Lily Pad

June 8, 2006 - Lulu is going to kill me for posting this, but I've unearthed a video of her modeling a divoon Yves Saint Laurent confection....I'll let you guess which year.

May 5, 2006 - Back in New York for a Warhol moment; Adam+Eve's 15 minutes; Bricktops Takes Manhattan

 

The other night I attended a fabulous book party for Andy Warhol Screen Tests by Callie Angell at a giant penthouse event space on Fifth Avenue.

"I'm still living in the Sixties," Callie informed me when I mentioned a photo I had seen of Andy at Studio 54 recently. "I still write 1965 on all my checks....I haven't made it to the Seventies yet."

Many of the guests looked like they still signed their checks thusly, as wonderfully aged art world denizens floated around the room, martini glasses held aloft, in a tipsy ballet that was scored by Nico's Chelsea Girls album, the Velvet Underground, and Bob Dylan. What a relief to not be assaulted by vulgar hip-hop music at a Manhattan party!

Anthony Haden-Guest nearly bowled me over to get to the bar as I was contemplating the view of the sunset, while nearby Warhol factory legend Taylor Meade was holding court with tales of his screen test which took place -- when else? -- in 1965. Ultra Violet was signing autographs, Brigid Berlin was talking a blue streak about going 11 months without eating key lime pie, Benjamin Liu -- once Ming Vase -- released a few Warholian anecdotes from his Pandora's box.

An improbable guest was Paris Hilton who, in a stroke of Silver Sixties inspiration, had donned an extra-long Adam + Eve T-shirt so that it resembled one of Edie Sedgwick's mini-dresses. Black tights, dangling earrings and kohl eyeliner completed the Youthquake look. "How marvelous!" I told Ms. Hilton. "In six years I predict you'll be phoning Anna Wintour from the bottom of a swimming pool at 4am, asking for prints from your old photo shoot!"

As for Adam + Eve underwear, the brand was featured prominently on Oprah a few days ago. Proving yet again the cosmic power of "The Oprah Effect", the Adam + Eve fashion show on Ms. Winfrey's program precipitated a seismic shift on the Internet -- millions of shoppers logging on to buy T-shirts -- causing websites to crash, nuclear warheads to accidentally launch, and a brief malfunction of Jim Nabors' pacemaker. Ah, the mighty power of American consumerism!

I also ran into Amy Sacco, who had just returned from a trip to San Francisco. "Lily, darling!" she squealed. "I read all about your scandale en le Chine on Page Six! You poor dear! Considering you spent a week in a fascist gulag, you are positively glowing, Ms. Pad!" If she only knew.

After more cocktails and speeches from important art world people, we all moved to the rooftop garden for a spectacular, panoramic view of the city. Callie had chosen this venue because of its close, breathtaking view of the Empire State Building -- a reference to Warhol's Empire. After tucking into some vodka gimlets, we took in a screening of some of the famous screen tests. >

After the Warhol shindig, I moved on to “Bricktops Takes Manhattan”, a Twenties-inspired party from Los Angeles hosted by the acclaimed performance artist Vaginal Davis. Ms. Davis has been channeling Bricktops, the African-American Parisian party hostess of yore, for many years now but this was the first event staged in New York. Held in the dank basement of Siberia—a Soviet/Leninist-style honky-tonk on W. 40th Street—the soiree had an authentic speakeasy-like air about it. NYU students and older artists in either 20’s period costume or 60’s hustler drag were packed into the exceedingly hot and humid space, inhaling boot-leg liquor and human pheromones. Jimmy Fallon of Saturday Night Live was in attendance as well. Onstage, the formidable Ms. Davis—sporting a Le Mystere bra and Goddess garter belt—performed a Dadaist-like spoken word duet with Jennifer Miller, a real bearded woman known for her feminist provocations and knife juggling. “Are you Armenian or Nordic?” Ms. Davis, drenched in sweat, inquired both rhetorically and cryptically of Ms. Miller. “Are you Francis Bacon and Marlene Dietrich’s lovechild?” An ineffable delirium held sway over the evening.

April 22, 2006 - Le Mystere bras, contraband skin creme and Page Six in Paris

"WHICH high-powered panty publicist just spent a week locked up in a communist gulag? Seems the loopy lingerie leader ticked off the Chinese government with a PR stunt that involved underwear models mocking Marxist policy during a fashion show in Shanghai."

