La Source

ADVENTURES IN UNEMPLOYMENT PART I

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 09:47:00 +0000

A perfect cover letter is like the human body. Each part, no matter how insignificant it seems, plays a vital role in sustaining life.

Write a bad, boring opening and your letter has a heart attack. No details about the web 2.0 initiative you rallied throughout the company? You're officially brain dead. Too many generic statements citing your can do spirit and team player mentality? Overactive thyroid (and the reason behind that unfortunate weight gain). The balance between your proven talent, future promise and mandatory but subtle ass kissing is a very delicate dance. Disrupt it and your subject line may as well say Do Not Resuscitate.

Yes, a perfect cover letter is no easy feat. But let's be honest- no one is perfect.

That goes triple for me. So I've decided to eschew the usual heartfelt notes that I tirelessly craft for each potential check signer in favor of a different- but equally genuine- approach.

It's time to be upfront about my shortcomings so employers know what they're in for. No sugar coating here. Just a raw, candid look at the real Erin Weinger and what she actually brings to the table.

Since my severance is almost up and I'm not willing to cancel my Tivo subscription or get rid of my car, time is of the essence. I figure a more direct approach to my job hunt could speed things up a bit (did I mention my love of Grey Goose? The bottle in my freezer is getting dangerously low).

So this is my experiment in cover letter fun. If it doesn't land me my dream position (whatever that position may be), I'll go back to conventionally conveying why me and a certain job are a match made in heaven.

But until then, this will have to do.

Dear Hiring Manager,

Let's cut to the chase- you have a job opening and I need a job. I don't want to waste your time and I'd like to finish this up before Full House starts (yes, I'm enjoying my paid "time off").

But there is a lot more to me than my love of alliteration (I don't need to tell you that I know how to write- just look at my clips from the Los Angeles Times. Some are better than others but in general I think I do ok). So in an attempt to show you the real me as painlessly as possible, here it goes.

I have a terrible case of attention deficit disorder that can only be tamed with copious amounts of caffeine and prescription stimulants. I'm messy and hate to clean. There's a very real possibility that components of my lunch will surround my cubicle floor and remain there until I kick them somewhere else. I love piles and leave many in my wake- Post Its, ripped pieces of paper, stacks of magazines from last Christmas- name your paper, it's probably in my piles. I won't wash my coffee mug and am unfazed by the crusted stripe of old lip gloss that greets me whenever I take a sip. I get pretty fidgety and am likely to make many daily bathroom breaks and cafeteria runs, usually without legitimate need. I enjoy daydreaming and have been known to blankly stare at walls for extended periods of time. I'm extremely forgetful and sometimes allow menial tasks to slip through the cracks. I have selective hearing and sometimes think I'm going deaf. Also, my eyesight isn't what it used to be but I refuse to look into the problem. I put things off until the last possible second and make colleagues nervous as I scramble to get them done. And forget about me coming into work at a set time. I'm chronically late and it's unlikely that things will change now. I'm not great at returning e-mails and only check my voice mail once every few weeks. I carry a large tote bag to and from work but it is filled with candy wrappers, receipts and garbage, mostly- not work materials. I'm a social butterfly and make friends wherever I go. So if I'm not at my desk I can usually be found in another department dishing about my latest romance or complaining about the modern media's sorry state. I don't let my young age or lack of authority stop me from speaking my mind to even the most senior level staff. Sometimes I'll continue ranting via longwinded e-mail. Every so often my ego comes out to play. My potty mouth rivals that of a drunken sailor and I make politically incorrect remarks. I'll also crack jokes here and there- very entertaining for some, very uncomfortable for others. I don't really have an indoor voice and laugh as often as possible. I like my legs and show them off in dresses that may not be appropriate for a place of business, depending on who you ask. And if my outfits don't confirm my femininity, the fact that I frequently cry on the job sure does.

