Gawker Pinup Gallery: Julia Allison and Brooke Parkhurst

Julia Allison. Brooke Parkhurst. As authors, diarists, fashion darlings and long-time spiritual counselors, they each serve as the Edith Wharton, the Judith Martin, the May Sarton and possibly even the Virginia Woolf of our time. But these ladies already have a room of their own. It's a very sexy, sexy room. And when we think of them, we think of all the feminist heroes that have gone—and gone down—before them.

Julia got her start as a sex columnist in Georgetown, and now writes the "The Dating Life" for AM New York. Brooke is a former Fox News Channel gal turned blogger and novelist.

As a Valentine's Day love letter from us to each of you, we took Gawker photographer Nikola Tamindzic and sequestered them for an afternoon of delicious pinup photography. These are the women of today, the daughters of Helen Gurley Brown and even Andrea Dworkin. Please enjoy them.

Gawker Pinup Gallery: Julia Allison and Brooke Parkhurst (Gallery)

Cupid’s Majestic Pinup

Because Valentine’s Day means distinguished gentlemen suitors and…

“…the Gawker Pinup Gallery, a recurring feature that is in no way tongue-in-cheek, but is, in fact, a serious testament to the massively important figures who have gained entry into the charmed circle that is New York new media society, shot in a style that best reflects their majesty.”

Cheers to new media, majesty and my dear, anonymous “Gawkie” commentors. They deserve love too…

Click HERE for the photo gallery.

Caviar at “Christie’s”

“Matador”—a brilliant red shade of “Chanel”— coated the bottom of my chopsticks. My short black wool dress, angle-grazing velvet coat and gray suede Christian Dior heels were a bit much for late night sushi on a Tuesday but, it had been one of those “Uptown/Downtown” evenings that needed to be digested—alongside an order of fried oyster maki roll— before washing off the war paint and crawling into bed. (Note to self: always buy a copy of the “New York Observer” before going solo to a SoHo sushi counter—the leering Italians can ruin any girl’s appetite.)

Last night’s agenda (ahem, before the fried Japanese fare): “Simon & Schuster’s” party for “Why Smart Men Marry Smart Women” at the very elegant Flatiron-district “Sapa” and then off to Rockefeller Plaza and “Christie’s” auction house to celebrate a certain adolescent French queen’s killer fashion sense (“Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution”). The former and the latter required very different garb—book parties tend toward the stuffy and the tweed whereas “Cartier”-sponsored events at famous auction houses can make such time-intensive wardrobe requests as “18th Century Chic.” Powdered wigs and “Dangerous Liaisons”-like decolletage (remember Glenn Close’s bosom?!) were encouraged. My god, what’s a girl from the Redneck Riviera to do?

Neither party disappointed nor did one completely fall into clichéd territory. The “Simon & Schusters” were fashionable, young and loving the champagne and mojito bar. And, “Christie’s”…well, all right, one friend wryly observed the “octos and anas” were out in full force (the octogenarian men and their nutritionally-starved socialite counterparts). But everyone was sweet and gracious and the scene… lordy.  I digested a week’s worth of cholesterol (foie gras toasts, caviar points, beignets) whilst perusing the main gallery’s wares—the objets d’art and the objects of men’s affections. Just how much did these husbands spend on their lovely lady’s ensembles? The hair stylist, at-home makeup artist, cumbersome jewels, yards of silk, throws of fur… Is it gauche to ponder such things? Sorry. A fete down South (at least on the Gulf Coast) is a mullet-tossing competition that requires cut off jeans, a bathing suit and slather of 30 SPF.

My very fashionable, very down-to-earth date for the evening had to get back to her two babies on the Upper East Side. Did I want to stay behind? she asked. Enjoy a few more flutes of champagne? Nah… I just needed a few fried oysters—hopefully from Appalachicola—and then to get back to the real world.