Bruce Benderson, author of the must-read travel memoir The Romanian, is reading a Page Six item aloud from one of his high-tech wifi gadgets, as we sit at an outside table at Cafe de Flore in Paris.

"I can't believe they blind-itemed me!" I fume as I refill everyone's glasses with champagne. "They make it sound like I was holed-up in a bathroom stall, shoveling disco dust into Tara Reid's nose! I was merely doing my job as a publicist in China."

"Don't worry, dear," Lulu consoles me as she drains her glass and holds it out for another refill. "Tout le monde will know it's about you."

"Lily, darling, you still haven't told me about your ordeal. This is an incident of international import," Bruce tells me as he lights up a Gitane and begins puffing away elegantly. "I have friends in Miami who were locked up in Castro's jails in the 70s and I'm a bit surprised that this sort of thing is still going on."

"Oh Bruce, it was perfectly dreadful!" I reply histrionically of our internment at the Madame Lotus Bud Maoist Re-Education Camp and Relaxation Spa. "We weren't allowed to make any phone calls....and they wouldn't let us leave the compound for the entire week!"

"Cut the crap, Lily, Bruce is a friend, not a reporter," Lulu admonishes me. "Bruce, they don't send foreigners to real Maoist re-education camps in China -- that would be bad for foreign policy. We were in a spa, not a prison. We spent an entire week being massaged, steamed, pedicured and salt bathed."

"Really? How divoon!" Bruce coos.

"It's true," I concede. "But for the record, the Mud and Seaweed Wrap for Political Dissidents gave me a slight rash."

"Yeah, but I didn't hear you complain after the Chinese Water Torture and Total Body Exfoliation for Bourgeois Bandits," Lulu says, glaring at me. "The water was imported from the glaciers of Mont Blanc, and it was followed by three hours of reflexology."

"Yes, and when the masseuse read aloud from Lenin's The Development of Capitalism in Russia while she was rubbing my feet, I did find it rather soothing," I admit dreamily before reaching into my Hermes handbag. "Oh Bruce, I know how much you love high-end skin cremes. Try the one that they gave us at the spa--it's only available in China." I squirt some on his hands as I lower my voice to but a whisper. "Rumor has it that it's made from the skins of aborted female fetuses."

"How marvelous!" Bruce enthuses. "I support anything that will keep my skin soft and youthful. I'm a great fan of the French lamb fetus version."

"Yes, but I'm rather relieved to finally be out of China," I tell him as I flag down the waiter and order another bottle of champagne. "And after we polish off this bottle, Lulu and I need to throw ourselves back into the fashion fray....in a few hours we have an appointment with the people at Le Mystere on the rue Saint Honore du Faubourg."

When Lulu and I enter the Le Mystere lingerie showroom, we are greeted with glasses of champagne from gentlemen in pristine, vintage Saint Laurent suits. "Madame Lily Pad and Madame Lulu Guinness, may we present the Le Mystere lingerie collection." One of the men gestures toward a set of doors which suddenly burst open. Dozens of curvaceous models in Le Mystere bras and panties flood into the room and begin prancing and sashaying around us. A song by Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot booms from the showroom's sound system. Holographic images of a lingerie-clad Catherine Deneuve from Belle de Jour begin mingling with the flesh-and-blood models. The scent of Nuit de Noel hangs deliciously in the air. Another bottle of champagne is uncorked.

A few of the models lounge around on the floor of the showroom as one of the gentlemen makes adjustments to their ensembles. I pull out my digital camera and begin snapping photos of one of the models who is wearing a Le Mystere Dream Tisha Bra. "We should re-enact this for the Le Mystere event I'm doing in New York next month," I tell Lulu.

"This would never happen at a showroom in New York!" Lulu exclaims. "The most you can expect on Seventh Avenue is some over-caffeinated showroom girl who doesn't offer you a Pepsi, nevermind a bottomless glass of champagne. And the room will usually smell of Taco Bell, not Nuit de Noel."

"Yes, the French really have a way with things," I reply. "This is like Beyond the Valley of the Dolls if it had been directed by Francois Truffaut."

