Celebutards and Other Monsters

TUTTLE MODE

 by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

Join me as we scrape the bottom of the barrel that is reality television.  Yes, I’m talking about the festival of talentless reality show rejects known as VH1’s Famous Food and don’t pretend you’ve been watching it, either!  No one has.  The ratings were so low after only a couple of weeks that it’s getting bumped out of its Sunday slot in favor of Behind the Music.  Yeah, ouch.

Don’t worry, though.  I’m here to catch you up on the whole fabulous train wreck!

Enough with the reality crap. Just give Jake Pavleka his own game show, already.

The idea of the show is pretty straightforward.  A group of seven “celebrities” get thirty days or so to open a restaurant and the one who contributes the most gets a share in the place.  One of their first ideas these dumb bitches had was to “call the restaurant ‘Fame,’ because we’re all famous!” but I don’t know who half these people are.  

Every Clown Has a Silly Lining

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

It took me a while to get around to finally seeing Bravo’s new show Million Dollar Decorators because the commercials for it were so awful.  It looks like a bunch of douches with dueling egos who don’t even know each other outside the show pretending to do some fake design projects for the benefit of the cameras.  Just name it “Real Housewives of Interior Design” and call it a fucking day.

What recession? The stars of Million Dollar Decorator have BUDGETS, baby.

The show actually begins Housewives-style with the five pretentious Los Angeles-based interior designers making grand pronouncements and then posing awkwardly while crossing their arms and stuff.  The attractive Jeffrey Alan Marks proclaims, “I don’t follow the trends, I set them!”  Well, he was attractive before he opened his damned mouth. 

If You Dare Wear Short Shorts

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle

Gentle Reader,

Are you sitting down?  If not, maybe you should be.  I have something to tell you.  You may have come to know me as an icon of taste and style over these past weeks but I have a terrible admission.  I’m not actually perfect.  For one thing, my left thumb bends a little crooked, the result of a nasty childhood break.  And that’s not the worst of it.  I am also recovering from an acute addiction problem.

The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint you, especially now that we’ve become so close.  If you think back over our history, we’ve been betrayed by Balmain together, dealt with trampy Housewives, and confronted drag as an art form.  You and I have even learned some tricks for the over-40 guy and gone on the lam from the damn mafia, so I feel I should be honest with you.  I’m just going to say it.  I was addicted to HGTV.

I don’t know how it started.  I can’t even remember which show I first watched on this seductive network but it was quickly followed by another and then another until HGTV was on whenever I was home.  You have to admit that Candice Olsen does very glamorous work with her gas fireplaces and crystal chandeliers.  David Bromstad designed great rooms in the Bay Area, especially when he wasn’t wearing his shirt, before he tanked on the Miami season.  Maybe he started wearing his shirt too much.

David Bromstad could really warm up a room without his shirt on. Then he put one on and went to Miami and... ho hum.

And don’t get me started on Sarah’s House!  Unbeknownst to them, I was involved a love triangle with Sarah and her witty sidekick Tommy, as they overhauled a sixties suburban split-level one season and then a Victorian farmhouse the next.  

Et Tu, Christophe?

The keen-eyed sharp dresser, James Tuttle

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle

Please welcome a new contributor to PFC, James Tuttle.  He will be dropping in from time to time with a few bons mots and opinions about fashion and lifestyle.

Gentle reader,

I’m taking a short break from watching a riveting episode of Bad Girls Club to share a thought with you.  Well, perhaps a few thoughts.

The most immediate is to dissuade as many as possible from using BGC, as this charming and occasionally violent women’s empowerment show is known to its devotees, as any type of fashion reference. You see, I’ve been in the fashion industry for many years and nearly all of those years have been spent with top designers. Whenever I see a young lady veer toward a selection that is embarrassingly (for her or for me?) too short, too tight or too low and hear her declare that it’s “okay because it’s for the clubs,” I suggest that she go topless and write “SLUT” on her forehead.  How’s that for a declaration?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for “sexy” but that can be better accomplished with a bare back in a high-necked, long sleeved gown.  It doesn’t have to involve every possible inch of skin, even if the young lady is in exquisite physical condition.  Unfortunately, they rarely are, even in L.A.  I should also mention that my morning commute often takes me past an array of Santa Monica Boulevard’s black trannie hookers before I reach Beverly Hills, and I find that they really give me a sense of perspective on the whole matter of just how much is too much.

On the left: Kate Hudson's back. Seriously sexy. On the right: Jennavacia from BGC's front. Seriously something else.

But enough about me.  First, Galliano’s supremely stupid pro-Hitler gaffe (in the Marais of all places!) landed him rightfully in the global Dog House. This fall from grace was especially hard to watch after his couture collection for Dior, based on the work of French fashion illustrator René Gruau, brought tears to my eyes and made me fall in love with the drama of it all a little bit more.  Where are we to draw the line between the artist and his work?  Hitchcock was a sadistic prick and I still love his films.  Picasso was a serial womanizer and a sadistic prick and people still pay millions for his paintings.