Texan Adrift: A Preppy/Hipster SmackDown

This past Sunday the Style Network launched a new show with the mind-blowingly creative title BIG RICH TEXAS. In honor of this sure-to-be innovative, riveting addition to the reality TV landscape I decided why not make this next post about style differences that yours truly has observed between Los Angeles and Texas. Yes, I know L.A. is a city and Texas is a whole, big giant state, but I’m not trying to win a science fair or land a fellowship at NASA. Let’s just leave logic and rationality at the door. Let’s talk about shoes.

I’ve admitted to some serious fashion disasters of my own (my glittery elephant hat, my Peter Pan ensemble I thought was so cute senior year of high school). I’ve also worn moccasins, a flowery muumuu, socks with platform shoes, pigtails, and a tan beret with a rainbow patch on it. Not all at the same time, so at least I have that going for me. Hearing about BIG RICH TEXAS got me thinking about the way people dress when I go home (usually to Houston or DFW) and when I’m, well, home – in Los Angeles. Keep in mind my eyeballs may not have seen all the way to your neighborhood in Brentwood or River Oaks or Montrose or West Hollywood. I’m just a girl, looking at people, and judging them on their appearance. So here goes…

Since we’re being judgmental and superficial let’s divide people into two categories: Preppies and Hipsters. This makes things simple and easy and clean. I’m pretty sure nerds dress in a universally similar way from Denmark to Delaware to Dubai, and Emo is just too boring to discuss, so Preppies and Hipsters it is. We’ll see what the Big Rich Texas ladies wear on the Style Network soon enough, but I’m pretty sure they’ll lean towards the Preppy side, unless there’s a rebellious teen daughter in the mix, slouching around at debutante balls wearing a torn vintage shift and a big Zooey Deschanel bow in her hair. I personally think no woman over the age of, say, eight, should wear a bow in her hair unless she’s playing Baby Jane Hudson in a revival of the classic film “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” – the one where Bette Davis (in her sixties and dressed in bows and frills) feeds her crippled sister Blanche aka Joan Crawford a parakeet. It really is a classic, and it’ll give you bow-in-the-hair PTSD for sure. But moving along…

“The main difference between L.A. Hipsters and Austin Hipsters is that Austin Hipsters can kick your ass …”

Let’s start with L.A. vs Texas Preppies. In L.A., Preppy basically consists of: jeans, flats (a type of shoe that makes all 5’2” of me shudder in horror), an obscenely expensive “basic” T-shirt, a glossy ponytail courtesy of the Brazilian Blowout, and scant makeup. In Texas, that Brazilian Blowout will no doubt be topped with very blonde highlights, the hair will be possibly a little bit more poufed out, the flats will probably be silver or gold metallic, and the shirt a little dressier – I don’t see many women walking around Houston in James Perse T-shirts – and the makeup will be worn with pride. Texas women want a little more flair since no doubt their mamas chased them around the house growing up telling them to “put on more blush and lipstick and show more cleavage!” Now these outfits may not sound all THAT opposite, but the major difference is that in L.A. a woman would waltz into Nobu wearing the jeans/James Perse/flats ensemble with the confidence of Angelina Jolie (and she may actually BE Angelina Jolie). A Preppy Texas woman would most certainly not waltz into Nobu like that. She’d “fix her face,” put on heels, lose the jeans, and make sure her earrings were really freaking big.

Let’s move on to Hipsters – my favorite, since they really are such an easy target. So easy to ridicule and scoff at in their summertime scarves and wintertime mesh tank tops. It always makes me smile with gleeful derision when I see pale, sun-hating Boy Hipsters wearing wool 1980s “Cosby Show”-esque sweaters and skinny jeans, sweating and complaining about the heat in August. I just wanna tell them to throw on some clam diggers and a fluorescent Boyz II Men tank top and embrace the season. In certain areas of Los Angeles (Silverlake and Los Feliz) hipsters lurk on every corner and in every crevice like sad, Urban Outfitters-clad Gremlins who were fed after midnight. To be honest the fashion differences between Texas and L.A. Hipsters aren’t all THAT crazy, at least in my experience. Groupthink in motion I guess.

