…a collection of anecdotes I’m in the process of assembling entitled Degeneracy: A Love Letter .

Essentially, the book is a series of stories about what my grandmother described as “orneriness”— in other words, the type of socially inappropriate behavior atypical to teenage delinquents that revels in being bad…but not evil.

Thing is, I seem to have been precocious in the sense that I jumped feet-first onto shaky territory before I’d even broken double digits in my natals. However, unlike my wiser peers who limited their bad behavior into a period referenced the same way as that proverbial phase The Parental Units continually told me my interest in eccentric fashion and avant garde music was, its been over two decades and my love for the outlandish remains omnipresent. Sure, perhaps its more refined in focus—but if anything, it flourishes.

Ditto the story with whatever inherent need I have to be a juvenile delinquent. No doubt I’ve well outstayed my welcome, as these days I’m twice the age of most teens yet just still can’t seem to “just let go.”

Granted, I don’t indulge in the reckless behavior I did throughout my early twenties. Not only is the thought of following the same pattern and routine a total yawn; its physically and mentally exhausting. For seven years, I cut out all drug and alcohol consumption completely. That’s when and how the book idea for Degeneracy: A Love Letter came about. I mean, cmon: theres really no need to dial Dr. Freud on the white courtesy phone to realize that whether its been my active pursuit to engage in unusual sexual proclivities known as Caking, frightening adults through acts of puppet terrorism, experimenting with polyamory, indulging in the sensory overload from various elements of the fetish scene—specifically, the slippery sheen of the latex, or hopping myself up via ritualistic can-to-mouth over-consumption of nonfat Redi-Whiptheres still an ornery element of my personality on the eternal quest for some new kind of kick.

Amanda (one of my dearest friends, a responsible mother who’s incidentally a ‘partner in crime’ from those—ahem! We Dont Talk About Those Things Now—nascent years of naughty behavior when we were trapped within the chokehold of the Southern Baptist Bible Belt notched in Jonesboro, Arkansas) is illustrating each of these romanticized, exalted, and equally self-deprecating tales through the lens of her camera. However Ms. Brooks chooses to interpret the text is her decision: be it literal, tongue-in-chic, or in a manner perhaps not as obvious…that’s none of my business. Still, Ive gotta admit: weve been fortunate thus far in the sense that theres been no shortage of dynamic individuals who’ve donated their talent, time and physical being (you know, bodies) to function as the medium for Amanda’s canvas of choice.

In this instance, model/actress Mageina Tovah (Spiderman 2-3, Joan of Arcadia, et al) gives a preview by proxy for the forthcoming release. Yes, its merely a fragment of time captured by shoddy digi-cam footage from an afternoon she spent being bad. Though at the time of me clacking out this palaver, Ive yet to see one frame of the finished product—so to have the real life reference of bargain-bin wallpaper rigged with duct tape, clamps and a seamless in front of a garage versus the end result?

Well, the recounting of events via oral history has everything to do with inflection, delivery, technique. By that same token, ultimately what Mageina provides Amanda, then Amanda delivers, make these anecdotes more universal—i.e., less about me.

And were getting closer both to an overall expansion in scope as well as the project’s completion.

All I have to do is continue cranking these “stories” out, reminding the reader/audience of the adage “No one can be sure my friend/Where truth begins and fiction ends…”

(Any Tones on Tail fans out there still? Anyone, anyone?)

*********
NOW, FOR THE PROPERS:

The stylemeisters “werkin’ their magic” with us there on the set are make-up artist Genevive Lamb (a ‘face-beater’ and cutie pie from Christian Dior) and the inimitable Irene Urias from Hollywood’s white-hot epicenter of cool: Hairroin Salon. Hairroin’s a powerhouse of prettiness, so if youre in the greater L.A. area and have yet to discover it

By all means: baby, let me be your pusher!

Hairroin Salon [dot] com

Givin GORGE in the dept of wardrobe: Jared Gold couture
(Who else?)

Jared Gold [dot] com

And Amanda herself can be found hangin’ out at

Amanda Brooks Photo [dot] com

THANKS FOR YOUR INTEREST!