April 11, 2006 - En route to Madame Lotus Bud's Maoist Re-Education Prison Camp and Relaxation Spa

Dear Lily Pad Readers,

I am posting this from my laptop aboard a Soviet-era Chinese train -- which I must admit, is rather charming in its own way -- which is puttering toward the Madame Lotus Bud Maoist Re-Education Camp and Relaxation Spa in the remote mountains of Sichuan province. Lulu and are being sent there for about a week by order of the Communist Party because, well, my underwear fashion ballet didn't exactly get rave reviews from the uptight Chinese President and his grumpy army. Since there is no internet service where we are going, you probably won't here from us until our release. But fret not comrades, the Underwear Revolution will persevere!

Love,

Comrade Lily Pad

April 9, 2006: My Underwear Revolution gets the bum's rush in militaristic melody

"Lily, I'm really not sure if it's a good idea for you to be parading lingerie models around in public here in Mainland China," Amy Sacco tells me backstage a few moments before my Cultural Revolution ballet, "The Red Women's Lingerie Detachment", is set to begin on an outdoor stage in front of Shanghai's Pearl of the Orient Tower. Amy is helping me with some last minute changes to Comrade Lulu's outfit.

"What do you think, Comrade Amy - Bali, Le Mystere, Barely There, or Puma?" I ask, ignoring her comment as I hold up various sets of red bras and panties. Today I am wearing a smart Mao suit, which has been customized by a local tailor to look like a Mao suit designed by Coco Chanel.

"But Lily, I went to see the Rolling Stones here last night and the Western media had widely reported that the Communist Party's Ministry of Culture demanded that the Stones cut five of their racier songs from their set," Amy continues. "This ballet of yours seems a lot more risque than 'Honky Tonk Woman'!"

"Don't be silly, darling! Haven't your heard? I am now in the Communist Party! My dear friend, Comrade Zhou Enlai-Manchu III, had me presented to the Party during a cocktail reception at a delightful French Colonial mansion just the other night," I inform her proudly as I gesture toward Comrade Zhou. When Amy turns in his direction, the maverick Party member is caught taking a long drag from his opium pipe.

"Lily, I can barely breathe in this push-up bra!" Lulu moans. "It's not my size!"

"Bon courage, comrade," I tell her. "Your breasts look magnificent. After all, you're the star of the show--you must have presence!" Over a dozen Chinese female ballet dancers, clad in skimpy red bras and panties and holding rifles, are standing in line by the stage's entrance waiting to begin their unconventional performance.

"Okay, Comrade Lulu, you're ready to go," I say as I thrust a prop gun into her reluctant hands. "I'm going out there now to announce the revolution to the audience."

I step out from behind the red velvet curtain and onto the stage, surveying the crowd gathered before me: Chinese pop stars Faye Wong, Aaron Kwok, and Nicholas Tse; fashion writers from around the world, including Suzy Menkes and Hilary Alexander; Jack Beat sitting next to Diane Pernet; Bruce LaBruce sitting next to Nicky Hilton (Paris is a no-show); the editors-in-chiefs of Chinese Vogue, Cosmo, Elle and Vice; the managing editor of Outer Mongolian Teen Vogue; the underwear editor for Republic of Congo Cargo (which, alas, is folding after the June issue); Dana Dickey from Conde Nast Traveler, who is having a rather animated conversation on her cell phone.

"My dear comrades of the media and pop star worlds," I say grandly. "There is an underwear revolution stirring....and I'm not talking bra burnings. Underwear is the great equalizer, the garment of the Proletariat....So, today I present to you my version of a classic Cultural Revolution ballet: The Red Women's Lingerie Detachment!"

As the theme song of the ballet begins pumping through the sound system, the lingerie-clad revolutionaries bound across the stage, twirling their rifles and gyrating in a way that would make Madonna blush. The lyrics, sung in Mandarin and English, have been re-written by me:

"Communism is the only path....Underwear is Truth!"

"I can't believe you've actually talked me into this," Lulu whimpers, as I tighten her bra another notch before shoving her out into the middle of the stage. A young Chinese man wearing nothing but a Ching Dynasty cap, complete with braided ponytail, and pair of 2xist black low-rise briefs--an "Evil Landlord"--dances toward Lulu as the music swells. Lulu performs her mock execution of the counter-revolutionary villain and then, just as we rehearsed one-hundred times, gets down on her hands and knees doggy-style and prepares to deliver Madame Mao's infamous line. But the words seem to be stuck in her throat.