But despite my faults, my job is my life. I will stay at the office until midnight to perfect a rewrite if need be. I speak up in meetings, offer innovative ideas and am not afraid to staunchly stand behind my beliefs. And all those friends I make? You can find me standing behind them, too. I don't get jealous of success that doesn't belong to me. I keep personal calls under five minutes and try to save Facebook for my own free time. I will work passionately on a project until it's the best I believe it can be. And those tears I mentioned? They usually happen in the privacy of a bathroom stall when my best didn't feel quite good enough. I am a meticulous researcher. I know exactly what papers are in each one of my piles. I will never ignore an e-mail from the boss. I am proactive on solving problems and constantly ask my superiors for advice on improving my performance. More times than not, my performance is doing just fine. My complaints about the media fuel my fire for this industry and make me want to be a better reporter every single day. I can fix the printer when it jams. I will torture myself with a single sentence until it rolls off the tongue just so. And if an editor changes it, I won't argue unless I have to. Believe it or not, I'm pretty good at choosing my battles wisely. I talk a big game but I'm a lover, not a fighter. I won't swear in meetings or in front of superiors (most of the time). I'm always respectful when voicing my opinion. I use my abundance of energy to hunt for topics others would never find. My elders tell me I'm wise beyond my years. I have a natural ability to solve problems. Cats wish they could be as curious as me. I'm fiercely independent. I don't steal words or belongings. My jokes and laughter introduce much needed cheer into our too-often depressing world. On days when I'm particularly lucky, my written words do too. I can set up your Blackberry, Outlook and pretty much anything else on your computer or phone. My daydreams often star the next story I want to write. I may forget to file an expense report but will always remember to fact check a sources last name. And though I tend to file stories dangerously near deadline, they are typically on par with pieces someone else turned in last week. I love what I do so my selective hearing tunes everything in. But I really might be going deaf. Nothing a tap on the shoulder won't fix, and you can be sure I'll be listening to you attentively. I will teach you how to set up an RSS feed and explain why social networking applications are a key to saving our industry. I will teach you how to use these apps in ways you probably didn't know existed. I am versatile, agreeable and generally pleasant to be around (even if I haven't had lunch!). Change doesn't scare me. If I'm fulfilled in my work, neither does monotony. I am creative, free spirited and passionate about making things better. I sometimes scare myself because I can learn new skills so quickly. And I know that the best education comes from asking for wisdom at every opportunity. I also know that silently observing seasoned pros can teach even more. I hate being wrong in life- same goes for my writing. But if I do slip up, I'll admit it and move on. I'm like a trusty golden retriever and am fiercely loyal, even after I'm given reason not to be. And I'll admit it- I enjoy being praised and will do whatever necessary to warrant it. I love feeling proud of myself and will never purposely do anything to strip that feeling away. I have a thick skin and respond well to constructive criticism. Hell, call me fat and ugly and I won't bat an eyelash. But accuse me of not caring about my work and get ready to spar. I am forward thinking, very enthusiastic and generally happy with life. Those traits are always with me- whether I'm writing a 50 word blurb, 2,000 word feature or building a website from scratch. And most importantly, I really truly believe in my heart and soul that everything- and I do mean everything- is possible. No matter what. Those who spend time with me usually start realizing it too.

So yeah, I have a few minor issues. But despite my unconventional ways I will be devoted to every aspect of my job and our company from the second I step through the door. And that isn't easy to find these days. So if you can look past the salad bar scraps littering my desk and trust that I really will be the best damn employee I can be (cross my heart), I know I can do some great things for you.

That said, Uncle Jesse awaits. Thanks for your time. I hope to hear from you soon!

Best,

Erin

-Erin Weinger

ATONEMENT IS FUN

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 17:40:00 +0000

To mark the start of the Jewish new year, we're doing something we've never done before on La Source- allowing a guest blogger to post on our hallowed pages.

Not just any guest blogger but our dear compadre Liza Kaplan, a talented scribe whose name you'll soon be seeing when she writes television's next hit show (I know- shocking to think of someone penning an actual script in a world where tanning bed operators are viable entertainment). Liza, a trained playwright, is one to watch, and the Huffington Post agrees. We're honored to host her words.

-EW

Because it’s a day of reflection:

Yesterday, at temple my rabbi spoke about spiritual hunger in a time of plenty. He said although people, specifically young people, have more material wealth today than they’ve ever had in decades past, they lack connection. Intimacy. A sense of community. So what does this have to do with fashion? After all on the surface, the mere idea of runway shows and Mercedez Benz tents screams spiritual (and plain old give that girl a bagel!) hunger in a time of plenty. You can get a rush from the swipe of your Barney’s card and a black bag in tow, but is that really spiritual fulfillment? I think even Carrie Bradshaw would have to say Manol-no.

Recently, Lookbook.nu an online lookbook which calls itself a “collective fashion consciousness” launched in the blogoshpere. Anyone can post pictures of themselves in their own ensembles and others can comment and even award “hype points” based on how keen they may be for one’s personal style. Which all seems very “I-don’t-care-what-Tina-from-Indianapolis-is-wearing-when-is-this-personal-style-blog-biznazz-going-to-die?”. But a closer look at the titles of people’s pictures: “And sometimes I scream out your name”, “They were all grey”, “You were interested in ancient Mesopotamia and I wasn’t”, and their descriptions of themselves: “aspiring somebody” “16-year-old lost waif” “19-year-old writer runaway trash can dream believer” seem to indicate something more. That in this fashion community that spans Helsinki to Los Angeles and all the Air France stops along the way, fashion may not just be about clothes. About things. But rather, a means for us all to decipher who we are. And a way to be heard. And a way to matter.

I have a very close friend who is paid to be a fashion reporter. (Lucky, I know). But lately, perhaps in the midst of the country’s economic turmoil and impending election bound to be filled with all sorts of nuculear (wink, wink) activity and bridges to nowhere, she has started to feel like there is no point to writing about shoes. And although I tried to tell her you can never have enough of them, I understand where she is coming from. I’m not saying I think it’s revolutionary. I don’t think browsing the futuristic stylings from a 26 year old stylist/photographer from Makati or the effortless chic from a 22 year old student in Enkoping is going to change the world. But something like Lookbook.nu proves it doesn’t matter if you define yourself as democratic or republican, or even if you live in a country where the government pays for healthcare or not, it is a universal truth we all have to get dressed in the morning. And beyond that we, young people, all have something to say. There may be a certain sense of aloneness in these solitary pictures of self defined waifs, dreamers and aspiring somebodies drifting in the blogosphere, and we may even be reaching for connections that can only be electronically made. But it’s a community. And oddly, intimate. And maybe, that’s a start.

-Liza Kaplan

GREAT SCOTT!

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 07:54:00 +0000

"Success is about standing out, not fitting in."- Mad Men producer Matthew Weiner after tonight's season 2 premiere (Brillz advice- I can think of more than a few people who should take it).

