Jack's Beat

March 11, 2006 Partying vicariously with Debbie Harry, Donna Karan and Ron Jeremy via Bruce LaBruce

As I'm sipping a lychee martini and taking in the Flash Gordonesque view of Pudong from my 85th floor room at the Grand Hyatt Shanghai, my international Blackberry rings.

"Hi Jack, it's Blab, why weren't you at the party last night?"

I recognize the droll Canadian voice that belongs to Bruce LaBruce, the underground filmmaker and fashion photographer. I met Bruce a few years ago in Toronto when he was shooting my ex-girlfriend for a lingerie story that appeared in Nova Scotian Vogue -- the story that, by the way, launched her career and got her the Victoria Secret contract.

"What party?" I ask as I fish the lychee out of my martini glass with my tongue. I gaze at the blinking lights on the nearby Pearl of the Orient Tower, which burn eerily through the thick smog of the Chinese sky.

"Debbie Harry was inducted into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and Marc Jacobs and Donna Karan threw a party for her at the Stephen Weiss Gallery. It was very amusing."

"What are you doing in New York?" I ask. "Last I heard you were shooting the new Madame Gres campaign in Lisbon."

"I'm here for a few days, shooting a men's underwear story for El Salvadoran Esquire. I ran into your ex last night in the VIP room. She was chatting up Ron Jeremy and Lady Bunny - it was a total Diane Arbus moment."

"Isn't Ron Jeremy in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the oldest working male porn star in the world?" I say with mild disgust. "Maybe Ron will be appearing in the next Victoria Secret commercial with my ex. If they can trot out Bob Dylan, why not Ron Jeremy? It would be more in step with the integrity of the brand anyway. Oh, by the way, I'm on the other side of the world, in Shanghai."

"No way! How exotic. So you must be there for the underwear event that your publicist friend is organizing. I was talking to Debbie Harry and Donna Karan about it at the party."

 

"They knew about it?! That's crazy."

"Oh yeah, Donna mentioned that there was going to be a fashion show of the Donna Karan and DKNY lingerie lines and that your friend was organizing it. She's even coming to Shanghai to make an appearance at the show and to attend the opening of her flagship fashion boutique on Nanjing Lu....and I think she mentioned that Debbie was coming with her. They're going to Nepal first - Blondie is doing a concert there and I think Donna is dressing her for it. And then they're flying to Shanghai for the underwear event."

 

"Wow, Debbie Harry AND Donna Karan in Shanghai?! Lily didn't tell me about that. I've got to pitch this to my editors. Would be a great sidebar story. Makes sense that Donna would be going to Nepal - she goes there all the time. How did my ex look, by the way?"

"High. When I spoke to her later she said how excited she was to meet 'Burt Reynolds and Dusty Springfield', referring to Ron and Bunny. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Dusty Springfield had passed away."

"Oh god, that is so her," I say wistfully.

"Hey Jack, I have to go audition some models for the shoot now," Bruce says. "I'll leave you to your Shanghai Express adventure...good luck!"

 

March 6, 2006 Nuclear melons and Oscar karaoke

When I exit my Air Malaysia flight and drag my jetlagged body out into the gate at Narita Airport in Tokyo, the first thing I see is a swarm of Japanese policeman surrounding a Malay teen, and a squadron of men in silver anti-nuclear suits. Oh great, I groan with panic. A terrorist threat in Japan, even though the Academy Awards are taking place on the other side of the planet. What's the point of that??

