The Blueprint Cleanse: You'll Laugh. You'll Cry. You'll Hurl.

image via Gothamist

In my ongoing life project to follow the wisdom of Carlos Souza, this past weekend, I did the Blueprint Cleanse. It's a New York-based, home-delivered detox that Elle, Cosmo, and the Daily Candy have written up within the past year. I think Oprah's pal Gayle King is into it. Anyway, like Carlos, it encourages hot water with lemon in the morning, followed by six juices spread throughout the day--three of which are a green juice, sort of like the one he drinks with the cauliflower leaves. The idea is that the cleanse will purify your body of all its "toxins." I have only the most rudimentary understanding of science, but I'm pretty sure that healthy bodies can do that on their own without a problem.

Blueprint was created by Zoe Sakoutis, a certified nutrition consultant--in other words, not a nutritionist--and her friend, Erica Huss Jones who has a background in PR. My favorite bit on their website is that the detox is "essentially the story of an idea--the idea that cleansing needed to be liberated from the rigid dogma and new-age aesthetics of the raw food universe and made more accessible to more people." I call bullshit. New-age aesthetics! Liberation! Yes, accessible and money-making! Zoe and Erica promise euphoria. Realistically, drinking raw fruit and vegetable juices restricts calories and should provide you with a general sense of well-being (or... something else) from having only ingested healthy, natural things in liquid form for a few days. You'll also lose some water weight. I figured on my days off from work, I'd give it a shot.

Of the three levels of intensity, I chose level two, Foundation, which was middle-ground, for a total of three days (you can do up to five). Each day, I drank three juices of celery, kale, spinach, and romaine, and then one of pineapple and mint, another of lemon with cayenne pepper and agave, and, finally, a "dessert" of cashew milk and cinnamon.

Since I was off from work and sleeping late, it was hard to stagger the juices accordingly. You're supposed to drink them roughly every two hours, but I'd find that I'd go four hours between juices, and I would have to have my last one around 2am, before going to sleep, which is exactly what you're not supposed to do. The first night, I completed all of them and vomited the green juice (sorrry). I called Blueprint in the morning to ask if that's normal and they said yes, it's happened. Oh, well. I figured it was only the first day, and I'm not a quitter. I knew I should put my health over perseverance, but as you'll see, I got my karmic retribution in the end. Onward I marched.

Day two went fine, but by party o'clock on the third day, shit hit the fan. I had consumed too much water, which my small frame couldn't tolerate. I looked in the mirror and saw I was pale and bloodshot. I felt lightheaded. I frantically googled "water poisoning," and saw myself in every example of a person drowned on the inside. I turned to my roommate and asked, "Am I going to die?" He said no, and gave me a banana. He told me to watch a movie to calm myself down. I chose Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye for the title. I regained color in my face and fell asleep, secure in my survival. And no, I did not have the last two juices.

My body had had enough. After throwing up on Thursday, turning pale on Saturday and relieving me of all sorts of stuff in the process, Sunday morning, I woke up with a runny nose and a bad cough. When ridding yourself of so much water, you are supposed to take a probiotic to counteract the loss of the good bacteria your body needs. When I began the cleanse, that seemed like a step only hardcore detox devotees would take, but it's probably necessary. Now I'm stuck with a bad cold, but at least I have no doubt I will prevail. If I'm going to be like Carlos, maybe festooning myself with diamonds and doing Ashtanga yoga is the way to go.

a beautiful mind

In this video, Carlos de Souza, one of the upper crust's go-to jewelry designers, member of Valentino's inner circle (and longtime, former publicist), and yogi to the people tells us he has diuretics of lemon and hot water, and one with cauliflower leaves everyday. He also suggests that if you keep the car running, you can do three cocktails before a dinner. Dude is the high life. Watching this is having a narcotic effect on me. It's like a snack. Forget Oprah, I want to follow his lifestyle of Buddhist beads and pocket squares. (Full disclosure: I covered his jewelry collection for Style.com, where this video is from.)

