By yours truly:
Jhym Chu, All-Around Extraordinaire
California is a big mash up. Up north you’ve got the progressive well-to-do’s livin’ large in the hills with their open-minded artistic free form expression, milking the term, “by the Bay” to its fullest. Way south you’ve got the beach bum surfer types mingling with the reckless partiers fresh from drinking and debauchery in Tijuana.
And somewhere in between all that there’s LA, in geography and in context. A sun bleached, sprawled out, smog-covered city where some of the country’s richest and finest members of pop culture, fashion and tabloid headlines wink, blink, and drink the night away...
It’s so crammed full of Hollywood style, glam, and drama I could just devour it; a California cocktail with a few shots too many, a cherry at the bottom, and a whole lot of decorative, garnish-like nonsense…the fuck?!?
Did I mention the sugared rim? It’s a blend of sub-pop stars and a big spoonful of eccentrics. Take my homeboy for example, we’ll call him “Chuck”. Chuck and I go way back, almost as far back as J-Lo’s...well, you catch my drift right?
Anyway, so Chuck’s one of those guys you find working at a telecom center in the daytime. He’s not the hippest. He’s no Brangelina. Until of course, the blaring California sun settles down in its milky polluted nest behind the hills and the hustling, bustling LA nightlife I love so much begins. Then out come the leggings, the Chanel cocktail dress with the midnight blue sequins, the eyeliner, the rouge, and the….get this….the blonde afro wig.
Chuck may be a soul-sucked job zombie by day, but he’s the hottest cross-dressing telemarketer to ever hit the late night LA scene.
Riiiight….so you get the picture.
Last week I was in town for the 2009 LA Fashion Market when Chuck appeared, made one of his strange cameos, and left me with more than just models and martinis to sip on.
I was standing in line for the after party at the Standard, decked out in one of my best fits (and looking absolutely dapper I might add) waiting for my turn to step VIP up to the burly 270 lb Samoan doorman at one of the freshest spots on the block. There was this pair of breezies up ahead of me, dressed to the nines, in short little skirts that made my eyes pop. I was working out a plan to “run into” one (or both) of them once I was in, when all of a sudden some shit started to go down at the door.
Everyone in line started shifting around and peering up to the front. Getting all riled up as if Megan Fox just walked up wearing nothing but, well, nothing. Then the deep booming voice of the Samoan bulldog came filtering back like a Barry White track blasting out of some serious 21 inch speakers,
“We don’t just let no sale rack nobody in this joint, so step up off me! Take your shit back to WeHo.”
Old news right? Fools are always trying (and failing) to make an appearance where they don’t belong in this town, searching for a way…ANY way, to climb to the top of the status ladder.
These bouncers, they’re a bit like Cerberus, guardian of hell in Greek Mythology. They’re sentinels for the entrance to a flaming pit of obscene excess and outrageously overrated self-indulgence. A place that most decent human beings outwardly proclaim to avoid, and would secretly suck a dick to get into. No homo, right?
They stand stoically, arms crossed and hats low, and with one shake of their meaty heads deny countless ugly ducklings and wannabe trendsetters the sacred right to mingle with high-class fashionistas and their aficionados.
As Uncle Karl would put it, the démodé just don’t fly with these guys.
The rejected girl came into view. She’d been pushed backwards, earning a broken heel in the process. When she turned around I caught a glimpse of her face and a strangely familiar…adams apple??!
“Holy shit. That’s Chuck,” I thought.
And here’s the deal: it didn’t add up. Chuck wasn’t some fake floosy trying to worm his way into the scene; he was legit. Decked out in the latest and greatest: Funky East, Mynk, Crow Thief; all some of the up and coming, top designers strutting up and down the runway at the show. Rocking some serious style and class, Chuck was probably the freshest thing to hit this polluted city, not to mention this party, in a long while.
The only catch was, of course, that he was dressed like a she. A very attractive, incredibly with-it, trendsetter sort of she that might turn all sorts of high and mighty fashion heads…if they don’t notice her adam’s apple first. But a she nonetheless.
And apparently this matters to the snooty upturned noses on the inside, waiting to be flattered and doted on with compliments and comments of adoration. Even to the fag hags with their accessory gay hanging off their arm, it mattered. While they occupy a world both alluring and incredibly rich with brilliant creative design, these Runway gurus all have a serious character flaw. Their high maintenance lifestyle requires fulfilling an obsessive need to be constantly surrounded by numerous beautiful and socially significant people. Cross-dressing “nobodies” not included, and all those démodé excluded.
I watched as Chuck stood on one foot, holding his (her?!) broken Jimmy Choo in one hand, looking at the entryway to the Standard’s rooftop, with this sort of sad accepting gaze. Before I got a chance to holler at him, he turned and dejectedly walked away, not noticing how his wig tilted just so slightly askew to the left. He’s normally got his shit so together that this minor detail would usually be fixed quicker than a white kid getting jumped for wearing blue in Inglewood.
Looking back at the entrance to the Roof Top, a now cordial and smiling Mr. Samoan Cerberus was opening the rope for the two Bs I had been admiring earlier. They were batting their lashes and sprinkling that magical sexy-dust the whole time, and damn if he didn’t just let ‘em right in.
I got in too. It didn’t take much. Just had to flash my pearly whites and drop a few names and that was that. The party was bananas. Sittin Rooftop Bar, gazing at the most spectacular views of Los Angeles (animate and inanimate) with the who’s who of Hollywood? C’mon! ‘Nuff said. But I won’t deny, I thought about Chuck and the nature of his rejection more than once that night.
What’s the deal with all these high-class elitists in the fashion world today? They can’t even recognize when the next miss thang walks straight up to them and offers up her seriously fresh piece of ass to do whatever they please with.
And does it matter so much that she is really a he? Fashion has always been about sex. About pushing the limits. About change and innovation and challenging the norm. So that’s real. But in today’s rapidly emerging modern world, who’s wearing what and looking good in it transcends the archaic notions of gender placement and gender role. The metrosexuals are all over it. The “boyfriend” cuts and suit pieces worn by androgynous girls are totally chic. It’s all over the map.
The line dividing gender and sexuality in fashion IS history. And always a blurred one.
So why was Chuck the exception? Word on the street is, GET IN OR GET THE FUCK OVER IT.
LOOK, to those who claim and collect chic, don’t front if you can’t back it. Take the pretentious pre-conceived notions out ya stuck-up nose and take a lung full of real fuckin FRESH air. In the hazy LA summer, you’ve got to breath it in wherever you can find it.
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