It's old news that the show's meticulous attention to style detail is, well, meticulous (check out Monica Corcoran's outstanding Q + A with Janie Bryant, Mad Men costume designer). After the episode, one particular detail stuck out in my mind- a pair of paisley pants.

For anyone not up on their fabric 101, paisley is a print that features swirls inside of teardrop shapes in a trippy, Indian looking design.

During a conversation with neighbor Betty Draper, Francine Hanson (played by Anne Dudek) wears a green fuzzy coat in the style of last season's skinned-Kermit number by Prada but also a pair of green paisley pants similar to prints seen on the fall runways of Hermes, Valentino, Tibi and Dries van Noten.

In the mid-eighteenth century, the East India Company began

importing shawls made of the intricately patterned textile to the

Scottish town of Paisley. But the goods came with a

hefty price tag (much like Matthew Williamson's pop-inspired version of the classic print, left, $1,950. www.netaporter.com) so Paisley denizens decided to whip up the fabric themselves.

And that they did (coincidental fun fact o'the day: Actor Gerard Butler calls Paisley his hometown).

I'd rather be drinking with Don Draper in 1960's Manhattan than whooping it up at a Highland fling with men that sound like Groundskeeper Willie, paisley or not.

But Willie can always win my affections with Alexander McQueen's rust colored paisley smock dress (everyone has their price, mine just happens to be stylish).

-Erin Weinger

Photo courtesy of AMC.

SHOP TILL YOU DROP (LESS MONEY, THAT IS)

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 12:16:00 +0000

Designer outlet shopping can be pretty painful. But it doesn't have to be- if you know where to look, of course.

Get your treasure map in today's Los Angeles Times Image section.

Or else.

-Erin Weinger

Photo by Rick Loomis/ Los Angeles Times

WHY AMERICA IS F*CKED (AND OTHER MUSINGS)

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 06:45:00 +0000

I write this from the comfort of my bedroom in my parents house. Why, you ask, does an adult who is perfectly capable of living on her own still have to tip-toe in at night? Two words: bad credit. Yes, it's true. My credit report is as botched as Tara Reid's fake tits.

Last week, after an exhaustive multi-month search that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, I found my perfect apartment. The charming unit was built in 1930, had hardwood floors, a tiled mantle and private outdoor patio perfect for evenings of laughter with friends. A ridiculously cool black and white art deco kitchen and a walk in closet rounded out the dream home's offerings. Best of all, it was in my price range.

Unfortunately, just as I was negotiating and searching for a soul to vouch I'm not a deadbeat, my home was rented to a girl whose life is surely worth more than mine, as her credit score is 690. My score is considerably lower due to two paltry years spent living beyond my means. Hopefully my closet full of Christian Louboutins and Forever 21 shmata dresses (that's rag in Yiddish, y'all) will keep me warm at night, as I won't be meeting a man in my mother's house anytime soon.

A lovely realtor named Jizelle (or Funky Spunk for short) worked with me over the weekend and told me to find a cosigner. I sprung into action calling everyone I know (for reasons too long to get into in this post, my parents are not an option). Sperm and I stayed in constant communication throughout the process. Which is why today, as I was out reporting a story for the July 27th issue of the Image section, I was flabergasted to get a call saying the apartment had been rented. Say what? We were in the middle of negotiations! I offered to take the apartment as-is! I offered a cosigner! I ponied up my future first born! But someone else had better credit.

Nevermind that I give my word to millions of Los Angeles Times readers every single week that what I'm saying is truthful. Who cares that one of the most revered fashion journalists in the world suggested that the building would be wise to take me. And my cushy salary- likely more than Love Juice's earnings last year- was apparently not enough to satisfy the owners of the tiny one bedroom dwelling, based on my credit score of course.

Why is it that a piece of paper with outdated information relating to a person much different than my current self gets to dictate my future? In college, I- like most- lived a life of excess (an $1,800 Chanel bag bought while drunk comes to mind...). Now, I no longer use credit cards and rely on my earnings to pay my bills. My new philosophy is simple: if I don't have it, I don't spend it. I no longer have three martini lunches at the Four Seasons or spend $200 redecorating my bathroom on a Tuesday night simply because I'm bored. Maybe my credit report should mention how I gained and lost six dress sizes over the course of college and was so excited to feel confident in a tube top again that I went a little overboard with the AmEx. (It feels damn good to try on a slinky dress without crying and covering up in a sweater. I'd do things differently, sure. But I make no apologies.)

I explained as much as possible to Spluge the realtor in a very detailed and heartfelt letter begging for a chance. My newfound financial maturity isn't seen on my credit report, but it is apparent in the fact that I pay for my own car (again, worth more than Man Milk makes in a year), have a nice little savings and haven't incurred any new debt since college. The bottom line is this: I have a fantastic job, make a more-than solid salary and come with wonderful references. If I don't pay my rent, kick me to the curb and call it a day.

No one else can be held accountable for my spending habits. Except maybe the geniuses that granted my 18 year-old self a $15,000 Visa credit limit. And MTV, reality shows and tabloid magazines can take an itty bitty part of the blame for shoving a life of ridiculous extravagance down my throat and telling me that anyone who didn't follow the same lifestyle was worthless. Perhaps if the same educational system that taught me the long division so vital to my everyday life explained actual finance too I would be in a better position to manage my life as well.