“7th on Sixth” Fashion Orientation

Date: Monday, September 11th
From: Belle Style Support
To: Fashion Week Immigrant
Subject: “7th on Sixth” Fashion Orientation

Welcome, Fashionista, to the seven-day orgy of the sublime, superficial, sexy and cerebral that is New York’s Olympus Fashion Week! Whether you hail from a fly-over state or the heart of St. Germain, you’ve purged like a pro, procured your passes, packed your bags—God willing, Louis’ and Goyards—and somehow made your way to New York City, the style capital of the world (give or take a few cities). The extravaganza has begun—do you know what you’re wearing?

Consider “The Tents” your sartorial home base. Inside this chic oasis, the rules are simple: no white triangles, tushes or toying with straps. Unless you’re Beyonce, Christina or Delphine (bien sur, Bernard Arnault’s daughter can dress as she pleases), you’re going for understated elegance. Case in point, slacks over skirts. If you’re lucky enough to get anywhere near the front row, you don’t need paparazzi shots of your nether regions cloaked in white lace La Perla popping up on the pages of “Vogue.” Trust us—it’s happened before.  Save yourself the embarrassment and cloak your comparatively elephantine lower appendages in light gabardine or silk trousers. Lagerfeld and Malandrino (Club Monaco and H&M if you’re poor) are making lovely ones this season.   

Every so often, though, you may have cause to venture outside the cozy protective bubble of Bryant Park, whether for a shopping expedition or a night on the town. By all means, go for it! New York is a vibrant, colorful and most of all fashionable city, and your own aura of unshakable confidence is your most important accessory. But a word to the wise: stylistic landmines litter the terrain.

Do not be alarmed. Below, you’ll find reputation-saving hints on how to make your way—or fake your way—through five of the most fashion-conscious corners of the city. You can thank me later.   

Midtown:
The key to the Midtown wasteland of track-suited tourists and comatose office workers is staying on your fashion game. Although you’ll be tempted to shed your stilettos and Hermes Birkin 40cm for a fanny pack and Ohio State sweatshirt, stay strong and style-savvy. Channel “Bright Lights, Big City” not fluorescent marquees and fighting cabbies. Remember, you’re coming from the greatest show on earth—they’re just going to see the “Lion King.”

Nothing says sophisticated Midtown comfort like cashmere. Layer a Brunello Cucinelli camel-colored cardigan or black shawl over your wisp-of-a-blouse for the cool restaurants and showrooms. Your Malandrino slacks will love you for it! Keep things sensible with large, practical accessories like the aforementioned Hermes or the Prada “boat and tote”-style bag. Your glamorous (and under-eye-concealing) Oliver J. Peoples sunglasses and Barney’s makeup stash will fit inside as will your Blackberry, Mont Blanc pen and notepad and JP Tod loafers  (a quick change from your Manolos; perfect for cross-town walking).

Finally, fashionistas, I beg you to think larger proportions and pared down maquillage. Save the sexy attire for south of 14th Street. This means no tight pencil skirts, open-toed shoes, overly fitted blazers or extreme makeup allowed! You’ll look like Anna Nicole Smith pre-Trim Spa (swollen ankles, puffy face), post awards show (black eyes, smudged lips).

SoHo:You’re in the center of it all and somehow lost. SoHo is the geographic heart of the downtown scene yet still a little removed from the pulsing lifeblood of the city’s youngest and most hip. What is expected of you? Something between Meg Ryan pre- plastic surgery and Sofia Coppola post “Lost in Translation.” Spice up your staple trousers with a jewel-toned “Dear” silk top (from Thompson Street’s “Legacy”), a fun Parisian topper from “The Hat Shop,” “Me & Ro” gold and diamond bangles, a pony-skin Chanel bag.

Meatpacking:Whatever you do, put away the Midtown Manolos. The cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District and neighboring Chelsea have ruined more expensive footwear than Lapo Elkann (Fiat heir, womanizer, cross dresser). Now is the time for Chanel ballet flats or, if you’re really desperate, dispensable “9 West” 2-inchers. Sneak into the bathroom of Pastis and slip into a Catherine Malandrino cocktail-length dress. Exchange the bangles for some serious vintage “Renee Lewis” diamonds and put on your best, devil-may-care Ellen Barkin smile.