"I am Mao's dog!" I hiss at her from the wings. "Say the bloody line!" Lulu's face suddenly drains of all color and the dancers freeze, dropping their rifles. A few start running off the stage toward me. "What in Lenin's name...?" I begin, and then look out into the audience and see a large tank rolling toward the seated guests.

Panic erupts as fashion writers and celebrities begin screaming and running in all directions. The tank rolls to a stop and the tip of its gun barrel rests against Dana Dickey's shoulder blades--but the editor is still too engrossed in her cell phone coversation to take notice. Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, a phalanx of riot gear-clad soldiers from China's People's Liberation Army advances toward the crowd and the stage. One of the soldiers takes a swing at Hilary Alexander with his billy club and then grabs her by the arm and twists it behind her back. "Get your hands off me!" the feisty fashionista yells. "I'm a British fashion journalist!!" The PLA soldiers rush backstage and begin rounding up the dancers and putting them in handcuffs.

"Comrade Zhou, where are you?!" I scream. "Tell them I'm a member of the Party! Tell them to release the prisoners!" I spy Comrade Zhou slumped in the corner near a pile of panties, out cold in an opium nod. I hear a loud scream and spin around just in time to see one of the soldiers grab Lulu and shackle her wrists behind her back. "Now, see here!" I shout at the soldiers. "I am a New York fashion publicist and a member of the Communist Party, and you cannot treat my models and guests this way! I'm going to call the American Embassy and the Party chairman!" As I reach for my cell phone, a soldier surprises me from behind, grabs my phone and slaps a pair of handcuffs on me.

"I'm afraid the American Embassy cannot help you, madame," one of the soldiers informs me. "Everyone here is in severe violation of Chinese Law. We received calls about this from the Ministry of Culture, the Ministry of Fashion, and President Hu Jintao himself only an hour ago. Your embassy has been notified of your fate--we are taking you to a Maoist Re-Education Camp in the Chinese countryside."

Lulu wails like a banshee as we are all dragged away and packed into paddy wagons.

March 29, 2006 The Chinese Government puts the kibosh on my underwear fashion show; Comrade Zhou Enlai to the rescue; The Underwear Revolution Will be Televised!

I awake in a semi-dark room, unsure of where I am and how much time has passed. The air is thick with the smell of burning opium. As I sit up and try to gain my bearings, I notice that the room is dimly lit by candles surrounding an altar made up of a Bodhisattva comically flanked by two ceramic Chairman Mao statuettes. I look over to my left and there is Lulu, snoring loudly while clutching an opium pipe in one hand and one of her handbags in the other. A few feet away from her is a young-ish Chinese man wearing what appears to be a high fashion version of a Sun Yat-sen jacket and a pair of Evisu jeans, and I realize it’s my dear friend and ex-fling, Comrade Zhou Enlai-Manchu the III…and the events of the previous day come flooding back to me….

Lulu and I had a disappointing meeting with an official from the Chinese Ministry of Fashion, where we were told that they had reversed their decision to sponsor our underwear fashion show at the Jade Buddha Temple. They were very sorry but they just didn’t think it was appropriate to have women dressed in lingerie parading around a Buddhist temple and it must have been a miscommunication, because the Ministry of Religion never would have approved something like that. Never mind that I happen to know that the “monks” at those temples are not real Buddhists at all, but merely paid employees of the Communist Party. So, we were without a venue and also without models because the Ministry of Fashion had formerly agreed to supply them. Distraught, I called the only person I knew with clout in the government—my dear friend and ex-fling, Comrade Zhou Enlai-Manchu the III, who is one of the more progressive members of the Communist Party.

“I will take care of everything,” Comrade Zhou promised me. “We find new location for show and I get you much better lingerie models. We do show outdoors in front of Peal of the Orient Tower in Pudong and I will hire Shanghainese showgirls to model.” From what I can remember, this all came together over dinner at a splendid Hunan restaurant somewhere near the French Concession….and after that, we spent hours on the dancefloor of Park 97, a fashionably louche Shanghai disco. I seem to recall doing the tango with the delectable Chinese pop star, Aaron Kwok.