Since I am far from the only person my age in this awful predicament, I realize how screwed America really is. I've never been a very spiritual person but I pray for me and my peers unless our country can help us get out of the hole they've helped bury us in. (Let's give Phil Gramm a copy of my credit report and see how far he gets. It won't be all in his head when even Sears denies him a credit card.)

As for the bitch that stole my apartment, I have the last laugh. The place is right next to the finger lickin' good scent of grease and poultry, better known as KFC. Homegirl is about to gain more weight than a stoner with a thyroid problem. I, on the other hand, will stand proud (and skinny) - tarnished credit and all- and find an even better charming art deco apartment that will one day be listed on Wikipedia as a known residence of the famous writer Erin Weinger.

And my name doesn't sound like ejaculate.

-Erin Weinger

Nailed

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Thu, 29 May 2008 03:04:00 +0000

Forgotten were my unkept nails today, and so I went to a job interview with these bad boys. From the looks I got, the Olsen chipped-polish look is so very last season. C'est la vie.
-RE

EVERYTHING'S COMING UP POPPIES

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Tue, 13 May 2008 08:08:00 +0000

If you’ve clicked through Style.com in the past week or so you’ve likely seen the parade of costumes worn to the Metropolitan Museum’s Costume Institute Gala on May 5. Otherwise known as fashion’s new biggest night.

Unlike every other blog and publication under the sun, La Source won’t be commenting on the evening’s fashion choices. We know you have eyes and a brain and are quite capable of forming your own opinions on the outfits worn by the stylish elite (if we may offer a suggestion- your daily procrastination is better spent reading the newspaper instead of seeing what the cast of Gossip Girl wore to a ball. That’s just one man’s opinion.)

But we will share a factoid about one of our favorite old school supermodels, Helena Christensen. The stunner came clad in head-to-toe Marc Jacobs with a huge bejeweled poppy serving as her decorative handcuff. The costume cuff is also by Mr. Jacobs and clocks in at over $4,000- reminding us little people exactly where we belong on fashion’s economic food chain (in case we forgot).

Love the poppy but not the price? Check out last Sunday’s LA Times (a brilliant piece of writing if we do say so ourselves).

Secret: It doesn’t cost that much to mimic Helena's baubles. Getting her skin tone on the other hand...that's a horse of a different color.

-Erin Weinger

TIME FOR A BRAZILIAN

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Tue, 13 May 2008 07:35:00 +0000

This past weekend, I happened to find myself at the same birthday party with the naked bongo master himself- Matthew McConaughey. I planned on walking over (vodka and soda firmly in hand) to inquire about his upcoming collection of beachwear (aka why on earth would a man who seems to spend ¾ of his time sans shirt be creating a clothing line? My guess is that it was one of those brilliant stoned ideas that loses its luster when the buzz goes away. But hey, to each their own.)

Before I could harass him I got sidetracked (It’s the ADD) and ended my evening without finding out the scoop. (No one ever said I was a good reporter.)

While I haven’t seen his line, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that Matt should probably stick to actoring. But his baby-mama on the other hand…she’s a different story.

Camila Alves, the Brazilian bombshell that’s currently carrying Bongo 2.0, designs Muxo- a line of super sweet, handmade Brazilian leather bags- with her mother Multo. Anyone who has been around me lately knows of my strong affinity for fringe, so Muxo’s tribal-inspired, shred-laden designs are right up my alley.

The ruched leather Broadway clutch ($450) nods to Native American buffalo-hide drawings with symbolic markings and bold cross-stitching. Fringe hangs from Little West 12th- an adjustable strap bag that is the perfect size for going out (keys, Black card, evil crackberry and tube of Strawberry Stila). And since the $700 style boasts a flap closure, your chances of losing vital gear on your drunken travels is greatly minimized. (Last time I graced the bag’s namesake Meatpacking District street my heel got caught in the cobblestones and I almost got run down by an ominous black cab. NY does not heart me.)

The Soho (pictured, $1,350) is large enough to use as luggage for that cross-country RV trip but understated too- so you can make a clean getaway when the cops find you smokin' the reefer in the buff.

Actually, keep your clothes on. McConaughey is the only one who should be naked in public.

Visit mymuxo.com to order or dream.

-Erin Weinger

Photo courtesy of mymuxo.com

DIET STARTS TOMORROW

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 09 May 2008 08:32:00 +0000

I’ll admit it. I’m kind of a sloth. In college I was a peppy gym-rat who rejoiced when a dining mate ate anything with fat while I, on the other hand, ate fruit. Now my days are spent chomping on chocolates stolen from the copy desk and nibbling on baked goods provided by a generous colleague. As for the beautiful fitness center that is a mere 33 seconds from my front door, fugetaboutit (I watch the Sopranos to go to sleep every night. Perhaps all that bloodshed and disturbing violent crime is the culprit behind my insomnia).

I long for my former 4-pack (the closest thing I ever came to a sixer was a case of skunked beer) and muscle tone on my arms (tharms have grown in place of my once small, but honorable, biceps). My left calf has gone to pasture. My right currently grazes in the big hamburger factory in the sky. And about the only thing that’s bouncing off this ass is the Jello pudding I sat in earlier tonight.

But sometimes the best motivation for getting back into shape is to buy some new workout gear (nevermind that the IPod mini I purchased with that exact goal in mind sits next to me covered in dust).

