...Mrs. Vreeland and Avedon absolutely adored Cher?
...Cher could work a frock better than most actual models?
...and this question only had a double entendre?
CHER
May 20, 1946
Showing posts with label Calvin Klein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Calvin Klein. Show all posts
Monday, May 20, 2013
Friday, August 8, 2008
Tea Room of the August Moon
Over at the always-interesting Planet Fabulon, a recent thread caused me to flashback to a distant memory of very nearly getting a golden shower from O.J. Simpson.
(You'll just have to read the posts to get the story, bitches.)
Anyway, the aforementioned incident took place in the men's room of Fujiyama Mama, a now-defunct late 80's/early 90's hot spot on the Upper West Side. Which caused me to recall another, only slightly more recent celebrity bathroom encounter, this time at the chi-chi Mercer Kitchen, circa 1999.
Picture it: Sunday brunch in SoHo. It was a gorgeous spring day, with streams of light flooding through the huge windows of the street level cafe/bar of the Kitchen. The restaurant proper is actually subterranean, but on beautiful days as this was, it's nicer to sit upstairs. Of course, everyone else has the same idea, and there are only about 10 tables in the cafe, so it's catch as catch can. On this particular day, my friends and I were thwarted in our attempt to snag a sunlit table by a large, 20-strong party headed by:
And this is pretty much how he looked: creepy plastic surgery, scary nipples, white tee shirt and all. Shrugging off our disappointment, we traipsed downstairs to the restaurant and proceeded to get giddy on Greyhounds, Bloodys, and Wasabi Tuna Pizza (it's less precious than it sounds, and actually really good). After the third round of cocktails, I was in desperate need of relieving myself, so I made a beeline for the men's room.
Now, for those of you who have never been to the Mercer Kitchen, let me explain the layout of the men's room to you. It is somewhat necessary to the story, so bear with me. As with everything in the restaurant and adjoining hotel, the facilities are elegantly hyper-designed within an inch of its modernist life -- but sometimes with little thought to practicality. Case in point: the two huge, floor-to-ceiling urinals are much more attractive than your run-of-the-mill porcelain pots, but the one closest to the entry door is so positioned that it exposes you and your business to whomever happens to walk in. The one further from the entry door is so close to the stall commode, that if someone is inside, the opening of the stall door will whack it right into you.
It is with this in mind that I never use the urinals at the Mercer, and only the stall (consider yourselves enlightened). Anyway, on this occasion, the stall was in use, so I waited patiently. And waited. And waited. And waited.
What struck me as the most odd -- at the risk of sounding crude -- was that there were no normal "bathroom" sounds eminating from that stall. No grunts. No splashes. No tell-tale whir of the toilet paper roll. No flush, for God's sake. So, after at least a full 5 minutes or so, guess who emerges?
Only looking a lot happier and perkier than when I'd seen him upstairs.
He trotted out, and I entered the stall. This is cruder still, but the damn place certainly didn't smell like it had been in use. (And I don't care what you queens say: yours does stink just as much as anyone else's. Mine doesn't.) The whole scenario seemed bizarre, until I noticed that the previous occupant had left a souvenir.
There, on the brushed stainless steel surface of the Philippe Starck-designed toilet paper dispenser, was a fine dusting of white powder.
And it wasn't Bon Ami.
Frankly, I'm surprised he left as much as he did. Not that it was much, but you know how those gals can get over their drugs.
Of course, I completely forgot my original intent in visiting the men's room, and excitedly rushed back to my table like a gay Paul Revere to Tell All. Of course, being the jaded, sophisticated urbanites that we were and are, by the fourth round, we'd forgotten all about Miss K., and were concentrating more on who was going to get the waiter's name and number?
Probably Miss K., come to think of it.
(You'll just have to read the posts to get the story, bitches.)
Anyway, the aforementioned incident took place in the men's room of Fujiyama Mama, a now-defunct late 80's/early 90's hot spot on the Upper West Side. Which caused me to recall another, only slightly more recent celebrity bathroom encounter, this time at the chi-chi Mercer Kitchen, circa 1999.
Picture it: Sunday brunch in SoHo. It was a gorgeous spring day, with streams of light flooding through the huge windows of the street level cafe/bar of the Kitchen. The restaurant proper is actually subterranean, but on beautiful days as this was, it's nicer to sit upstairs. Of course, everyone else has the same idea, and there are only about 10 tables in the cafe, so it's catch as catch can. On this particular day, my friends and I were thwarted in our attempt to snag a sunlit table by a large, 20-strong party headed by:
And this is pretty much how he looked: creepy plastic surgery, scary nipples, white tee shirt and all. Shrugging off our disappointment, we traipsed downstairs to the restaurant and proceeded to get giddy on Greyhounds, Bloodys, and Wasabi Tuna Pizza (it's less precious than it sounds, and actually really good). After the third round of cocktails, I was in desperate need of relieving myself, so I made a beeline for the men's room.
Now, for those of you who have never been to the Mercer Kitchen, let me explain the layout of the men's room to you. It is somewhat necessary to the story, so bear with me. As with everything in the restaurant and adjoining hotel, the facilities are elegantly hyper-designed within an inch of its modernist life -- but sometimes with little thought to practicality. Case in point: the two huge, floor-to-ceiling urinals are much more attractive than your run-of-the-mill porcelain pots, but the one closest to the entry door is so positioned that it exposes you and your business to whomever happens to walk in. The one further from the entry door is so close to the stall commode, that if someone is inside, the opening of the stall door will whack it right into you.
It is with this in mind that I never use the urinals at the Mercer, and only the stall (consider yourselves enlightened). Anyway, on this occasion, the stall was in use, so I waited patiently. And waited. And waited. And waited.
What struck me as the most odd -- at the risk of sounding crude -- was that there were no normal "bathroom" sounds eminating from that stall. No grunts. No splashes. No tell-tale whir of the toilet paper roll. No flush, for God's sake. So, after at least a full 5 minutes or so, guess who emerges?
Only looking a lot happier and perkier than when I'd seen him upstairs.
He trotted out, and I entered the stall. This is cruder still, but the damn place certainly didn't smell like it had been in use. (And I don't care what you queens say: yours does stink just as much as anyone else's. Mine doesn't.) The whole scenario seemed bizarre, until I noticed that the previous occupant had left a souvenir.
There, on the brushed stainless steel surface of the Philippe Starck-designed toilet paper dispenser, was a fine dusting of white powder.
And it wasn't Bon Ami.
Frankly, I'm surprised he left as much as he did. Not that it was much, but you know how those gals can get over their drugs.
Of course, I completely forgot my original intent in visiting the men's room, and excitedly rushed back to my table like a gay Paul Revere to Tell All. Of course, being the jaded, sophisticated urbanites that we were and are, by the fourth round, we'd forgotten all about Miss K., and were concentrating more on who was going to get the waiter's name and number?
Probably Miss K., come to think of it.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Our Very First Daddy Crush
It says something about our taste in men, that we preferred an aging baseball star in his jockeys to the now-legendary Calvin Klein ad featuring pretty boy Tom Hintnaus, when we disappeared into the bathroom to "wash up before dinner":
Of course, for our actual underwear, we preferred Calvin Klein. We are gay, after all.
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