And then of course I remembered that Comrade Zhou always knew where to get the most divoon opium, so here we are. Suddenly, Lulu starts wiggling and sits up with a start.

“Oh my head….where the hell am I?” She glances up at the quasi-Buddhist altar. “Oh no, not another Vivienne Tam store opening….at the last one she served martinis that I swear were made from gasoline!”

“We’re still in Shanghai, dear,” I say struggling to stand up so I can locate where my Balenciaga trench coat has ended up. “In the care of my dear friend, Comrade Zhou.” At the mention of his name, Zhou begins to stir and also sits up.

“I love this song! Lily, come dance with me!” He begins to stand and then collapses, knocking over one of the Mao statuettes with a loud clatter.

“My dear Comrade Zhou!” I exclaim as I rush over to help him up. “We’re not at the disco anymore…we’re in your delightful boudoir.”

“Ah yes,” he says, regaining his senses. “What a pleasure it is having you as my guest again…..and don’t we have a show to put on? An underwear extravaganza!”

“Oh no,” Lulu moans. “We’re not really going through with that nutty idea, are we?”

“Not only are we going through with it,” I admonish her. “But Comrade Zhou and I have decided that you should play the lead…..but we can discuss all this over dim sum—and then off to the rehearsal studio!”

After breakfast Comrade Zhou takes us to the ballet studio where we will plan our show….an all-underwear revue of “Red Women’s Troop”, one of the Yang Ban Xi, the 8 model works that were performed during the Cultural Revolution. Various female ballet dancers are positioned around the room, stretching and practicing dance moves. A clothing rack with lingerie - various styles of red bras and panties - on hangers stands in front of a row of mirrors.

“Let’s try this wig,” I say, as I pull a black bob hair piece over Lulu’s head. “Comrade Zhou, will you hand me those black eyeglasses…..yes, the Coke bottle ones…there we go…ta da!” Lulu glances at herself in one of the studio’s full-length mirrors and winces.

“What the hell is this look all about?” she whines. “I didn’t know Edith Head was a ballet dancer.”

“No, no, no, Comrade Lulu, don’t be silly,” I tell her as I twirl her around and begin holding up various sets of bras and panties in front of her body. “You’re going to be Jiang Qing—Madame Mao!”

Lulu stands in silent shock for a few minutes. “You are a madwoman, Lily Pad,” she says as her face flushes red. “And they are going to lock you up and throw away the key!”

“Oh don’t you fret, darling,” I say as I wrap a red push-up bra around her bosom over her blouse. “You’ll be a sexy version of her—think Madame Mao meets Bettie Page.”

“This is ludicrous! We cannot stage a Communist propaganda ballet in this day and age here in China—it’s preposterous!”

“The Yang Ban Xi is very trendy now,” Comrade Zhou informs her. “Many Chinese rock musicians are influenced by it.”

“See, Lulu? Listen to Comrade Zhou, he knows,” I say as I lift up Lulu’s leg and struggle to pull a pair of red panties up it. “Now, let’s go over your lines. After you pull out this toy gun and ‘execute’ one of the evil landowners, who will be wearing a pair of black low-rise briefs, you will get down on all fours—but do try to be sexy about it Comrade Lulu—and shout ‘I am Mao’s dog, I bite whoever he tells me to bite!’”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Lulu cries as I pull the panties up her other leg. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever…”

“Comrade Lulu,” I say imperiously. “If you want me to get those woolly mammoth handbags of yours into the hands of the right celebrities next month, you will do as I tell you.”

“But that’s blackmail!”

“No, Comrade Lulu. It’s revolution,” I say quietly. “Now…get on your knees.”

March 17, 2006 While Lulu and I were recovering from our jetlag, we received this email missive from Michael Kleinmann, C.O.O. of Freshpair.com

Freshpair is one of my treasured men's underwear and lingerie clients. Michael sent me these marvelous digital images from his vacation in Uruguay and balmy Buenos Aires, Argentina. It brought back fond memories of the time I produced an outdoor Tracy Feith fashion show on the beach in BA, and Robert Duvall the actor--who relocated to BA sometime ago--was a guest of honor.