]]> http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/mageina-tovah-models-for-clint-catalyst-collaboration/feed 9 http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/thanks-for-the-mammaries http://www.clintcatalyst.com/blog/thanks-for-the-mammaries#comments Thu, 04 Dec 2008 09:52:48 +0000 Clint Catalyst http://clintcatalyst.com/blog/?p=156

LENORA CLAIRE:




featuring SUPERNOVA OF THE SMALL SCREEN,
ANTOINE DES CAUNES

ON "ALLEZ A L.A.,"
A PROGRAM VENTURING
'ROUND THIS CITY OF SMOG & STARDUST
BY
CANAL PLUS T.V...

(DESCRIPTION POSTED ON MY YOUTUBE CHANNEL):

"European megawatt Antoine De Caunes explored this strange beast
we know under the name of 'Los Angeles,' and stumbled upon 'Future Cult
Icon' Lenora Claire in the process.

Because any fashion choice I
make should be considered The Law--yes, this is sarcasm, kiddies--I was
brought in to transform Antoine into the hip party-goer he's always
wanted to be...whether or not he knew it. After all, Lenora's birthday
soirée was just an "intimate little gathering" of her thousand most
fabulous friends at none other than the Houdini Mansion. 

In other words, jeans and a t-shirt?  Just WOULDN'T have cut it.

The hand-painted suit on Mr. De Coines is a one-of-a-kind creation by
TonyMech of TonyMech[dot]com, while the black-belt beauty crew
responsible for his phenomenal transformation via hair and make-up is
none other than Stacey Hummell, Face-Beater Extraordinaire, as well as
Irene Urias and Marc Mapile of Hairroin -- the virtual locale of which
is HairroinSalon[dot]com.

And on me?

Need I even mention
the shrunken top hat was made by Creepsuela Switchletto and my own
*subtle* ensemble another couture creation by Mssr. Jared Gold?

Or uh, you guys kind of...CATCHING ON by this point?

(Envision Appropriate Emoticon)

x o x o x
C l i n t"

Yes, I wore the soles off my 20-e Doc’s many an eve
dancing to the 12″ mix of Ministry’s “Everyday is Halloween”
in back-alley nightclubs where I was years away from years from
being ‘of age’ to attend in the first place

(translation: the main thing that made it fun–
or at least that’s how it seems, looking back)

back in ancient history, also known as
my bereaved degenerate youth

I’ve been revisiting some of the more
dynamic moments from what could aptly be filed away in memory
as ‘The Clintagious Chronicles’ due to
the current book project on which I’ve been working

Degeneracy: A Love Letter.

// R.I.P., oh Long Lost Love…despite the toxic goulash of highlights,

lowlifes and embarrassingly awkward good times, how

exhilarating it seems your freedom was //

Whatever the case, here’s a recent update “from the set,”

featuring the inimitable beauty of actress/model Mageina Tovah

in the first of her two looks for the day:

Copious detail/commentary is provided on the clip’s YouTube page,

including info on the other peeps present who

deserve some serious ‘propers’ of their own.

(Irene Urias from Hairroin Salon, Genevieve Lamb from Dior, and

of course my co-conspirator, Amanda Brooks :

childhood f(r)iend/former ‘partner in crime’-turned-responsible mom)

Maendi and I lived by the edict that everyday presented

a new opportunity: the chance to become whomever/whatever we want

by dressing up.

To this day, I’m a tremendous advocate of the belief–

I mean, it was a mere three weeks ago, yet

I’m already missing Halloween.

With an outfit as genius as what Jared Gold concocted on my behalf,

how could I not?

and for the more detail-obsessed

FASHION DIE-HARDS OUT THERE,

here’s a considerably more comprehensive 5 minute clip in which

The Master of Delicate Decadence

shares everything from the costume’s “reveal”

to secret compartments ensconced within:

As for All Hallow’s Eve ‘proper,’ I gotta tell ya: generally speaking,

I was stoked to see so many Alice in Wonderland characters runnin’ around…

There were a slew of them both at the ‘Bitches Brew’ party, as well as a hearty smattering of Mad Hatters afterwards

when we hit the Brite Spot for some “fine” (enough) dining.

Seriously now: being a “Glad Hatter” myself–how could I not adore them? Despite accusations that I’m a ‘camera whore,’ (harumph!)

there aren’t many pictures of me from the evening. Nonetheless, I managed to snap one
of that dang adorable little Janine Jarman

& face-beater extraordinaire Noel Nichols within the first few minutes of our arrival; then cheers as other guests followed suit…

Q: Ever “spanked the monkey”? (Effing genius coincidence captured, that…)

As for me, I danced to the phenomenal tuneage spun by D.J.s Marta & Jen,

workin’ my ‘Demented Barber, Circa ’99…1899, That Is’ accessories for all they—

& the accompanying attitude in which I came “dressed”—were worth

(looks like SOMEONE needs a hug, hrmm? Just call me ‘Mr. Congeniality!’)