Carlos is also mentioned in Matt Tyrnauer's new documentary, "The Last Emperor," on the Valentino dynasty, which will premiere at the Venice Film Festival on August 28th. If his 2004 Vanity Fair piece (available off-line) on the family is any indicator of what we can expect from the doc, it's going to be crazy fabulous and even poignant. Here's an excerpt from the article:

"The Valentino entourage often travels together-to Paris for the collections, to Valentino and Giammetti's [Valentino's business partner] various homes, to the yacht, where Giammetti for a period in the 90s, made everyone do needlepoint. 'Except Valentino,' he says."

[snip]

"'One important side of my character,' Giammetti confides to me one night, 'is that I never break with people. This family has stayed together because of me, because when Valentino gets mad he cuts-that is that. I think it is so sad when I hear people say, 'I was with this woman or man for 18 years. I don't see him anymore. I don't even know if he is still alive.' That shocks me. I remember when Carlos left and moved to Brazil and married Charlene. Valentino refused to speak to him, but I always talked to Carlos. Then one day Carlos called and said he had a baby boy, Sean. I handed the phone to Valentino, and he started to cry and cry.'"

Valentino: The Last Emperor [Official Site]

and the living's easy?

Summer 1969-present (image via Encyclopedia Britannica Online)

This happens sometimes: during the winter, blurry from too many hot toddies and trying to fix my radiator, I start to think that this summer will be the one. Why do we place so much emphasis on this season? Every summer is the summer of love; every summer is the summer of the swans; I'm going to come of age in ways I didn't know existed. I envision a new era in the bleached tones of late 60s and early 1970s films. Visions of freedom as conveyed by the inscrutable and sexy Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. Note that this summer's Roman gladiator sandals, Native American inspirations, high-waisted jeans (which technically came back in the spring), and past seasons' peasant blouses and Victorian frippery are all rooted in this time frame.

It's true that there are only so many decades to draw upon, but summer fashion consistently refers to those years in one way or another. I'll find myself, see America, wear some aviators or Ray-Bans, whatever it takes. Though the clothing no longer has the rebellious edge that it did when it first appeared on the scene forty years ago, it's still played out in a bucolic, liberal fantasy. It's a pretty optimistic outlook, sitting at a desk in New York.

In the end, though, the clothes can only do so much. Eventually, the dog days set in, and I worry about the impending back to school vibe and Fashion Week. I'll realize that I didn't experience any sort of new magic, or maybe I won't realize it until the Fall. But I sometimes want to say, as Fonda does at the end of Easy Rider: "We Blew it."

one from the vault

Did you notice tie-dye is back? Last fall, New Zealander Karen Walker created mottled navy blue patterns on white jeans and this fall, YSL and Michael Kors designed some tie-dyed handbags. And at this year's Olympics opening ceremony, the Australian team's jackets were dyed in a technique the fashion world calls ombre. Some people are uncomfortable with hippie connotations (though not me), so referring to a tie-dye process in French makes it automatically fancy and unrelated to barefoot flower children. The above inspirational photo comes from the glory days of 1996, around the last time tie-dye was cool, when the Lithuanian national basketball team was supported by the Grateful Dead.

August West reported in a 1996 San Francisco Chronicle article: "The tie-dyed shirts sport Lithuania's colors: green, red and yellow. A figure of a skeleton -- one of many Dead symbols -- wearing a green Lithuanian shirt is shown reverse-dunking a ball through the hoop, in the center of a ring of fire. On the back is a drawing of a basketball globe with a skelton hand twirling the ball on its index finger."

"Watching them play in 1992, I've got to say that I was immensely proud," said guitarist Bob Weir. "This year we hope they can turn the bronze into silver."

"I can't wait to see how this story turns out," added drummer Mickey Hart.

"The conference was highlighted by the unveiling of a ceremonial jersey honoring Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia, who died last August. The jersey bore the No. 1 and Garcia's name on the back; on the front, above the Lithuanian team insignia, was a skeleton with the middle digit missing. Garcia lost the middle finger of his right hand when he was a child."

[SF Chronicle]

the good, the bad, & the ugly

Here We Are Now, Entertain Us: The Teen Choice Award Fashions Were Fabulous, Bad, and Disastrous

Blake Lively, Leighton Meester, Miley Cyrus, Scarlett Johansson, and others came out on August 4th for the Teen Choice Awards at L.A.'s Gibson Ampitheatre. Even though these actresses and singers are in their late teens and twenties, the range of fashion choices here took me back to all the missteps we made dressing up however long ago. The agony and the ecstasy, seriously. Join me now for a look at the good, the bad, and the unconscionably ugly after the jump!

