what landis wore : evenings out in los angeles

things i've noticed about myself recently.

1) i am old.  

a night "out" no longer requires any of the following items:

velvet catsuits.  riding boots.  masks.  eyeliner.  

(just ask tim.  i am not kidding.)

2) los angeles is making me dress up MORE.

perhaps it's that you can walk into any restaurant in jeans and a tee here

that makes the landis want to pile on the fur.

it's dinner out, you slobs.

not a screening of a seth rogan film.

3)  i gave up trying to define my style 

in the same way i gave up trying to describe myself.

like all good things in life,

experiencing it is better than talking about it.

so:

(rick owens tee.  lanvin cardigan/wrap.  diesel pants.  bottega loafers.  gray sable scarf.)

(burberry prorsum blazer, h&m turtleneck, mochi silk twill khakis, grenson navy patent wingtips)

wait.  gets better.

2/3 of the items.  70% off.

ha.

i AM aware of "these troubled times".

eat it, pessimists.  you CAN buy happiness.

ampersands : the LANVIN WINGTIP. shit.

i was naive.

in my little shell.

surely lucas ossenjdriver,

the genius behind lanvin's men's line,

would be content torturing me with a nearly endless procession,

season after season,

of covetable "stealth luxe" clothing

and obscene new takes on the trainer.

surely, surely,

he would let me occasionally purchase a shoe,

a small thing,

and then go about my way.

BASTARD!

(pardon my french.)

what landis wore : the rick owens coats from JOYCE, hong kong

rick owens

(you all know how i feel about him.  le sigh.)

started his whole gig here in los angeles,

and after a month here, i completely get it.

the whole rumpled, assymetrical, stealth luxe thing,

the touch of biker, bad-boy, teenage angst,

the casual meeting the bondage . . .

it's perfect for this city.

i have three of his pieces,

all purchased in hong kong at the most gem-like retail store in the world,

Joyce.

to get to the men's section in Joyce (i capitalize out of respect),

you have to wander through the house section, to an abalone shell encrusted door,

press the button,

and wait for the tiny elevator to take you up to the hidden third floor.

there, you are released into several rooms filled with . . . well,

filled with a perfected selection of men's clothing.

it's like louis, boston, but without the need to add in conservative pieces.

it's like maxfield, los angeles, but without the need to add the chrome hearts and the sequins.

it's like atelier, new york, but without the heavy goth touch.

it's like landis.  and every time, though he was based in l.a., and now is in paris,

i have found a rick owens piece that i could not leave without.

from this:

(rick owens denim jacket, diesel sheer cardigan and jeans, co-op boots)

a denim jacket
that has the perfect, toxic, wash, over-long sleeves (an owens hallmark),
and hidden pockets for all your stealth needs.

to this:

(rick owens washed lambskin jacket, diane declerq scarf, jil sander sweater, levi's jeans)

the most "yes, i can comfortably die in this" jacket i have ever owned. 
his leathers are cut like armour, to your body without restricting,
with narrow sleeves, tight in the torso, and exaggerated collars.

to this:

 (rick owens pieced lambskin, silk nylon, and cotton jacket)

the ultimate "didn't know i needed it" jacket,
which like the others,
was hanging on the rack in joyce,
silently pining for me,
ready to
"complete me".

no, literally.

(disturbingly materialistic and "these troubling times" inappropriate comment, courtesy of landis)

(all rights reserved.  landis is a wholly owned subsidiary of landis inc.)

what landis wore : the pea coats

los angeles is a city of mild winters.

much to the chagrin of all the fur in my closet.

so i find myself in pea coats when it gets "bitter" outside.

not "bitter" like your last ex who kept calling then put up that really cruel blog post that you can't take down and always pops up when someone googles your name and thereby makes you bitter.  "bitter" like all the los angelenos think cold is when it dips under sixty five.

(jil sander canvas cropped pea coat, patchwork jcrew khakis, mcqueen linen and leather wingtips)

(banana republic washed canvas pea coat, neil barrett twill slim cargo pants, re-dyed bally suede lace-ups)

A.P.B. : bring me the duckie brown spring line (model not included)

i've said it before.

the duckie brown spring line is a breakthrough.

i want it all.

the shorts.  the tights.  the athletic inspired cuts.  gimme.

but boys at d.b., one thought.

when casting your next model, peut etre,

someone who comes across a little less . . . constipated?

just sayin . . .

love,

landis

what landis wore : walking the dawgs

one of the perkiest parts about the move to los angeles
is that the pups get walked twice a day,
every day.

which has created the "what to wear when walking the dogs" dilemma.

cause our neighborhood is chock full o' the gays.

cute, cut, buffed and polished to within an inch of their lives,
all the boys walk the main drag
(santa monica, not divine)
and they all stop to pet the girls
(the dogs, not the lesbians).

so you can't just throw on the sweats and head out the door.

not that i would.

so i've adopted a kind of limited palette thing:

(martin margiela sweater, james perse tee, jcrew khakis, paul smith boots)

(gilded age jacket, raf simons gloves, old navy khakis, opening ceremony boots)

(nice collective coat, levi's capital E jeans, grenson patent wingtips)

i guess dogwalking is like the grocery store of the gay world.

or some other analogy.

i have a head cold.  leave me alone.

the insanity of barney's final sale, or, god answers my prayers, and in my size.

A STORY FROM THE BOOK OF LANDIS:

i had stalked this piece all season.

granted, i have recently moved to los angeles,
so there is no reason at all for another winter coat in my closet.

let alone a jil sander one.

and then it went on sale.

and i ignored it.

and it was second mark down.

and i tried it on, turned in front of the mirror,
and ignored it.

then it went on final markdown.

and i visited it, petted in, and sighed.

then, god showed me the reason for my move down here.

he marked it down again.

it was 87% off.

and there was one left.

in my size.

so this (yes, you see right) little pleated number now sits quietly in my closet,
waiting for a trip to a chilly clime.

the lord works in mysterious ways, my children.

go forth and spread the good word.

the POLO SHIRT, reconsidered :

as a child growing up in houston, texas during the eighties,
the advent of the polo shirt was something like the recent coming of obama.

people never thought it would stick,
initially found it a little working class to be a winner,
and doubted the south would adopt it.

and look where we are now.

in a world where discount stores "stack em high and watch em fly",
every joe on ever corner wears one and considers himself "dressed".

au contraire, mon frere.

the polo is the male equivalent of the capri pant.
it tends to dumb down even the chicest of people,
to drive to the lowest common denominator,
and no amount of re-invention or designer collaborations can fully remove the stigma.

trust me on this,
i am not even immune.

i own polos from dior.
ok, one.

i own "re-issued" polos from lacoste.

(important note.  i do NOT own a polo by ralph lauren.  it has become, for me, too much of the "look what i found at the factory outlet, bob" item.  it reeks of the sub-urban.  not the suburban.  the sub-urban.)

have we firmly established that i have a distaste for the polo?

so, help me here.

why is miuccia prada such a bitch?

she puts out a spring line that re-interprets american "classics",
but if seen through some twisted, malcolm gladwellian, post-blink drug haze.

and suddenly,
i am fourteen again, sitting on the quad,
waiting for booker to get out of debate so we can go make out in his car.


it is just hot enough, that i may have to subvert my own distaste.

THAT, lovies, is fashion.