The police handcuff the youth while the anti-nuclear team pries open the boy's battered suitcase. A nauseating smell erupts from the bag, a stench that seems to combine kerosene, raw sewage, and rotten cantoulope. The workers pull a round bundle out of the suitcase, something that appears to be leaking and wrapped in a white Calvin Klein T-shirt. The stench is so unbearable, a group of flight attendents run back into the plane, handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths. Oh my god, it's a dirty bomb, I tell myself, but instead of running back into the plane, my journalistic curiosity holds me at bay. The men in the silver suits slowly unwrap the package to reveal what turns out to be a smashed, spiky melon. I recognize it to be a notorious durian melon - "the King of Fruit" - the stinky, yet popular "treat" that is eaten throughout Malaysia, Vietnam and China. Relieved yet still repulsed, I pull out a 2(x)ist tank top that I've stowed away in my carryon bag, press it against my mouth and nostrils, and push my past the crowd toward the next gate where I will be boarding my flight to Shanghai. After collecting my boarding pass, I head toward the compartmentalized waiting area - access to the airport's common area, if there is one, seems to be forbidden from this gate - and realize I am about to spend the next 4 hours in a poorly ventilated area that features nothing more than a boutique selling odd Japanese junk food and, inexplicably, Puma boyshorts, and a giant liquid screen TV.

After I pick up some bags of chocolate-covered cuttlefish and mesquite-flavored dried eel, I plop down in front of the jumbo-sized monitor wondering if the Academy Awards will be telecast. Now's the time to put to test Hollywood's dubious claim that 500 billion people all around the world are tuned into this dull, bloated ego fest, I smugly think to myself. The show that is playing -- which is a mix of both Japanese and English -- appears to be the Japanese version of pre-Oscar coverage. In lieu of a red carpet, various Japanese people are performing karaoke to an assortment of American songs -- before long it becomes apparent that all the songs are tunes that have been awarded Oscars over the ages.

After a man in a kimono finishes his rendition of Keith Carradine's "I'm Easy" from the Robert Altman film, Nashville, a group of Japanese girls have decided to tackle "Evergreen" by Barbra Streisand. Because Japanese culture often has no rhyme or reason, the girls are wearing Ginch Gonch briefs over their jeans and lacy Chantelle bras over their Hello Kitty tees. Lily should hire these girls to sing at her next underwear launch, I muse. The fashion crowd eats this stuff up. As a Japanese man in a business suit begins to warble Dolly Parton's theme from Transamerica, my jetlag hits me harder than a rotten durian, and I stretch out on a row of seats a few yards away for the TV, cover my face with the 2xist tank top and try to get some rest in preparation of my Shanghai adventure.

February 27, 2006 Hanoi Rocks

   

A puddle of humidity, pho ga broth and bia - Vietnamese beer - spreads slowly on the cement floor beneath my plastic lawn chair, as I wash down a plate of grilled beef wrapped in betel nut leaves with a large mug of the house specialty. I'm at a traditional bia hoi in Hanoi -- I've decided to spend a few days here and research a story on the Vietnamese art scene for Ukranian GQ -- reading my copy of last week's New Yorker. A "Talk of the Town" piece ruminates on the recent Dick Cheney hunting mishap:

"The quail hunter's underwear can vary....," its author, Bob Gooch, writes. "Some hunters prefer fishnet-type underwear which permits the body heat to circulate more freely."

Lily should send some Male Power underwear to the White House as a publicity stunt, I think and before I get to the end of the article, a Vietnamese child has thrust a copy of The Quiet American -- Graham Greene's notorious left-wing novel of political intrique in Vietnam -- in front of my face.

"Please sir, buy this book! I live in countryside and my family is very poor!" Even though I've already read it, I decide to buy the book since I happen to be staying in the Graham Green suite -- at the nearby Metropole Hotel, where Greene penned the novel -- and hand the boy a few thousand dong (Vietnamese currency.) As I flip through the "Penguin edition" I notice that it's actually a Xeroxed and/or re-typed replica, with the font style changing every 15 pages or so. I shove the book into my back pocket and send a pitch on this bia hoi for the New Yorker's "Tables for Two" column, via my international, not-yet-on-the-market Blackberry.