Michael reports that he and his partner Jason stayed at the glorious Four Seasons Hotel (Lulu claims to have once stayed there during her South American "modeling" days) and I was happy to see he followed some of my travel suggestions: He dined on the divoon beef that is served at the trendy Casa Cruz and strolled along the marvelous Avenue Santa Fe...I also have fond (childhood) memories of strolling along that splendid avenue, arm-in-arm with Tennessee Williams, a few years before his passing. A place that Michael highly recommends is Cluny, a stylish French bistro on El Salvador Avenue.

Michael's view at the Four Seasons - The Rolling Stones were staying in the suite above them! Luckily those old timers don't party as loudly as they used to!

Eviiiita! Eviiita! Michael visited the palace of the infamous and glamorous Argentinean dictator, Eva Peron. To the left is the balcony where the chic despot made her famed address. A little over to the right is a rumpus room where I once had a tequila-fueled indiscretion with a swarthy Marxist guerrilla. Don't ask me how we ended up in there--that's a story for another time, dear readers.

Ah yes, behold the tomb of the divine, despicable Evita. How I adore the melancholy grandeur of great leaders' resting places. And that concludes my vicarious report of Buenos Aires. Now if you'll excuse me, Lulu and I have a meeting with the Chinese Ministry of Fashion, to discuss the lingerie fashion show I will be staging at the Jade Buddha Temple in a few days!

xoxox

Lily

March 16, 2006 Lulu and I caught this Wacoal underwear commercial on our hotel TV - the ad is from Japan with Chinese subtitles

Wacoal is another one of my clients.

March 12, 2006 What kind of underwear did Madame Mao wear: Olga, Warner's or Maidenform?

 

"Why aren't we staying at the Grand Hyatt?" Lulu moans, as we enter our lovely yet dusty Art Noveau-designed room at the historic Peace Hotel on the Bund in Shanghai. "This place looks very shop-worn....and it feels deserted!"

"The Grand Hyatt is expensive! I knew I shouldn't have spoiled you with that first class flight," I admonish her as I throw my suitcase down on the bed, which causes a cloud of dust to erupt from the bedspread. "And there's a very specific reason I chose this hotel."

  "Don't tell me - you once slept with the owner and we're getting a discount," Lulu says as she opens one of her suitcases, only to find that it's been surreptitiously stuffed with Donna Karan lingerie in lieu of her personal clothing. "Oh bloody hell! I thought you had these damn bras and panties FedExed here!"

"Wow Lulu, you must think I'm made of money," I tell her. "And don't you worry about your clothes - we'll get you a nice cheongsam at one of the local markets. We'll give you a total Wong Kar-Wai makeover! Your wardrobe was starting to look a little dated anyway."

"I don't know how you talked me into this trip," Lulu groans as she sticks her head in the minibar and starts rooting around like a pig digging for truffles. "Now tell me again why we're staying in this flea trap while Jack-the-struggling-freelancer is at a 5-star hotel."

"We're staying here at the Peace Hotel," I begin grandly, "because this is where Madame Mao and the rest of the Gang of Four where headquartered during the Great Cultural Revolution of 1966. Our mission, my dear fashion comrade, is to stage another kind of revolution -- an underwear revolution."

Lulu emerges from the minibar clutching a small bottle of Moet. She stares at me blankly and is silent for several long moments. "Oh. My. God. It's worse than I thought. You have lost your mind," she says finally.

"Don't be so dramatic Lu," I say as I pluck the mini-bottle of Moet from her grasp and begin unwrapping the cork. "It's called an angle. That's what we publicists do, okay? We create angles. If it weren't for my angles, you'd still be peddling those handbags on a blanket on St. Mark's Place."

"And if it weren't for your plastic surgeon, you wouldn't have any angles," Lulu retorts as she snatches the bottle of Moet back from me.

"Why don't you put that bottle down," I say, ignoring her cutting remark. "I need you to help me start unpacking all this underwear so we can hang it up and start steaming out the wrinkles. Then I need you to get on the phone and call the Minister of Fashion to make sure everything is set for the show at the Jade Buddha Temple."

"If you were a real Maoist, you wouldn't be treating me like a slave in the colonies," Lulu snaps, throwing herself down on a worn-out and chipped dragon head-adorned chaise. "I need a few hours and a few glasses of champagne to get over my jetlag. You and your Red Panty Brigade are just going to have to hold off on the revolution until I'm good and ready."

March 11, 2006 Arriving in Shanghai