Back in May I had some beers in Austin at Liberty on East 6th. As I people watched in the backyard by the Korean food truck, I was struck by a deep, deep thought that I’ll share with you now: The main difference between L.A. Hipsters and Austin Hipsters is that Austin Hipsters can kick your ass (guys and girls) and they all seem to have pet pit bulls with spiked collars. They may sport clam diggers, mesh tops and tats and follow a diet so vegan Gwyneth Paltrow would approve, but they’re no pansies. L.A. Hipsters, on the other hand, probably eat real hot dogs with a side of kale, own a pug, and consider the chain on their wallet the most dangerous weapon they possess. And the Girl Hipsters like bows and scowls.

Like I said, I’m just a girl, looking at people and judging them on their appearance. Maybe your experience of these fashion stereotypes differs from my own and if so please sound off! Maybe you’re offended by my blatant pigeonholing tactics – I’m cool with that. I’m sure when BIG RICH TEXAS premiers on the Style Network no stereotyping will be happening at all. It’s REALity TV… right?

Dina Gachman
Twitter @TheElf26
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/BureaucracyForBreakfast?sk=wall

Texan Adrift: All Riled Up

There’s a dude I follow on Twitter who shall remain nameless. He’s Canadian, and he’s a comedian, which is kind of like saying he’s an infant and he drinks milk. Dime a dozen. Anyhow, usually his short little bursts are laugh-out-loud hilarious, but the other week he blurted – or Tweeted, if we have to use the lingo – something that got me all riled up. Here it is:

“Friday Night Lights would be more realistic if everyone who wasn’t playing football were morbidly obese.”

I’m sure a lot of people giggled and shook their heads in a “jeez this guy really knows how to Tweet” kind of way when this little sentence popped up on their feed. I’m also pretty sure a lot of those giggling head shakers weren’t Texans. Now, I’m not a PC kind of girl and I’m all for making jokes at an entire populations’ expense at times, but you have to have boundaries in life people. Sure, throw a rock at a rundown truck stop in central Texas and chances are it’ll bounce off of a morbidly obese person who’s shoveling chicken fried steak and fried okra (YUM) into their pie hole without them ever knowing a boulder just ricocheted off their fat rolls, but I don’t remember being surrounded by total fatties growing up. And sure, one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings was “never trust a skinny cook,” but she was by no means a pudgeball. She was too busy running around a kitchen and feeding people jalapeno poppers to have time to get fat.

My reaction to this Canadian funnyman’s stereotyping of my home state got me wondering about the whole notion of Texas pride, which is a phenomenon you don’t really see in many other states. And yes, the whole “Don’t Mess With Texas” saying is from an anti-littering campaign (surprise, outsiders!), but it stuck. People in Boston seem intensely proud of their sports teams, but you don’t really catch them wandering around saying, “don’t talk smack about Massachusetts, man, it’s the best state, like, ever,” and Manhattanites rabidly love their city, but the whole state? Most people on the Upper West Side can barely stomach the thought of Brooklyn, let alone a pig farm three hours away from their brownstone.

I admit my own Texas pride didn’t rear its head until I moved away at eighteen, which I realize might disqualify me in some people’s minds but there it is. In high school I couldn’t wait to get away from a place that subjected us to the song “Cotton Eyed Joe” at every school dance from K-12, but once I moved to California I found myself defending Texas’ honor like I was in the Knights Templar. I suddenly developed the opinion that anyone who didn’t say “y’all” was a total dimwit to waste unnecessary energy and syllables on “you guys” or “you all.” I also remember learning phrases that felt really “California” to me such as: “I’m gonna flip a bitch,” instead of “I’m fixin’ to make a U-turn,” or “let’s smoke out,” instead of “let’s smoke a joint.” It was a brave new world, and I wore my Texas pride as only an expat can. I didn’t want to move back, but I didn’t want to let the world talk smack about my home either.