 

Back at the hotel, a large box from ThinkBigPR -- Lily's PR company -- is waiting for me in my room. How the hell did she know I was here?? I didn't even tell my editor that I was making a pitstop in Hanoi. I rip open the box, which has arrived by overnight DHL, and find a note written in Lily's trademark baroque scrawl: "Hi Jack, I hope you're enjoying Hanoi. Do visit the Apocalypse Now disco and say hi to Anh Khanh for me, you can't miss him (we had a brief fling during Tet last year). Anyway, here are some women's underwear samples that I want you to deliver to Alan Duong -- she's staging a fashion show at her private club next week." I look into the box and pull out piles of neatly wrapped packages: Bali, Le Mystere, DKNY. How did I suddenly become this woman's panty distributor?? I don't have time for this. I walk to the large French windows that look out onto Ngo Quyen Street, throw them open and walk out onto the balcony. Below I spot a group of kids hawking books, postcards, and wooden dolls. I whistle to get their attention and begin flinging the packs of underwear down to them, watching as they bump into each other trying to catch them. They'll make about a billion dong selling these, I smile to myself.

"So, the Americans dropped Agent Orange on Vietnam 35 years ago, and now they're dropping Agent Provocateur panties...We've come a long way, baby." The voice is coming from the balcony adjacent to mine and when I look over I see a petite blonde in a white pantsuit and spiked heels. She looks vaguely familiar.

"Actually, it's DKNY....don't I know you?" I ask.

"Didn't we meet at the Lulu Guinness launch..."

"Was it the Philipe Starck luncheon at Craft..."

"Philipe de Montebello at the Met..."

"I think that was it. We sat next to Hamish and he spilled soup on your Tuleh skirt."

"Oh god, yes! I threw that skirt away. It was just another Anna Wintour hand-me-down, anyhow. She puts out a big box in front of her office once a week and me and the other girls dive in. I'd be naked without that woman. Last week she actually put out a carton of Cosabella thongs - you would have loved it. Enough to feed four Third World nations."

"Very funny. You're Dana Dickey from..."

"Conde Nast Traveler." She's already holding out her business card. "And you're Joe...you write for Republic of Congo Cosmo, no?"

"No and no. I'm Jack Beat. I used to write for Albanian Marie Claire, but now I write for Swag. So what brings you to Hanoi?"

"I'm writing a feature on the Vietnamese art scene," she replies, glancing at her Cartier watch.

"That's interesting, because I pitched that story to you about two months ago."

"Really? I don't remember that. Hey Joe, I gotta go - I hear my Blackberry vibrating in the bathroom where I carelessly left it. Let's try to do drinks at Apocalypse later this week, K?" Before I can reply, she disappears into her room. I fling her card over the balcony and one of the Vietnamese kids runs over and picks up before throwing it back down on the ground.

February 23, 2006 - Arabian Night

I awake from what seems like a walking coma, at what must be some ungodly hour, as an Arabic man in a uniform is frisking me. His right hand stops at the conspicuous bulge caused by my C-IN2 Sling briefs. Damn that Lily, I curse to myself. "Well, well, what is this?" The uniformed Arab asks me with a grin. "And you Americans are always accusing us Arabs of hiding weapons?" I blush and he allows me to pass through the security check point. I pick up my Goyard bag --trophy swag earned from an article I wrote for The Robb Report -- from the end of the conveyor belt by the X-ray machine and lumber toward a synthetic palm tree forest and blinking chandelier shaped like an alien satellite.

This Blade Runner-by-the-Persian Gulf scenario is actually the Dubai International Airport, where I will be waylaid for the next 4 hours, due to the incredibly inconvenient series of flights -- en route to Shanghai -- that my bosses at Swag booked for me. "It was the only ticket we could book at the last minute," the cheapskate managing editor told me. After my long flight on Air Arabia --which was akin to a 15-hour Miguel Adrover fashion show -- I was disoriented, jetlagged and in need of a shower and change of underwear. I plop down on a bench stationed next to a giant plastic camel and try to adjust to the surreal Arabian Disneyland around me. I pull out my flight schedule: New York to London. London to Rome. Rome to Dubai. Dubai to Hanoi. Hanoi to Tokyo. And finally, Tokyo to Shanghai. I would have gotten there faster by steamer ship. Slow boat to China. A figure completely shrouded in a djellabah walks by and I catch a glimpse of a Manolo Blahnik heel under the folds of her hem. A bright blue Dior handbag is slung over her shoulder. "Do you suppose that's Michael Jackson hiding under there?" I joke to the Japanese businessman who is sitting beside me.