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Hence the “Not My Best Look” oilslick on my gesicht

(Hand on a Merrir breast, though Mr. Gold seems unimpressed…)

Rockin’ TWO TYPES OF CLEAVE…

Thanks for the mammaries, Miss Sarah Merrie!

[Ampersand.Hearts.Semicolon]

Another shot from the evening:

Kaiden as “Epic Fail: Scene ‘LOL’,” Stevie Ryan as a pretty version of Pee Wee Herman,

and Adam Paranoia throwin’ Teen Wolf in a most serious way…

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

And speaking of serious,

I was seriously surprised to learn that when my pal Brandon came to town for a visit

he comped me a frickin’–well, really expensive Madonna ticket.

9th row front, 3rd center of the ‘T-shaped’ stage

for one night

vs.

more than an entire month’s rent?

Can’t say I would’ve made that one happen myself…

* Thanks again, B! *

(I love how undeniably excited he is…)

& of course, via his iPhone we’ve got

“Pics or It Didn’t Happen”

O.K… so Home Skillet put on a phenomenal show.

I won’t make any references about how “I would hope so”; moreover,

I’ll refrain from utilizing any clichéd monikers in my commentary.

(Seriously journalists: by this point, any hack who refers to Mz. M as “The Material Girl”

should be force-fed the Oxford English Dictionary One. Page. At a time.)

but let me just tell you: when she threw down some DOUBLE DUTCH…

Well, let’s just say… despite another ’80s ricochet (nod to Keith Haring notwithstanding)

I was seventeen shades of impressed. It’s no secret I’ve been trying to assemble my own double-dutch squad

capable of weaving our way through the ropes while dressed in elaborate couture for quite some time… So until ‘The Swingers’ come to fruition,

I’ll cease this gargantuan post with the note

What I’m really dying to know is:

Has anyone else heard the rumor that Alexander McQueen will be designing a limited-run for Target?

They’ve scored some outstanding talent in the past but McQueen?

Truly: it’s a shame Isabella Blow isn’t here with us to share her thoughts on the topic (not to mention her opinions in general–but that’s a given)

& on a final rash note about fash: Did anybody rack up any great merch among the H & M/Comme Des Garcons collabo?

I wasn’t able to devote the entire morning of the 13th to waiting in line

in an attempt to score at least one piece of the instant collectibles.

(Different story altogether with the Viktor & Rolf launch from…hrmm… Two years ago, wasn’t it?)

However, thanks to my dear pal Pedro, I didn’t completely miss out on the goods that were gone in…what? Something like 17 minutes?

& though you might have thought it’d never happen, this is me, waaaay all kinds of outta here!

‘Cause hey—guess what?

I really need to post this shit in a more expeditious manner, man.

Just so happens that–ahem–I might very well have a few issues of my own to deal with. (One of which is the preposition by which the previous sentence just ended, dangling like an unworn pair of silver Les Chiffoniers’ leggings aching for the latest Girl of the Moment to slide into them before dashing out to paint the town bloodshot. It’s as inherent a pairing as Edie Segwick hopped-up on a fistful of whites and having her coiff spray painted Just For The F Of It while donning Balenciaga originials. What other lack of logic explains the perfect sense it makes to purchase what’s essentially a thick pair of pantyhose with a thousand dollar price tag? Not really…but REALLY, babes.)

But oh, that’s but a footnote of damage from a former version of myself in which I worked as a technical writer. A footnote among essays within archives buried deep inside some virtual boneyard we’ll call The Chronicles of the Clintasaurus and opt to visit some other time just dust our hands of it.

.kthanxbai.

At least all this self-aggrandizing material is contained within a single post. Couldn’t give two turds about what ‘they’ might have said about me?

Scroll on; scroll on!

“Does Not Exist.”

What does exist, nonetheless, on the other acrylic claw:

Recent media in which I appear–sometimes but a smidgen; luckier instances full effing-on.

For instance, the following pic and mention in H Magazine is a case of what might be deemed “peripheral press.” Or, to utilize the vernacular of savvy SoCal realtors in sensible shoes: an “adjacent feature.”