When I saw Nike’s new Opening Ceremony-exclusive Dunks I imagined myself sweatin to the oldies in my own pretty pair. Never one to pass on free booze, I headed to the launch party to see my possible motivators up close and personal. (Ironically enough I didn't touch the champagne. But I did hunt down the gal passing mini strawberry shortcakes as if I hadn't eaten in a week)

The $125 sneakers come in two floral-printed styles, each swathed in fabric from Liberty of London. One pair features tiny purple buds while the other has larger red blossoms. Humberto Leon- the genius retailer behind Opening Ceremony- told me that Mischa Barton already bought two pairs. Then I spotted supermodel Erin Wasson picking up her size 8.5 high-tops outside in the courtyard- despite the fact that she was sporting a leg cast and crutches.

But I quickly realized that these shoes are for preening the hedges of the urban jungle, not for trimming my fat cells. A limited edition pair of floral-printed basketball shoes won’t make me go to the gym. In fact, they’d probably get me laughed out of it.

This sloth will be sticking with her bitchin' cross trainers on the next treadmill run. Nike’s new Dunks are a little too cool for my feet and are better suited for the other Erin (the one who doesn’t accidentally sit in piles of pudding).

Now if you’ll excuse me it’s time for my midnight snack. (revert back to title)

-Erin Weinger

Nike’s limited-edition Be True Liberty of London Dunk’s are available at Opening Ceremony, 451 N. La Cienega Blvd., Los Angeles. (310) 652-1180

Photo courtesy of Opening Ceremony

AND JUSTICE FOR ALL

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Tue, 06 May 2008 09:20:00 +0000

Last week, Juicy Couture- otherwise known as the original purveyors of $100 sweatpants back when $100 was still a lot of money- sued lingerie giant Victoria's Secret over an ass. Or more specifically, what was written on one.

The fashion Goliath claims that the Columbus, Ohio-based lounge wear maker copied their concept of adding a company moniker to the back of sweatpants.

The practice has been a goldmine for the Liz-Claiborne owned company. The brand designs velour and terry cloth bottoms with the the word "Juicy" blazing on the wearer's backside. Since the brand is a symbol of modern American pop culture (whether we like it or not), the notion of 'a juicy' ass is a picture-perfect rendering of the reasons why our society is in its current dismal state.

The lawsuit targets Victoria's Secret's sorority-inspired Pink line, which includes styles of pants and shorts that say- you guessed it- "Pink" in block lettering across the derrier.

I laughed when I happened upon this lovely bit of news. Back in the day, a dream of mine was to get my law degree from Princeton (must be all the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air I watched on TGIF. If you recall the show as vividly as I do, Princeton was Judge Phillip Banks' alma mater). That said, I'm fulfilling my dream of becoming a legal shark as razor sharp as the vintage Tierry Muegler suit I'll wear to plead my case. I know can prove the defendant innocent on the basis of 'hey, everybody's doin it!' with a few simple pictures. And on the off chance I lose my adopted clients' case what are you gonna do- sue me?

Think of all the legal fees Vicky is going to save. (Vicky, if you're reading, I accept thongs as retainer.)

The evidence speaks for itself.

- Erin Weinger

My Sentiments Exactly

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 02:02:00 +0000

Love It!
Randi Eichenbaum

Hypocracy in Hollywood

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 00:57:00 +0000

I know the title sounds like a non-news item - "Hypocrisy in Hollywood?" you probably say, that's like "Coffee in Starbucks." This item of discrepancy, however, caught my attention. And, to note, this will be the only item La Source will do on Oscar fashions.

C'mon guys, you know we don't do that. You've got Ryan Seacrest for that kind of malarkey.

Anywho, one of the many mediocre dressed at last night's award ceremony was Jennifer Garner in a strapless, multi-layered Oscar de la Renta number. Unlike so many other celebs,however, she gave credit where credit was due, to her stylist - Rachael Zoe.

"I don’t like the girls to wear black for awards shows. It doesn’t photograph well." Rachel Zoe, "Being Rachel Zoe," Lynn Hirschberg, New York Times Magazine, 9/16/07.

"I would never put a girl in black on the red carpet. Black doesn't photograph well, and the girl, no matter how beautiful, will not stand out." Zoe quoted in another one of Ms. Hirschberg's pieces titled, "Made in the Shade," a feature that conveniently came out this past weekend in NYT Mag about the author's protests with the hue.

Either Garner put up quite a fight during her fitting or Zoe is a bit wish washy with what she says to the press.

What do you guys think?

And on another note, am I the only one to notice this? Just call me Detective Eich, I guess.

-Randi Eichenbaum

Hyphy Haute Couture

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 16:58:00 +0000

Call me homesick, call me a melodramatic, but I found myself incredibly moved this past weekend when viewing a photography exhibit at the Von Lintel Gallery in Chelsea. San Francisco native John Chiara had captured views of the Bay Area, then using dodging and burning (I love those terms) mechanisms to make these dreamy, sloshy images. Landscapes of South San Francisco rooftops, sunsets and Northern Californian trees brought me to tears for family, friends, warm evenings in my old convertible and unbelievable pasta dinners paired with Chardonnay - Rombauer of course. I closed my eyes and remembered myself in off the shoulder sweatshirts (vintage of course), terry shorts (ummm, Juicy, I KNOW, I KNOW) and sundresses (all sorts). Even with some of the, ahem, faux pas of my wardrobe past, I was reminded of the casualty - a feeling of chic serenity, if you will - that I exuded then and I plan on trying to incorporate it into my new city dress . Ease with bundles of layers to keep warm isn't easy, but I'm going to try. I'm thinking wrap sweaters, silky scarves and bohemian/equestrian looking boots (I have a great thigh-high brown suede pair by Chinese Laundry). And with a little thinking, I might still be able to look very "now" by incorporating florals and keeping everything very feminine- California style. After all, what every fashion mavin should try and keep in mind when dressing is, stick to your roots.
-Randi Eichenbaum

Are you a Carine or an Anna?