The Good


Why is it that I always see Rachel Bilson looking great at every premiere, but I can't recall any of her movies?


Brittany Snow's floral minidress reinvented adorable. I like her orange shoes, too.


Tucked-in shells are perilously matronly. Oversized necklaces remind me of dress-up. The combination shouldn't work, yet Kristen Bell makes both look fantastic. Excellent balance of bright and neutral colors.


Leighton Meester, classy as per usual.


I usually think belts like Natasha's belong in cars or airplines, but in this photo, she's convinced me otherwise. Pleats, please!


I like the shape of Scarlett's dress, it highlights her figure. I know that the shoulder detail and necklace are supposed to be contrasting and eye-catching, but they kind of annoy me.


Blake Lively is foxy in her purple one-shoulder. The leather on her belt looks special, maybe vintage.

Minka Kelly's dress is minimal, but is it also glowing under a black light?

The Bad


"You know I'm bad
I'm bad
You know it."

Demi Levato's jacket reminds me of pre-batshit Michael Jackson.


To this day, whenever I see white top and black bottom, I think of concert attire for a high school performance group. The bow on Meaghan's dress is precious.


The cut on the chest-line of Selena Gomez's dress is unnecessary, and something about it seems unfinished. Maybe she should steam it. When I was a teenager, I didn't know what a steamer was.


Wouldn't Teen Choice Awards make a good band name? Joy Lauren's ensemble is more in line with how "edgy" teenagers dress, but still, it's an awards ceremony. You can wear the tank top and vest on the weekend. The chunky jewelry is kind of meh, skirt is slightly-too-long.


Shailene Woodley's outfit looks so comfortable. What is it? Is it a dress, a jumpsuit? It's all so free-spirited and evocative.


Lauren Conrad's "MTV beach party 1998" look.


Three tiers for Miley Cyrus. She could go clubbing in this, though I doubt that's her thing.


Kim Kardashian's frock is an upsetting imitation of every princess ball gown in every Disney fairytale cartoon.


If I could go back and do it all over again, I'd dress for high school in an old, colorful scarf, throw a belt around it and hope that a sleek cocktail dress would somehow manifest itself before homeroom. Then I look at Fergie's frock and forget my dreams.

The Ugly


Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. Phoebe Price scorches the red carpet for the billionth time.

rag trade

Signs of the Apocalypse from the New York Times and Britain's Golden Thread Facelift; Madonna, Leather and Lace Are Eternal

[note: there is very little fashion news published on a Sunday in August]

• Luke Wilson co-designs Chrome line of golf fashion for Puma. On the subject of persona style, he tells the LA Times, "I don't dry clean my clothes, and I live alone. Oh, boy! This has taken a depressing turn." [LA Times]
• Lauren Conrad fumbles at her fashion show. "There's this." [TMZ]
  
• Couture fashions for the apocalypse. [NYT Sunday Magazine]
• "For those old enough to remember leather and lace from last time around (or the time before that), it's time to welcome them back," writes Clare Dwyer Hogg. Unless you are Stevie Nicks, in which case they never left. [Independent]
• More commentary on the fashion at the Olympics opening ceremonies. [WSJ]
• Notes on Madonna. "The Madonna thing came with clear directives: Express yourself, be yourself, winner take all." [WaPo]
  
• Rockmount is the last domestic manufacturer of ranch wear. Clark Gable, Bob Dylan, Elvis, and Heath Ledger have all worn their shirts, and apparently, the company was the first to use snap buttons. A true style arbiter! [AP]
• The gold thread facelift. Four yards of 24-carat mesh thread are sewn underneath the patient's skin. "It has to be worth all the money because it has done wonders for my confidence," said Jan Caswell. It has to be. Wow, this sounds awful. [Daily Mail]
• An archived "Put It On" column from the late Sassy magazine. [Blair Mag]
  

emotional rescue

The voice of the September issue of Elle is a little unstable. It's a convention of women's magazines for writers and interview subjects to breezily expose their vulnerability in order to connect with their readers, but as some of articles in the September issue demonstrate, it's hard to be nonchalant when you're still grappling with the issue you're addressing. Here are some awkward admissions from articles about insomnia, depression, shopping, infidelity, and modeling.

