proudly all year long: the French Tricolore and the Gay Pride Rainbow. I had been invited that exceptionally chilly night to enjoy the leg of lamb that was now slowly roasting in the oven, filling the tiny flat with its earthy perfume. David continued with his kiss and tell.

“Jon, there are only two great sexual pleasures in my life--sucking c*ck and having my nipples fondled. Have I ever shown you my ‘titshirts’?” He pulled out a couple of ratty old undershirts, each of which had two holes strategically hand-scissored around the nipple area. He said that these “titshirts” were what he always wore on dates, underneath his impeccably starched, Brooks Brothers French-cuffs. “This way, when the guy puts his hand up my blouse, he’ll get the drift right away. If he doesn’t figure it out, I’ll tell him to pretend my tits are radio knobs and if he works them hard enough, he might tune into Radio Free Europe…so START DIALING!” He said the only downside was that his aureoles had become unusually engorged, a fact that greatly alarmed his employer’s in-house physician. When reviewing a set of recent x-rays David had had as part of his yearly company-mandated physical, the doctor expressed grave concern over what appeared to be either concentric lung cancer or tissue not normally associated with the male gender. “No wonder my Wall Street career came to a grinding halt!”

I had come to dinner that night specifically to get better acquainted with my new friend David, and to enjoy a Budget Fabulous dinner in the famous beamed-ceiling, tapestry-walled apartment that everyone in our circle had dubbed “Candy Land” (after David’s alter ego girl-name “Candy”). I had not expected to get the TMI on his highly specific sexual proclivities. But after this evening and many others like it, I realized that David, being wellborn of patrician stock, could easily navigate the highest Park Avenue social strata with manners and grace. But what he really enjoyed was hot man-on-man action, and the good friends with whom he could share his juicy sexcapades and tawdry tales.

David was taken from this planet way before his time, by a fire in his apartment early Christmas morning of 2003. Though there will be no new tales of titshirts and f*llatio, those of us he left behind will have his old stories with which to shock and appall our friends for years to come. Now so do you. And stay tuned for more...