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 18:44:00 +0000

After reading Anna Wintour's reaction (to specify, a seemingly angered response) in WWD last Friday to the decidedly very charming and entertaining profile on her Parisian counterpart Carine Roitfeld in the most recent issue of New York Magazine, I decided to come up with a little game. Which EIC of Vogue are you? Now answer honestly, I know everyone wants to be the French sexpot, but you just might find that you're actually much more of the perfect blown out dame than you thought.

1) On a lunch date with girlfriends, you wear:
a) Pencil skirt - Prada of course
b) Leather Comme de Garcon leggings

2) What are your sentiments on wearing fur?
a) Are you kidding me? I just got back from my meeting at PETA.
b) Coat, hat, sheep or skunk. I'm luxurious.

3) And weight?
a) I'm six weeks in to my all celery diet. The skinnier the better.
b) Everyone is beautiful - all shapes and sizes.

4) People see you as:
a) Bossy McFossy. Always a go getter, making most of the decisions. More Monica than Rachael.
b) A free-spirit, even a bit ditzy. Very creative. More Phoebe than Rachael.

5) What are your views on celebrities on magazine covers?
a) Who else would you put on there? Kate Bosworth is my fav.
b) Bring back the models, pleeeease.

RESULTS
1) A = 1 point for Anna. B = 1 for Carine.
Okay, that was an easy one. Especially with the Prada hint. Anna is known for her skirt and jacket uniform - in Chanel and Prada to name a few. While Carine always looks a little goth glam and has said to delight in Japanese designers

2) TRICK QUESTION. They both are fur mavericks. (What exactly is a fur maverick, I'm not too sure.) Carine is cutely quoted in NY Mag saying, "Peta, they like to pay attention to her (Anna), not to me, so this is good for me."

3)...ANOTHER TRICK QUESTION
Both are rather stickly looking - stickly or sickly? No, just kidding. But it's true, between their own figures and the ones of their fellow colleagues, the two seem to follow the same motto: the smaller, the better!

4) Another easy one, God, this quiz sucks. Anyways, who does quizzes anyways? This isn't Cosmo magazine.
But if you seem to be the more, "we do it my way and my way only" fem (and you know who you are) give yourself one point for Anna.
If only we could have fallen into fashion heaven with the airy attitude of Carine. As the article exemplifies, "But part of becoming the editor of a big American magazine is wanting it, and Roitfeld does not. 'My best quality is to be stylist. I never think about this career, this big job.' " SIGH.

5) This is why we love the international versions of Vogue - more models, less celebs. And if you're like us, one point for Carine. We want a different Kate - Ms. Moss will do. Nothing against Bosworth, the American Vogue sweetheart who appeared with many a swoon worthy designers in the February issue but she's so safe. So, ugh, American.

EXTRA! EXTRA!

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 02:52:00 +0000

I think somebody put something in the Fiji water today, because there has definitely been a fair share of hustle and bustle amongst the fashion importants.
During a leisurely Tuesday afternoon, I had back to back Blackberry buzzes. "WWD NEWS FLASH" they both read. All right, I get it, I thought, people aren't shopping, the economy sucks, wa, wa, wah.
To my surprise (and delight), today's news was anything but Debbie downer.
The first item I received told me Mr. Isaac Mizrahi was named the Creative Director of Liz Claiborne. Now any girl who likes to giggle (and a great deal) loves Isaac. He has done major things for Target, and I credit him in being the fore runner in designer/Target collaborations.
Which leads me to my next item of news from the bible. Jonathan Saunders for Target?? While his ambitions for contemporary lines are, well, alot- he's collaborating with TopShop as well, I admit, I'm excited. The Scot knows what's up when it comes to dressing the urban cool. He does great, chic color blocking and wonderful subtle prints.
Back to Isaac, when I first read the news, all I could think of was him and Liz Claiborne's new Chief Creative Officer - Tim Gunn- in the same room -wowsers!
I want what they're drinking.
-Randi Eichenbaum

Her Name is Tiffany

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 04:25:00 +0000

My question today is this, is it all in a name?

I'll be the first to admit, it certainly is. Take for instance a basic black dress I came across at one of my favorite second-hand stomping grounds. After having peeked inside at the tag and discovering it was Donna Karan (no, not DKNY, spell it out, the real deal Donna) I had to have it. Had it been something from Express or Bebe would I have given it another glance? Absolutely not.

The question of "the label" came up this Christmas as well. When I found an infamous blue box under the tree, I thought, Tiffany's? Unless its a pair of diamond studs, aren't I little old for Tiffany's? I know how that comes across, really, but I much rather have a cool piece of costume jewelry than the "sorority girl" charm bracelet I once sported.