"Oh, my daughters they lovah Mr. Michael Jackson very much," he tells me seriously. "They also very much love Martha Stewart, Homer Simpson and Vanilla Ice!" There's a story in this, I think to myself. I make a mental note to pitch a piece called "Zen Pop: the Japanese really, really like us" when I feel my international not-yet-on-the-market Blackberry -- which I am test-driving for Swag -- vibrate in my pants pocket. It's an email from Lily. "Jack, please ask Diane Pernet about covering the Donna Karan underwear event in Pudong that I am organizing. Am sending box of bras to your hotel via DHL" What fresh hell is this? I ask myself. She didn't mention a bra party in Shanghai! I shove the Blackberry back in my pocket and wander around the airport to see if I can find a cocktail lounge or, at the very least, a camel milk bar....

February 15, 2006

   

After months of pitching to my editor at Swag, I'm finally being sent to Shanghai to do a shopping and food story. As always, before I set off for my trip I put in calls to everyone I know to see if they have any fresh leads.

"Lily, it's Jack. I'm calling because I wanted to pick your brain," I say when my favorite hooked-in publicist answers her cell phone. "I'm going to Shanghai next week to do a story for Swag."

"Swag? That's the most honest name for a magazine I've heard since Sassy published Dirty for boys," she giggles. "This definitely sounds like a step up from your gig as caption writer and stylist for Albanian Marie Claire."

"Thanks for reminding me about that. I still have nightmares about the time I was detained at Lithuanian customs with a trunk full of 2(x)ist underwear samples," I say with a shiver. "It's almost as bad as being caught with drugs in Singapore."

"Oh Jack, there you go exaggerating again," Lily sighs. "And speaking of underwear, I was just about to messenger you over some...er, swag. I'm doing some PR for the C-IN2 sling and wanted to pitch an idea to you: You wear the sling for a week and write about how people react to you and your new 'profile' at New York's ten hottest clubs."

"My new profile? What the heck are you messengering to me, Lily--a do-it-yourself plastic surgery kit?"

"You wish. No, I mean your profile south of the border. The C-IN2 sling is underwear that has an elastic sling inside it that helps accentuate your nether region."

"Puh-lease, I don't need underwear that does that. Save it for the editors at Maxim. I'm sure they're always up for some 'profile enhancing'."

"Hmmm, that's not what your ex-girlfriend who models for Victoria's Secret told me about you."

"She's a lesbian and therefore her opinion is unreliable. Anyway, I didn't call to talk about underwear. I wanted to know if you knew anyone in Shanghai I could meet up with while I'm there. Now that everyone and their mother has covered Xiantandi, my editors are now convinced that it's not the name of a planet on Star Trek: The Next Generation."

"Ah, Xiantandi...New Heaven on Earth. I adore Shanghai! I once had an affair with a member of the Chinese Communist Party there....we never had to wait to get a reservation anywhere and he always had the most divine opium," Lily says with a hint of wistfullness in her voice.

"Really? Can I get his email address? And do you know any trendy types there? People who would know about the hottest new restaurants, etc.?"

"Actually, you're sort of in luck. I just got off the phone with my dear friend Diane Pernet -- she's attending Romanian Fashion Week right now, but she's going to be heading over to Shanghai next week. She knows people there. But she hasn't been there since 1987--the train stations had dirt floors and wild chickens in them in those days!"

"Sounds like a party. Hey, I gotta run. I have a lunch meeting with an editor from ReganBooks..." Jack begins before Lily cuts him off.

"Are you still flogging that book proposal about the uhm...Victoria's Secret model?" Lily asks mischievously.

"Never you mind...just please email me Diane's info. And send the sling. If you're nice, maybe I will test-drive it for you."