Sure, there’s always some truth in stereotypes, as the cliché goes. Things ARE bigger in Texas. Ice tea generally comes in cups the size of a canoe, and food servings for one would be considered enough to satisfy an entire, ravenous pool party in the Hollywood Hills. I’ll admit a girl in my high school had a Confederate-themed debutante ball, which I wasn’t invited to (please, no alligator tears for lil ole me), but I remember being totally shocked that no one else really seemed… shocked. I’ll also admit the house directly across from my parents’ place in Houston has a big old Confederate flag waving in the yard. When I first saw it last summer as we pulled into the driveway, I reverted to my high school, liberal (and some might say “annoying”) self and ranted about how awful that was and what were they thinking?! My dad explained, “Well honey, they just moved here from Iran and your mom and I decided maybe they accidentally think it’s the state flag or something. We’re thinking maybe we should write them a letter and let them know. Put it in their mailbox.”

For a few days we debated whether they should actually slip an anonymous note into the Confederate Iranians’ mailbox, but then decided against it. And so the flag still waves. And, no, that flag isn’t alone. There are others – on cars, on T-shirts, on hats, on coffee mugs, and inked on skin. Besides the Confederate flags flapping around, there are other stereotypes I’ll admit to. We went to the Stock Show and Rodeo every year when we were kids, wearing cowgirl hats, boots, and bolo ties. We rode horses. A lot. We ate Frito pie and honeybuns and Black eyed peas on New Years Day. Girls rode the bus to junior high with pink sponge curlers in their hair. My best friend had a life-sized cardboard cutout of George Straight standing in her bedroom. Football ruled my high school and there were more Bush-Cheney posters in yards than there were posters for the other guys. I’ve eaten an Armadillo egg and know that it’s not actually an Armadillo egg. So, there you go.

Sure there are probably more fat rolls in Lubbock than there are in Beverly Hills. And no, I don’t see many Confederate flags flying in Santa Monica – though if you venture twenty miles in any direction outside Los Angeles or San Francisco I bet you’ll see a few (and not just in the yards of misguided Iranian immigrants). But saying everyone in Texas except the football players are morbidly obese really riles me up. Only some people are morbidly obese. Plus you gotta admit – chicken fried steak tastes a hell of a lot better than tofu.

Dina Gachman
Twitter @TheElf26
http://bureaucracyforbreakfast.tumblr.com/

 

Texan Adrift – Absence of Wildness

“There seems to be an absence of wildness, you know? Even in the people.”

This is one of my all time favorite descriptions of Texas. Actually, it’s a description of Des Moines, Iowa, as compared to Texas, in “Terms of Endearment.” The daughter character is explaining to the dude she’s having an affair with the difference between Texas and Iowa. The book that the movie is based on was written by that most awesome of Texas writers, Sir Larry McMurtry. I added the “Sir” before his name because I’m pretty sure he’s never been knighted by the Queen, and though I’ve never spoken a word to him, I’m pretty sure being knighted by the Queen isn’t an event he clamors for on a daily basis. In any case, he’s one of our greatest living writers and damnit I think he deserves to be called “Sir.”

An absence of wildness. It’s pretty true, in my experience. This line pierces me every time I hear it. The other places I’ve drifted to and called my home – Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York… Los Angeles again – just don’t have that sense of wildness. Don’t get me wrong I’ve partied until dawn in L.A. and danced in after-hours tranny clubs in Belgium, but that’s not what I’m talking about. That kind of wildness is fun, but it’s different. It’s like a special occasion thing. In Texas the wildness is “in the people,” like she says in “Terms of Endearment.” I guarantee even the most well-mannered Southern deb has her Girls Gone Wild side. My sisters and I aren’t Southern debs, but we were raised never, EVER to say the word “fart” (even writing that word mortifies me to this day) and never to be a “trash mouth,” but don’t be surprised if you sometimes find us cussing and drinking like cowboys after a cattle drive. But in a cute way.