After opening the box, I thought, it's okay, but I'll probably return it. That's until my stepmom (the purchaser of the gift) said, "It looks just like Cartier, don't you think? For the past couple of months in the Accessories Department, I've seen my fair share of Cartier, and, well, she was right.
Even though Cartier shares the same eponymous, luxurious name, there's just something more old world and glamorous, less WASPY, about them. So the bracelet will be kept. Even if it did come in that blue box, no one will have to know.

P.S. Image to come...unable to upload right now (that's what he said =) )

-Randi Eichenbaum

DEATH OF AN ICON

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 20:22:00 +0000

Sequins
b. 1983 d. 2007

Sequins, the trusty go to for many a holiday party and over-the-top event, has died at her home this past week. She was found hanging in her closet.

While the reasons behind the suicide were not immediately known, loved ones claim that Sequins had been battling a recent but severe depression that was brought on by an identity crisis.

Sequins enjoyed the time that she spent at high-end boutiques and especially loved the exclusivity that her usual high cost brought. Throughout her life she amassed many celebrity friends who always treated her with the respect that a handmade garment deserved.

Recently, Sequins began to have problems with identity theft and would become distraught over the site of “wanna-bes” who lacked the same craftsmanship and quirky, elegant design that she usually possessed.

Seeing copies of herself in a mall window with a $19.99 price tag sent her into a tailspin and Sequins began a pattern of destructive behavior that included drug use and an illicit affair with Satin, who broke things off quite quickly. “It was great when we were alone in front of a full length mirror, just playing around.” He says of his time with the shimmering beauty. “But when we would go out together, I mean we just looked like a cabaret costume. A joke. We didn’t work together, we were too much.”

Once the love of her life had left her, Sequins got deep into the Hollywood party scene and friends say would do whatever it took to score cocaine and crystal meth. After walking into a crowded party where a dozen or more of her imitations were present, Sequins drank a bottle of Jack and spent the rest of the evening in the bathroom, hysterical. She couldn’t turn a corner without seeing “herself” which friends say drove her to the insanity that led to her untimely death.

Sequins will always be remembered for her vintage 80’s vibe and head turning ability. Loved ones are confident that she will be resurrected once her fad lessens. For now, the family is asking that she rest in peace. – Erin Weinger

WORKING GIRLS

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 10:03:00 +0000

roo4two: HIII MS LA TIMES
Codered75: Hello my little Conde Nasty

Yes it's official- the La Source Girls officially have paying jobs!!!!

We won't be living on a corner with a "Will Write For Food" sign after all.

Will our new entry level salaries allow us to partake in the $95 steak at Craft and a Chanel shopping spree?

Probably not.

We'll be celebrating at In N Out and Forever 21 instead. :-)
-Erin Weinger

She's Arrived

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 03:57:00 +0000

Look for the newest writer in LA Times' Image section.

So proud of you Ms.Erin Weinger! xo

UGG-LYS

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 23:42:00 +0000

Having gone to school in Arizona, it was bit contradictory to be wearing UGGs, even in the winter months. But sure enough, myself included, when the temperatures dropped below, err, 70 degrees, girls would pull out the sheepskin boots, paired with Abercrombie minis and Juicy velour hoodies.
Well, I don't know need to tell you that UGGS are- THANKFULLY-over and I would even go far enough to say a faux pas.
However, as I was boarding the Conde Nast elevator Friday, I spotted the booties on one, very well-known editor. Sure her readership is a younger crowd, and one that might still sport the booties but STILL. What would her Editorial Director say ??
-Randi Eichenbaum

I'M BAAAACK

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 23:33:00 +0000

I just wanted to extend an apology to, ahem, ALL OF OUR READERS OUT THERE, for slacking on La Source. I've been an overworked intern, now newly hired fashion assistant (hooray!), and all of my blogging time has been taken from me by the Condes.
Thank you Erin for keeping the blog alive and stay tuned...I have much to tell about my adventures off 7th Ave.
-Randi Eichenbaum

JUNK IN THE TRUNK

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 21:00:00 +0000

I kind of loathe trunk shows- they fill my head with images of little old ladies hanging out at their hair salon, buying ugly jackets, eating stale coffee cake, and gossiping about the town bitch.

As a quick refresher course in retailing 101, a trunk show is when a designer makes his or her entire next-season line available for pre-order at a boutique. Chances are that unless a designer’s name is on the rent check, an outside store isn’t carrying their complete anything. That means that a trunk show actually is a good way to see an entire collection of someone who may not be readily available in your area.

I still don’t like them. They annoy me. (hey, everyone’s entitled to an opinion, right?)

But I love Love LOVE when a designer comes to his own show instead of sending a member of his crew as a stand in. There is nothing cooler than picking out clothes with the person who pulled 15 straight all-nighters to make them, and I will gladly go to lend support to an artist that I love- even though my current unpaid salary doesn’t allow me the luxury of pre-ordering next seasons wardrobe.

If I was in Manhattan tomorrow you can bet your ass that I would be on the 7th floor of Barney’s between the hours of 2 and 4 pm, where Philip Lim himself will be showing off the high waist neon skirts, two-toned tuxedo blazers, and dinner-party worthy dresses that he created for spring 2008. Make your appointment with the CFDA award winner by calling 212-826-8900 x 2648.

