But I Don't Want To...

A worthy sentiment I'm sure, but I like my ghosts and wish to hold on to them for a bit longer, thank you very much....

From here.

Je t'aime pas...

So simple and pretty and yet, so incredibly mean to whoever it was intended for...love it! Oh, and very Ed Ruscha-esque for those that like that type of word art, as I definitely do...
From here...

Paris Fashion Week= Très Jealous

I officially need to stop drooling at my TIVO. It's been nearly 12 hours since I first watched "The Rachel Zoe Project's" Paris Fashion Week episode, and every time I venture past my television, I fight the insatiable urge to stop everything I'm doing and watch it again. Chock full of what I refer to as "Paris Porn," it's just...I die. But not literally. Rachel loves to say she "literally" dies, her heart is "literally" going to beat out of her chest, etc. What I'm not literally dying of is Paris Fever. And let me tell you, I've got it bad.

And this episode certainly did not help. I mean, did they have to stay at the George V? In a suite, with walk-in closets nonetheless? Did they have to go to Didier Ludot, a mythical store which I tried valiantly but failed to locate when I was in Paris for that ever so brief a moment? I was just waiting for them to head to Colette, another store I went looking for, only to end up standing in front of a construction zone trying to translate a sign in French that said Closed for Remodeling. Thankfully, they spared me on that one. Oh, and Coco Chanel's apartment? Seriously. I was actually making little noises as Rachel got to try on Coco's glasses. Too much...

And Rachel and Brad are right, there is nothing like the sun warming you in Paris, and nothing like the way the light illuminates those spectacularly gorgeous buildings and monuments. The energy there is just overwhelming. You can see it on their faces, even though Rachel claims to have been there a thousand times before. Paris is magic. It absolutely is the most enchanting city in the world.

I must, must, must go back, and soon.

Somewhere between the 800 Euro vintage Dior trench coats, Hermes bracelets and general Chanel fabulosity Brad briefly talked with the designer Erin Fetherston, which happened to make me think of a spread the sorely missed Domino did a few years back of her Parisian flat that was so lovely, I ended up saving the pictures in my "Inspirations" book. Even though it has been a few years, I thought I would post some pictures of her charming, quintessentially French pied-à-terre...




A chaise fit for both Marie Antoinette and an insanely chic modern French girl....


Another brilliant use of the color green.


Adore the rather bohemian edge of having a hanging scarf soften the lines of a large iron chandelier.


At some point in my life, I will have a home with lovely french windows like these.

Mad for Marc

I'm loving this little black dress from Marc by Marc Jacobs' new line. Yes, I know, how many LBD's does one girl need, but seriously, it's functional with a touch of flair to it. The back is très adorable as well, with it's scalloped edges and lace trim...

When In London...The 40 Winks Hotel

I think I'm having a green moment.

And while green is definitely not reviled like blue is in my mind, it certainly isn't my go-to color, by any stretch. I blame the unfortunate hunter green and burgundy decorating onslaught that ruled in the middle of the last decade. Green just seems very...done. And dated. It was years before I could even use red again, one of my favorite colors, and when I did end up painting a wall red, I stood anxiously at the paint counter, barking adjectives like, "red bricks just after a rainstorm, MAC lipstick's Russian Red, 1920's Chinoiserie and you know, the exact color in Ozzy Osbourne's house." The paint guy just gave me a bit of a side eye and shook his head. "Just please don't make it burgundy," I sighed.

After I got it up on the wall, I stood, head cocked to the side, and asked my husband, "Does it look burgundy to you?" He, only half listening as usual, glanced up and shrugged. I asked again, this time with my voice shaking and squeaking like someone about to have a panic attack. "DOES it look...BURGUNDY... to you?" He finally got it, head snapping up, alarmed, and said, "NO, no...it...NO. NO. NO...no." Thank god, right?

So here are a few pictures of the David Carter designed 40 Winks Hotel in London. Since I was not crazy about our hotel the last time we were there, this is definitely on my shortlist of options when I venture back there.



I love how the green on the walls is so dark it appears almost black from certain angles. But it definitely has the depth of a color that is not black.



Nope, definitely not green, but a few black and white stripes on a Friday afternoon has never hurt anyone.




All images come from pointclickhome.com.

Misadventures in Necromania...

So I did indeed venture to Necromance on Melrose to find "authentic" gothic decor for my "Murder at Marie Antoinette's Court" Soiree.

Authentic is one way of putting it.

I don't know what I was expecting, really. I mean, a store name that is obviously derived from the word Necromania, which means, in simpleton speak, a weird sexual attraction to death and dead people, should really speak for itself. I suppose I was expecting the slightly sanitized Disneyland version. That is most certainly not what I got.

Let me paint this picture for you. I actually awaken Tuesday morning in an uncommonly colorful mood. This is rare. I like black. A lot. So anyway, I'm feeling vibrant and cheerful, also somewhat of a rarity, especially in the morning. Without thinking, I throw on my trendy, frayed and cropped boyfriend jeans, a light grey (I know, I know...baby steps) sweater that falls slightly off shoulder and my favorite lace-up hot purple (like hot pink but purple) gladiator sandals. I'm even rocking a bright red scarf.

At some point in the day, I decide that Necromance is my next stop. Still totally unaware of myself (how completely LA of me), I roll up in my big, shiny yupster SUV to a spot right in front of the store. This, my fellow Angelenos will agree, is a feat of nature not unlike outrunning a tornado on foot. It just doesn't happen. So here I am, on this strangely deserted stretch of Melrose, talking on my cell, nodding my head to Miley Cyrus' "Party In the USA" (HATE Miley....LOVE that song), my hair in a jaunty ponytail with Chanel sunglasses pushed up on top to keep my "bangs" out of my face. Yep, I am pretty much a walking cliche at this point. I could totally pass for a blond version of a Kardashian sister. It's pretty pathetic.

