Like a lot of people in LA right now, I have come down with a severe case of strike fever. I’m incredibly fortunate to have a job in the podcast industry, which has yet to be affected by the work stoppages. Do I have a bit of survivor’s guilt over the fact that so many of my friends are sacrificing so much to do the right thing and I still know when my next paycheck is coming? Yes, definitely. Guilt is a primary animator of my existence. Without it, I might experience things like “satisfaction” or “an uninterrupted night’s sleep.”
But I try to remember that this strike is really about the people who endure financial instability even if there isn’t a work stoppage. My response to inequality shouldn’t be to direct my anger inward (even though I do and I will continue to do so until my final day on this planet) but to direct it at the people responsible for the exploitative system those of us in the entertainment industry find ourselves in. Like every generation before ours, we were seduced by images of tattered glamour and exquisite decay, and drawn to this place to hopefully scrawl our names on the tapestry of Hollywood for eternity.
Or, at least be able to buy a five-bedroom in Rancho Park and one vintage Italian sports car that never leaves the garage. Perhaps that goal seems shallow, but those are the promised trappings of creative success in a place like Los Angeles. Those of us cursed with the mental defect that makes people want to “do art” were told for years that New York is where you sacrifice for greatness and LA is where you cash out. I can’t even sell out properly in 2023! The movie and TV studios and their mutated tech progeny won’t allow me to.
Is it “selling out” to have a two-bedroom apartment with a laundry room down the hall and no savings? Not to me, it isn’t. I chose LA over NYC because I’m from California and a life spent in automobile-mandated solitude is preferable to the non-stop social engagement that is New York. Also, pop culture made LA seem like a place where a job on a mediocre sitcom could help you build generational wealth. There are people out here who live in the Valley in a giant mansion because they wrote a couple episodes of Alf. Sorry that what I just described sounds awesome.
Last week, I watched the movie version of David Rabe’s play Hurlyburly for the first time. For those that don’t know, both the play and the film dramatize the lives of a group of low-level Hollywood scumbags who do blow, disrespect women, and wax philosophical about the emptiness of their lives. It’s like if the HBO show Entourage was at all realistic about the ultimate fate of their characters. (SIDE NOTE: the Entourage character Turtle was based on real-life sleazeball Randall Emmett, who’s been credibly accused of fraud and sexual abuse).
The movie is wobbly, flatly photographed, stagey, and has one of the most absurd, unintentionally comical Sean Penn performances of all-time. But it does have great clothes (much of the wardrobe was provided by Armani) and the delicious 90s interior design I crave. Unfortunately, Kevin Spacey is in it, but to balance that the karma, Garry Shandling is there. He has a small role and, as usual, he gets a fit off that I still dream about every night. This is the very definition of perfection:
More importantly, it evokes the excesses of the LA Dream in a way few films have. Be cunning, charming, and savvy enough and you too can have a house in the Hills furnished by Donald Judd. That LA Dream is corrosive to many. It burns off your thin skin and leaves you with one giant callus that prevents any human emotion from getting in or getting out. But hey, maybe I’ll be one of the good ones! Good luck, pal.
The LA Dream is dead, both for the better and for the worse. For the better, in that some hustler will find it harder to create an empire of shit from a career making terrible art and abusing people. For the worse in that there’s no golden wristwatch at the end of a life lived making entertainment for people. The studios have seen to it that a few months without work might put hundreds of people on the streets. Their unwillingness to share in the profits from creative labor means that Los Angeles has turned from an oasis in the middle of the desert into a faded mirage.
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I bought a tuxedo a few years ago, on the off-chance I might have a reason to wear it. Some fancy gala, premiere, or awards show could plop onto my calendar and I better be ready to get dressed.
I went to the Oscars for The Guardian in 2016 wearing a rented tux, an indignity I promised to never repeat. Unfortunately, I haven’t had an opportunity to rectify that error. I have A) not written any movies that have been made and B) not written any movies that would deserve an Oscar anyway. Plus, there’s that strike I was talking about before. Part of that LA Dream is the gilded obligation of attending parties. Most people in this town whinge if they get an invite to something industry-related. It’s part of the job — to see and be seen, to make yourself an inescapable element of life in Los Angeles. Like the smog, but a needy, emotionally stunted person instead.
So I bought a tux and I waited. Most men today don’t see the utility of owning a tuxedo. Certainly not all the bells and whistles and accoutrement that go with it. The rap on tuxedos is that they are the most expensive thing that you will never wear.
But I did that thing I often do: I bought a bunch of used clothes from TheRealReal. Because of my body type and the perpetuation of the lie that bigger guys can’t dress well, there’s always a healthy selection of quality pieces for a good price in my size on resale apps like TheRealReal. I found a black Gucci tuxedo jacket from the Michele era, a HUGE pair of Tom Ford tux trousers that were made for a music executive prior to a dramatic weight loss that I had tailored, and a really fantastic cream-colored Dries Van Noten shawl collar tux jacket for warm weather occasions that makes me feel like James Bond. OK, maybe not quite that fancy. Maybe closer to Johnny English. The last time I got to wear my tux was Eric Wareheim’s Beefsteak event that took a COVID-break but came back last month for a mini-edition.
Me, with my old pal, Simpsons showrunner and Beefsteak co-founder (and tuxedo avoider) Matt Selman
For full transparency, I skimped on the bow tie — a pre-tied number from Calvin Klein that I bought online. And my shoes were, as they often are, sockless Gucci loafers. I am one of America’s great creatures of habit.
Gents, if you are frustrated by how much fucking stuff you have to buy to have a decent evening look, my suggestion is to just…not buy that stuff. I currently do not own a cummerbund. I’ve considered it, because I think it might give me a bit more of a defined waist. Real tuxedo pants do not have belt loops, so you’ll be wearing braces for the night. That can render a softer, thicker waistline sloppy or unflattering. A cummerbund solves that nicely, but it looks incredibly old fashioned. No one will dock you for not having one.
My potentially MAGA-pilled tailor made me a bespoke shirt for my friend Tom’s wedding. I was not a groomsman, but there were incredibly wealthy people there and I have deep class envy and imposter syndrome like everyone who moved to LA from a small town. Getting a bespoke shirt made was a small thing I could do to elevate my attire for the event. I got my initials on the left cuff, but instead of cufflink and stud holes, I got buttons. I was offered and accepted a thin, removable strip of buttons on the front of the shirt that could be swapped out for studs if I decided to go that route down the road. But I wasn’t going to immediately make that investment. And I definitely don’t have a pocket square.
Most of these little touches have become optional or just look so corny that no one will blame you for skipping out on them. I might get studs for my 40th birthday, which is sadly sooner than I’d like to admit. But I’d rather go without some elements of the tux than go the other direction of wearing a basic black suit when formalwear is appropriate. As I’ve said before, there is a time and purpose for everything. Meet the occasion where it demands. Let’s just hope that LA will have more reasons to celebrate soon.
Upgrayyde of the Week:
I love Birkenstock Bostons, like many of you probably do. The brown leather ones have been workhorses of my closet since the pandemic started. In order to give those poor guys a rest, I just copped these gray suede Bostons that I can dress up or dress down depending on the moment. If you can find ‘em, get ‘em. They are straight up clouds for your feet.
NEXT WEEK: Back to answering questions from the chat. If you want more content, ask more questions!