I think he’s worth a little stale coffee cake, don’t you? – Erin Weinger

Appropriate Dress For A Dive Bar

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Wed, 07 Nov 2007 09:08:00 +0000

Ah, the great American dive bar. $4 brews, vodka sodas that make the world go dark after one sip, and a townie named Chuck that has been drinking since noon. Pretense is left at the door and even if your neighborhood establishment isn’t channeling Cheers, patrons are usually pretty friendly (unlike the lovely fellow that stepped on my foot at Hollywood “Not-spot” [like that? I just made it up!] Opera the other evening and then proceeded to yell at me. Nothing but class in this town.) In my opinion, it’s these reasons that give dive bars a major edge over cheesy, garish clubs (believe me, despite what you’ve been told by the tabloids, paying $20 for a drink and waiting in line for an hour makes you anything but cool. Go when you know the door guy and for Christ sake crash a friends table.)

But what ever is a girl to do when all she wants is a night of old fashioned hammered fun with friends at her friendly neighborhood dive while still having a shot at getting laid? (Chuck the townie is single and ready to mingle) In other words, how do you blend into the laid-back crowd while still looking Friday night cute?

My general-rule of thumb in life is KISS- Keep It Simple, Stupid! Never does that word have more relevance than when dressing for a dive bar. Simple means your favorite jeans, a plain dress, or an un-fussy top. It does not mean your new metallic gold tiered flapper dress (which some of us are saving for a special occasion anyways) or the latest one shouldered high waisted satin sequined feathered jumper to come off the catwalk (Chuck the Townie won’t get it.)

Once your KISS formula is safely in place, use this nifty trick to solidify your perfectly dressed status. For every dressier piece you put on, counter act it with something casual. It's easy. If you put on a dress, balance it out with a pair of casual shoes. Dressy shoes match up with a more casual outfit. For example:

Beige patent leather Manolo Blahnik sandals + black satin tube dress = night at an awards show

Beige patent leather Manolo Blahnik sandals + cotton tank dress = supermodel at the dive bar

But beware: 2 casuals don’t make a right, even when stopping to drink at an establishment that doesn’t believe in cleaning their toilets.

Cotton tank dress + Havaianas = Grocery Store chic.

Lets try another.

Navy satin tunic + patent leather pumps = $60 steak with the guy you met at the club who won’t stop talking about himself (he can see his reflection in your shoes; he loves that)

Navy satin tunic + flat gladiator sandals = late night French fries with the cutie you scored at the dive bar (French fry eating cuties love unfussy girls)

Still unsure? One more for the road.

’85 Bears Superbowl tee + high waist skinny jeans + gym shoes = I’m ready for a pick up game of bball in the park.

’85 Bears Superbowl tee + high waist skinny jeans + over the knee suede boots = I’m ready to sit next to Chuck and down a few and damn I look good doing it.

Same goes for jewelry- each piece that stands out should be countered by something simple.

Cocktail ring + diamond bracelet + chandelier earrings = Black tie
Cocktail ring - diamond bracelet + diamond studs = Booze

You are now ready to roll to the nearest "normal" bar where you will be the best dressed patron while still fitting in with the uncomplicated atmosphere. Congratulations! I’ll be drinking at The Joint on Pico in a gauzy top, leggings, and flats if anyone needs me. –Erin Weinger

DOUBLE KROSED

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 01:59:00 +0000

There is a new line in town and we have a feeling that it’s gonna be pretty big. (the fact that it was one of the few shows at L.A. Fashion Week that didn’t make us want to move to Manhattan is a pretty good indication.)

Marissa Ribisi (sister of Giovanni; wife of Beck [two turn tables and a microphone…]) and long-time friend Sophia Banks are the two conceptualizers behind Whitley Kros, the wearable line of flirty, casual separates that made their catwalk debut last week.

The fabric du jour for spring is most definitely breezy silk and the Kros girls worked the material into adorable combinations that reminded us of a jumbo sized bag of Starburst. (And we weren't left with the usual stomach ache that comes from eating an entire one-pound bag. Extra points.)

As Beck watched from the DJ booth, models strutted down the catwalk in shapely cardigans that were versatile enough to easily go from cover-up to dinner date. High waist silk shorts that looked like they came direct from our rad aunt’s closet mingled with quirky printed t-shirts that were as sweet as the coconut caramel bites that we were noshing on in the pre-show lounge. (Not to mention that the tee's reminded us of our days playing with My Little Pony and Barbie; we love nostalgia!)

The simple designs weren’t groundbreaking. But they also weren’t trying to be anything other than fun, breezy pieces that wearers can easily personalize. And for a refreshing twist on the rest of the drek (That’s Yiddish for crap, y’all) that we were shown at L.A. Fashion Week, the clothes were just plain CUTE.

Vogue’s Lisa Love was sitting front row, so we’re guessing this line is going to be appearing front of book sometime soon. Wouldn’t it be nice if they let us write about it?? –Erin Weinger

Photos courtesy of Mercedes-Benz.

I'M JUST SAYIN'...

noreply@blogger.com (La Source) — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 14:58:00 +0000

Top: A picture of the raid that captured clothing counterfeiter Abbas Chouman, who was just sentenced to nearly 5 years in prison for distributing $7 million in faux Rocawear, Evisu, and Ecko among other brands.

Bottom: OJ Simpson celebrating after being acquitted of double murder in 1995. He was later spotted on the golf course, looking for the real killer I assume. (He may want to check hole 16. Or maybe a hotel room in Vegas.) -Erin Weinger