Weirdly enough, the place I’ve drifted that felt closest to Texas and closest to the wildness I’m talking about was Tokyo, Japan. All those stereotypes of obedient, polite people who never misbehave? Lies! Being at a rooftop beer garden in Tokyo felt a lot like being at a beer garden in Texas: fun, loud, red, sweaty people swilling beers and not giving a damn. I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying, but I bet it wasn’t too different than the, “I love you man!” and “Woohoo cheers!” shouts you’d hear at a dive bar in Denton. And I’m pretty sure in both places, not many people were bitching about their agent or using the phrase, “I’ll have my assistant put something on the books.” I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure.

I admit I tend to idealize Texas, which is easy to do when distance and time come into play. Like a long-lost first love, you remember the times you kissed in the rain beneath a willow tree instead of the times you fought about who bought the last round of toilet paper. And to be honest the rainy willow tree kiss might not have even happened! You could have kissed on a busy sidewalk on a cold, overcast day beneath a 7-11 awning with pigeon shit all over it and car alarms for love songs. But looking back you’ve sprinkled fairy dust all over the moment and Ta-Da! Willow trees and rainbows.

The longer I live away, the more I sprinkle fairy dust all over Texas. In high school, I thought meat-eating Republicans were the devil. My dad was the exception of course. He could do no wrong. Except when he mimicked some guy’s Indian accent at the Dairy Queen drive thru, causing us all to sink deep into our seats (this wasn’t malicious, just… mortifying), or suddenly developed a vague Chinese inflection at Hunan Emperor. Now I realize it takes all kinds, and I think vegans who can’t tolerate any opinion but their own are a wee bit Beelzebub-y.

That’s one of the reasons I got tired of San Francisco, gorgeous as it is. Everyone agrees with each other! Everyone is liberal and conscientious and knows their way around a compost heap and good for them but… yawn. I’d rather have coffee with Bill O’Reilly and Ann Coulter (scary as that would be) than cocktails with Gwyneth Paltrow and Julia Butterfly Hill (lovely as I’m sure they are, living in trees and eating kale salad from the garden). At least with O’Reilly and that Satanic Barbie Coulter I could get some juicy material out of the experience and get good and heated and angry. So I guess what I’m saying is that I fled Texas at eighteen because I craved “diversity” and inspiration, but what I’ve found is that doesn’t necessarily mean what I once thought it did. Still, I do have to agree with Sir Larry McMurtry about Texas (and the South) as compared to everywhere else. There is an absence of wildness. Even in the people.

Dina Gachman
Twitter @TheElf26

http://bureaucracyforbreakfast.tumblr.com/

on Kickstarter: http://kck.st/i0i228

Texan Adrift: Star Sightings

Growing up in Fort Worth and Houston, the closest we ever got to actual star sightings were the disco era photos of actors hanging on the wall at Benihana’s. Telly Savalas and his bald noggin always seemed to be a staple, along with mustachioed stars like Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck and poufy haired women from long-cancelled shows like Dallas and Falcon Crest. Seeing their glossy, signed 8x10s on the wall wasn’t exactly heart stopping for a pre-teen girl like me who longed to spot Johnny Depp or Keanu Reeves in the flesh, maybe casually eating a hot dog at James Coney Island or something. Then again, the idea of seeing famous people in the street wasn’t even part of my universe as a kid growing up in Texas. Those famous people literally were as far away and untouchable as stars.