So I get out, cell phone still in hand, texting away, and try and find the entrance. The only sign is a hand-painted skull perched above a rather crypt-keeper looking door. I try it. Doesn't budge. Meanwhile, my first clue that something might be awry is when I notice a vintage babydoll skewered horror movie style on a meat hook in the window. Now, I don't remember that from the Haunted Mansion ride...

Anyway, so I knock, ever so gently, and after what seems like an eternity and a half, a woman pushes open the door, looks me up and down, mutters something about cell phones and the devil, and walks away. Ok, I think, no worries. If I can venture into Chanel on Rodeo Drive the morning after the Oscars clad only in pumpkin sleep pants and a t-shirt that reads "I See Dumb People," I can do this. ( a long story from my celeb assistant days...I don't normally leave the house looking like that).

I enter, and two thoughts jump into my head simultaneously. The first is, I am pretty sure I'm not finding a damn thing for my party in here. The second is, it smells like death. And patchouli. Or maybe patchouli trying to cover up the smell of death. Whatever it may be, It's not pleasant. Despite this, deserted boutique etiquette states that you must at least browse before making a hasty exit, so I am stuck. And desperately wishing I had worn my typical uniform of black on black on black with maybe a touch of black and white. The red scarf is making me feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz in reverse as I keep tying and untying the ends as some kind of nervous tick. I'll avoid the trite "there's no place like home" cliche, but you know I was thinking it.

So I start from the front and work my way back, and am introduced to everything from Victorian Era Mourning Photography (really old photographs of dead people in various states of repose) to dried, stuffed animal parts including armadillo feet, bird heads, bat wings, bugs, teeth of unspecified origin and a dead mouse in a trap that I stare at for a good thirty seconds before I get a "Yes. It's real." yell from the back of the store. There are actual skeletons, including a rather large collection of skeleton heads with their age tacked on to each one. One of them said 33 days, and I am still trying to decipher if it was a 33 day old person that died or if the skull has been separated from it's owner for 33 days. I'd actually rather not think about it...

A little farther back, in a gorgeous antique curio cabinet I wouldn't mind at all having in my house, are actual x-rays of human bones. The ones with very obvious breaks in them are more expensive. I mean, obviously, right? The bone saws are more than a little disturbing, as are the old-school dental extraction tools and glass eyeballs. Now my eyes hurt. As do my teeth. Seriously, people really get off on this crap? I turn warily toward the back to see how much further I have to go. Then, like a light shining down from heaven above, I see a rack of somewhat normal looking postcards near the cashier and make a beeline for them, eliciting a little sneer and a knowing roll of the eyes from the saleswoman, who I don't even need to describe because she looks just like you're imaging.

Twelve dollars, 10 postcards and a pack of absinthe gum later, and I spill back out into the 97 degree California sunshine, never in my life so glad to have a lungful of extremely warm, smog-laden "fresh" air.

Next stop: Anywhere but here. As it turns out, I am officially NOT a necromaniac, and am quite thankful for that fact. I'll also probably never be a hard core goth chick, which I pretty much suspected all along. As for the party, I'm back to square one.

P.S. See, people, this is what happens when I go and wear COLOR. That damn scarf is all but dead to me now...
P.P.S. I apologize for the novel. Short posts for the next few days, I promise.

An Education

It is barely October, nearly a month before award season fare starts trickling slowly but surely into movie theatres, and I already have my film of the year. And I must say, a new favorite film of at least the last decade, if not of all time. Ok, maybe co-favorite, sharing the title with another coming-of-age masterpiece, Almost Famous. I don't even need to see Nine before making such an assertion. Not even the thought of Daniel Day Lewis driving a vintage car along a cliff in the South of France can sway me.

An Education is a coming-of-age tale about a young girl, Jenny, who is seduced by an older man in 1960's London. It is also, in my opinion, a very rare example of cinematic perfection. Very, very rare, I might add, in the current film landscape of big budgets and big explosions with very little content. I'd like to write an open letter to the idiots behind G.I. Joe and tell them kindly that the super-bionic character who has things injected into them against their will that then allows them to scale walls, leap off balconies and karate chop people three times their size has been done. To death. Please move on, I beg of you.

If I could take a fantasy screenwriting credit for any film, I would pick this one. I wouldn't change a single word, and that just never happens. For example, I actually had visions of leaping into Kate Winslet's mouth during Revolutionary Road to make her say the words I knew she should be saying. The actual writer of this film, Nick Hornby of About a Boy fame, is pitch perfect for the era and also for the age and gender of his main character, played by the luminous Carey Mulligan. They should hand out this script on the first day of every Screenwriting 101 class. It's that spectacular.

Likewise, the cinematography is simply stunning, as highlighted by the gorgeous, slightly faded dreamscape that is a young Francophile's first encounter with a mid-century Paris. Did I say Francophile? Why yes I did. Can you say you had me at hello? Or more like had me at minute five, as a young, British Jenny lies on her picture perfect 1960's bedroom floor in knee socks reading a french novel and listening to Juliette Greco on her record player. Yep, I'm in.

Best Picture? Yes. Best Actress? Most definitely. Please go see this movie. Let's try and save intelligent filmmaking from extinction.

An Education opens on October 16th.