From the end of Dr. Good Sleep, on curing insomnia by Rachael Combe: "Why is it that we can never accept that our problems are run-of-the-mill? Why do we resist commonsense advice and instead turn to drugs and complicated programs? Actually, forget 'we': Why do I do this? Am I a narcissist? A drama queen? A moron?"

From Eat, Pray, Love, on supermodel-turned-yogi, Cameron Alborzian (the dude from Madonna's "Express Yourself" video) who stayed in depressive journalist Holly Millea's home to teach her a healthier lifestyle: "As we tuck into our respective beds, I'm wide awake with the unusualness of having a man spend the night. A stranger no less. I mean, just because Cameron's beautiful and Keralasmatic doesn't mean he not be... dangerous! Ooh, wouldn't it be great if he were?... Then again, he could be Lifetime movie-dangerous, in which case my lifetime would be in danger. But I'd get to have sex before I died. I should put on some music."

From Alexandra Marshall's Cinderella Man, on men who enjoy buying expensive clothing for their girlfriends: "The following day, still suspicious of my own motives (and his, a bit), but also well aware that I Wanted Stuff, Dammit, I rationalized thusly: In addition to starting conservatively, I'm going to start small, and make the whole experience as much about him as it is about me. Lingerie felt like the right option, possibly because I was still feeling slightly prostitutional and wanted to know if I could live with it."

Danger Man by Phillip Nobel is an essay on the writer, who left his wife of ten years for his 22-year-old research assistant, and things only go downhill from there. "The son of a shrink and a psychiatric social worker, I'd never considered therapy. I got hooked on astrology instead. It was hard to even admit to my parents I was depressed, after I'd at least admitted it to myself." "Cue divorce, Judge Jeffrey S. Sunshine presiding, a grinding $50,000 New York State special hinging on the nation of 'emotional adultery.' Cue lavish, self-destructive Lower East Side nights, occasional bliss, and everyday despair. I started writing a very angry blog."

Meghan Deem's Walk the Line, on entering Miami's fashion week: "I grew up desperately wishing I could be a model because it would have confirmed something I didn't believe: that I was pretty. My life took another path, but--I'm ashamed to admit--I'm pushing 34 and still craved that external validation. Luckily for me and my therapist, I have a chance to participate in what will be my version of Fantasy Baseball Camp: The Miami Style Showcase, part of the city's annual fashion week, in which I get to walk with real models. Fierce!"

I love it when people mention their astrological dependency, it makes them seem so real. Let's be honest, it sounds like a cry for help!

It's counterproductive to make crazy, self-deprecating comments about prostitution, narcissism and doubt, among other things, in pieces that are supposed to be about growth. As feminist critic Laura Kipnis has noted in Slate, in keeping with our twelve-step culture, the format that these articles usually take is loosely one of problem, recovery, and testimonial. The personal anecdote is meant to provide a glimpse of self-reflection. It sets up the "aha!" moment of the story. Taken together, these five articles seems to suggest that volunteering more uncomfortable information, regardless of placement in the piece, has replaced actual understanding. The former is lazy thinking and not funny. The difficulty in writing personal essays (as opposed to say, blogging) is that it requires the author to have command over his or her material, which includes what he or she knows and has learned in the process of the assignment. Disclosing more embarrassing information emphasizes the rift between self-knowledge and whatever it is he or she has yet to figure out--which is usually obvious--and weakens the arc of the story. Holly Millea probably hasn't gained much insight from having a model-turned-yogi stay at her house. This is especially sad, since she begins the piece describing what an intense recluse she is and her inability to write grocery lists.

It's a scary, time-honored hallmark of fashion magazines to prey upon their readers and writers' insecurities as products of ephemeral value. If the September Elle is any indicator, this fall, we'll all be in our artisanal Prada lace, mercilessly self-conscious yet unaware, prone to complicated programs, destructive nights out, and maybe starting angry blogs. The lesson here seems to be that we might as well invest our intelligence in someone else's patient handiwork, when figuring ourselves out is harder to do.

Dr. Good Sleep [Elle]
other articles available off-line only.