Moving to Los Angeles at eighteen changed all that. You could spot Winona Ryder shopping at Urban Outfitters, then turn a corner and witness Jack Nicholson in dark glasses saddled up to a Santa Monica bar. For my mother – a lover of all things Hollywood – Los Angeles was the star-sighting promise land. For me, walking down the street next to her, it was the ultimate form of teenage humiliation. When my parents came to visit, I braced myself for the inevitable freak out my mom would have upon seeing Teri Garr or Billy Crystal buying a sandwich or feeding a parking meter. At that point in life I was still under the impression that acting aloof and apathetic about famous people meant that I was super cool, so whenever my mom spazzed out over a celeb I shrunk into something resembling a mortified fetal position. Metaphorically of course. I didn’t actually curl up on Sunset Boulevard in the fetal position when my mom yelled “OH MY GOD THAT’S BILLY CRYSTAL!” when she was two feet away from Billy Crystal. Though if I did, no one would have worried. Except my parents.

My mom has a few star sighting memories that I’m pretty sure only ever existed in her imagination. Like the time she swears Alec Baldwin hit on me because I had on my black Doc Martens and “those darling little jean shorts.” I really have no memory of this, yet she brings it up all the time. “He just stared at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his,” she’s fond of saying. If this actually happened, maybe I blocked it out because if Alec Baldwin was flirty with an eighteen-year-old girl that’s actually pretty gross. Who knows, though. I’m leaning toward the “my mom hallucinated this star sighting” thesis on this one.

Then there was the time my mom got all giddy when she spotted former big-time studio head Sherry Lansing out and about in L.A. Seriously, my mom freaked out. I didn’t know who Sherry Lansing was at that time, yet my mom recognized her. How the hell my mom (who loves movies but who eats meals at Pappadeaux on Westheimer rather than at Spago in Beverly Hills) knew what Sherry Lansing looked like remains a mystery.

I’ve been by my mom’s side as she’s not-so-subtly grabbed my arm and whisper-screamed the names of nearby stars like Tom Cruise, Brittany Murphy, Nicole Kidman, and Nick Nolte. I have to admit I got a little giddy once, when she pointed out Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft eating together, not long before Bancroft passed away. I swooned a little (very subtly of course) and felt a nagging urge to walk up to them and hug them, but I refrained. Looking back, I probably should have.

Recently my humiliation and fear of god forbid letting a super famous mega star know I recognize them in public is waning. Am I turning into my mom? Maybe. But I don’t freak out when I see people like Jake Gyllenhaal at a bar or Gwen Stefani in her Maserati for some reason. I pounced on the singer Jenny Lewis once a few months ago. I think she was shocked I knew who the hell she was – and also shocked that she was standing with super hottie Jake G when I spazzed out on her and not him, declaring, “I love your music!” I couldn’t help myself. I also couldn’t help myself in the yogurt section of Whole Foods last year when I accosted Todd Field. Don’t know who that is? He’s a director. Again I just got star-sighting Tourette’s and before I knew it my fist pounded the air between us and I whisper-yelled, “I freaking love Little Children!” Don’t know what Little Children is? It’s a movie. Anyhow I startled him too, but I couldn’t help myself. He was very sweet though.

Pretty much the only celebrity that could make me lose my cool at this point would be Larry David. I fantasized about seeing him in the streets of Los Angeles, but my reverie was always tainted by the realization that if I did actually see him, I would probably leap through the air and tackle him and then get Tasered and arrested. My fear was tested a few months back when none other than Larry David sauntered down the street right by me. I froze. He walked funny so it was undeniably him. I turned around, primed like a bull at the gate, ready to let him know how awesome he was. But I couldn’t do it. I turned and kept walking in the other direction, pretending this star sighting was as exciting to me as a trip to the DMV. Living in Los Angeles you quickly learn these stars really are just normal people. Sort of. Until Larry David passes you by and you pretend not to care.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dina Gachman is a Texan Adrift

Dina Gachman
Twitter @TheElf26
http://bureaucracyforbreakfast.tumblr.com/