Lower East Side:
If you can borrow a mutt puppy for the afternoon, you’re golden. But if cleaning up Puggle poo is not your idea of a glamorous afternoon, consider shedding the pricey jewels, donning plastic accessories (earrings, belt buckles, jelly shoes) and pulling out the pair of leggings that you wore in 8th grade. You’re angling for the sweet, depressed look of Zooey Deschanel and the hopeless aura of one of Moby’s girlfriends. Understood?

Upper East Side:
We’re back north of 14th Street and trying to go into permanent debt via our college-issued credit cards. Thank God VISA just raised your credit limit. If you have gym-toned or lipo-sucked upper arms, by all means show them off with a “TSE” silk knit sleeveless top. Your cashmere is always welcome in the bistros and gem stores of Madison but why not have a little fun with a “Ralph Lauren” Black Label cropped, linen canvas jacket? Rent a driver for the afternoon (what’s an extra $150 at this point?) and make sure he follows you at a respectable distance. Affect a look of annoyance and disdain—channel Nan Kempner 1969.

Williamsburg:You’re over the river but by no means in the fashion woods. In Brooklyn, you can let down your Fekkai-highlighted hair (that hopefully hasn’t been washed in a day or three—greasy is good ) and have some philosophical fashion fun. Slip into a faded, distressed tee (Pac Man, Poison) that reflects your once-upon-a-time, cushy suburban upbringing or don a cotton, tissue-thin American Apparel tunic dress. Just put away the brands! Williamsburg attire represents ideas, not cash flow.   

**A Q&A session will be held on the rooftop of the SoHo House this evening at 11pm. Please join us if you have any lingering questions about appropriate Fashion Week attire or etiquette (i.e. Should mini Veuves be consumed with a straw? Open-air drug use? Is it okay to corner Karl at the after-party and kiss his papal ring?

On the Fashion, RADAR

"South of 14th Street, West of 8th Avenue, north of 57th Street, east of 2nd Avenue—the list of Manhattan fashion fault lines is longer than Darya Werbowy’s limbs. You move from leg warmers to clam diggers, stove-pipe jeans to bespoke trousers, polyester tunics to cashmere turtlenecks in a matter of miles. So how does a newbie pilot the perilously unpredictable New York terrain, full of switch backs and blind corners?"

As RADAR magazine's newly annoited style contributor, I will be composing other groundbreaking, life-altering pieces like the one above. At left, your intrepid reporter and blogger trying out Upper East Side fashions south of Houston.

Now, to pull a Gael Greene and turn a life of delicious excess and crazy hats into a viable career...

Stop laughing.

Indecision over at "Gawker" (as of 8/24/06)

--Common Blogger-Come-Fashion Writer or

--Ample-Busted Vixen-Come-Siren of Style

Lingerie and Laptops

I  am one of six ladies featured in yesterday’s “Fashion Week Daily” Blogger Pajama Party photo spread. Just to fill y'all in a bit, "FWD" is one of the bibles of fashion big wigs and well dressed New Yorkers during the Big Apple's Fashion Week. The mag also just happens to be the in-house hot read at Conde Nast’s 4 Times Square building—home to such fabulous magazines as “Vogue,” the “New Yorker,” “Gourmet,” “Vanity Fair,” “Glamour” and “Esquire”…just to name a few.

While my picture is absolutely horrendous (I'll placate my wounded ego by posting a nicer picture here), the shoot was a fabulous foray into a New York City that had heretofore only existed in my dreams. Champagne, room service, handsome fashion photogs--who couldn't get used to that?!

In the article, we divulge such little tidbits as why we began blogging, what we nibble on while typing away our thoughts, the perks we’ve received (ooh la la… ummm, actually, no perks at all) as a result of our Z-list celebrity and where we like to kick back, unwind and have a glass of over-priced bubbly (I’ll take a “Cipriani’s” bellini any day of the week).

Thank you to my wonderful audience, for caring and reading about this Southern gal's misadventures in the big city!