And insofar as my image—the look I ‘turned out’* for bits and pieces of my soul to be sacrificed via Glenn’s manipulation of the bulky/beautiful Polaroid Big Shot favored by Warhol himself?

*’turned out’ by no means appropriating cred as if this was my own creation! Au contraire, it was the make-up of Stacey Humell; the cut/color/extensions of scissormeister Irene Urias of Hairroin, Hollywood’s hottest salon (www.hairroinsalon.com), and–excluding the Westwood brooch–another cerebellum-melding, history-making, custom couture creation by the genius Jared Gold

(moving right along…)

Big deal if I’m “giving away too many of my secrets” by sharing this delicious little inside joke—it friggin’ slaughters me how many people took the ‘pomp and pout’ of the picture at face value. I mean, if I’m going to rock an outfit, hair and make-up that ostentatious… how could I not get “in character”?

What ELSE would I do? Smile like a politician and “compassionately” hold a stranger’s baby?

And in the meantime, reword “Let Them Eat Cake” into something more…inclusive…in tone?

yeahRIIIGHT.

It’s like this: one wink or nudge of the elbow during the Polaroid shoot, or Nhat Nguyen’s studio takes thereafter in which I “amped the prance” so high; by foppish standards it was even off-the-charts, or even a single word cluing in ‘The Children’ a la Interwebz? (No worries now: it’s been months… and while it’s a hasty generalization, yes: gnats have better attention spans than they do, for the most part.)

Let’s face the music, sweetcheeks:

Simply wouldn’ta worked.

Art versus Artifice // Appearance versus Reality // Truth Revealed Through a Guise // Everything Is “Real”—Though What Of It Is Lies?

So many motifs swirling around in my head like a majorette’s glitter-fringed baton at half-time…

Yet all of them beg the question, it seems:

Exactly who or what is this ‘Clint Catalyst’ supposed to be, anyway?

And why would it even matter if he (and I) weren’t among the ‘Lucky Ones’ in Flaunt magazine, issue 96?

I’ll tell ya what it was like when I spot-checked the (who cares if it’s a mere thumb-nail sized) pic, standing there, thumbing through the pricey pages in the Echo Park 7-11:

the second I saw my little powder blue top hat (by L.A.’s premier Gothic Cholita, Creepsuela Switchletto: “big ups” to my shiv-wieldin’ glamour sis), I felt a surge of validation sweep over me like the frost-bitten clouds fleeing a freezer behind me as some nameless faceless customer opened then sealed shut the door.

No doubt this earth-shattering, molar-splitting, life-changing moment is fraught with layers of meaning… but c’mon, isn’t everything? (Unless, of course, it’s deconstructed to the bloodless core of nothingness—but that’s so Small-Town-Liberal-Arts-School-Curriculum-For-30K+-A-Year-Of-Make-Believe, I’d rather just ‘keep it real’ and say

Mostest Massive thanks to Photographer Melissa Manning and Flaunt magazine!

Shit you nunca, y’all: that was wickedcool of you, and was “Really Saying Something…”

[Fun.Boy.Three.From.This.One.Here.]

Verbose? Hell yes. I conquer “tl;dr” pussywillows one paragraph at a time—deal with it, or head off for culturally-stimulating activities like an episode of “Cops” or a Budweiser-fueled swirly-go-’round-and-then-down on the Sunset Strip’s Mechanical Bull.

“I.D.G.I,” arseholians. (Said, of course, with the deepest affection…)

Besides: this is kind of like, my diary…yo?

All the same, there’s somethin’ I gotta tell you, though: the printwork I’m most stoked about as of late is a two-page editorial in the latest Lipstick Prophets catalog/magazine.

Here’s one of the images from the spread…

Copies are available through LipstickProphets.com for a scant 2 1/2 bones — and that’s with free shipping and handling, dearlings.

With the American economy in the shitter as it is, at least somebody’s followed my lead regarding “Other Humanitarian Acts That Require Little or No Effort.”

The Clint’s Notes version?

Have passport; will travel. ‘Handling’ is subjective terminology best discussed in lush, exotic locales—and, as with everything else in life, varies from individual to individual (all the while assured that we’re treated equally: It is, after all, the American Way!).

Air Kisses and Ass Kissing,

CC “Giving You” L.A.

in the best of

worst of

ways

(and vice-versa)