March 2003

March 31st 2003
New York City

I love jet-lag.  Its 7AM on a Monday morning and I am already in the office getting things accomplished.  Waking up early is not my fort, so I try to take advantage of my body clocks confusion for as long as I can make it last.  Im sure by Friday Ill be lucky to crawl in by 10AM.

I flew Virgin Airlines back from London and it was quite an experience.  If youve ever flown Virgin you know it is basically a hipster nightclub with wings, where every airline steward has a fashion mullet haircut and ever stewardess wears two different earrings.  The animated safety video is a take-off on South Park and the music and film choices are the best youll find in the sky.  Due to all of this hipness, Virgin Airways passengers tend to be unruly Art School Grads who think trans-Atlantic flights are just another excuse to drink (ie: this is Courtney Loves airline of choice).  Because the owners of Virgin are well aware of their clienteles love for boozing, they make announcements throughout the flight (like once every 15 minutes) that say, Under Federal Aviation Regulations it is illegal to be intoxicated or unruly on an airplane.  Anyone displaying drunken behavior will be fined and duly punished upon arrival at our final destination.  Despite these announcements, everyone within a 20 seat radius of me proceeded to get sloshed (except me, see March 26), and mid-way through the flight I realized I was trapped at a party in the sky from which I could not escape.   Someone actually put the 8 Mile soundtrack on their mini speakers and blasted our section while everyone waved their hands and sang along with Eminem.  By the time we landed strangers were exchanging phone numbers and making plans to meet up at nightclubs later that evening.  A tip for the owners of Virigin: You may want to water down the booze.

March 28th 2003
London, UK

As I was boarding my flight from Florence to London, who did I run into but the Queen of Punk Rock and my former boss, Vivienne Westwood!  I hadnt seen Viv in a few years, so it was fab to run into her by chance and she was nice enough to give me an earful of wisdom about running a fashion company.  My favorite piece of advice, which I will gladly share with you all, was this:  Holly, you know, its very hard to fund a shoe company in the early stages.  I actually know a shoe designer named ------ (she said his name, but I wont here, and he is VERY famous), who funded the first 10 years of his business selling Ecstasy before it became illegal.  I highly recommend you find something like that, you know, just to keep you afloat.  Vivienne Westwood rules.  The woman is a grandmother and is recommending that I sell Ecstasy, or something like that to fund HOLLYWOULD.  Long live the Queen!

The good news is that thanks to the beautiful and elegant Blaine Trump, we wont need to resort to selling Ecstasy to fund HOLLYWOULD after all.  Rumor from New York has it that Blaine was shopping at HOLLYWOULD again this week.  We dont know who tipped her off to our existence, but we are so glad shes become a regular chez nous! 

March 26th 2003
Florence, Italy

My precious Mom has just informed me that she is distraught over my diary entries.  She thinks Im making myself sound like a crazy drunk and wonders how any boy who would read this would ever know youre just a sweet girl.  She also thinks I should write things that have more substance and maybe offer some hope for the world.  Moms are the best.  Mom, first of all, no boys read this.  Second, I really wouldnt want to read a diary of cooking recipes and sewing tips, and I doubt my HOLLYWOULD gals do either.  As far as offering hope to the world, well, um, thats a pretty big goal to accomplish in a diary.  If any of my readers are looking for hope, feel free to drop me an email and Ill dish it out on a case-by-case basis.  And as far as the drunken part goes, Mom, you are right:  After my bender in Milan I have decided to give up booze for Lent, which means not a drop of liquor until Good Friday.  Or is it Easter Sunday?  I think Good Friday is Lent enough.  Mom, I hope this helps

March 23rd 2003
Milan, Italy

Ive said it before and this is the last time: Booze = Poison.  If you dont believe its true, just ask Erin who spent last night babysitting a very drunk Me until the break of dawn.  I dont want to go into too many details (because most of them are unclear), but at some point in the evening we met up with our friend from London, who I will refer to as The Instigator and from there it was all downhill.  According to Erin, The Instigator fed me vodka and Red Bull drinks until I could barely stand up.  We ended up at a very classy nightclub appropriately called, HOLLYWOOD, where I showed my HOLLYWOULD business card at the door in order to avoid the $20 entrance fee.  It worked!  Once inside I proceeded to fall down the stairs, terrorize the DJ, bust way too many moves on the dance floor, and eventually pass out in a booth by the speakers.  Erin said that every time she would nudge me to wake up I would jump to my feet and start dancing like a maniac, only to pass out again shortly thereafter.  I made all sorts of friends I dont remember, many of whom have since sent emails and/or phone calls.  The one good thing I do remember from the evening, however, was my invention of a new term which I hope to make famous worldwide: The HOLLYWOULD Shuffle. 

The HOLLYWOULD Shuffle is what happens when a very pretty girl, for instance, is wearing 4 HOLLYWOULD heels and kind of trips as she is walking but then quickly recovers.  The HOLLYWOULD Shuffle most often occurs when you are walking down a crowded street as if you're Naomi Campbell on the runway, you make eye contact with a cute boy, you smile flirtatiously, and then you oops, hit a crack in the pavement, slightly twists ankle, almost fall but then quickly recover, brush hair out of face, carry on walking, and shoot the same boy a look that says, I know you want me.  Weve all done it before, but now it finally has a name: The HOLLYWOULD Shuffle.

March 20th 2003
Milan, Italy

Erin from my New York office is in Milan with me for a big shoe show.  If you remember Erin from our trip to LA (see Jan 18) youll know that whenever she and I end up taking business trips together we find a way to do a lot less work than play. Well, since Erin arrived a day early and it happened to be nice and sunny, we decided to drive up to Lake Como to find Donatellas mansion.  We imagined it would be covered in gold and glitter surrounded by a wall of hedges cut in shapes that spelled V-E-R-S-A-C-E, but despite our searching, we never managed to find it.  We did, however, find a delicious little restaurant called Il Gatto Nero, which is a must-eat for anyone going to Como.

Its hard to imagine that after a beautiful day like yesterday; today would be the first day of the war.  All of Italy is covered in rainbow stripe PACE (peace) flags but there doesnt seem to be an anti-American sentiment at all.  It would be hard for Italians to hate Americans because they would then have to deny their undying love for George Clooney, Jennifer Lopez, and Bruce Willis, who are far more popular in this country than even The Pope.   If only we had filled Iraq and Afghanistan with our Hollywood TV shows sooner, none of this fighting ever would have happened.  No amount of religious zeal could have convinced a young Taliban fighter who had grown up watching American TV to attack the nation that brought him Night Rider and Magnum PI.  Iraq would be so quick to surrender if they could only see one episode of Cribs.  Hmmmmits a good thing Im not in charge.

March 17th 2003
Florence, Italy

Happy St. Patricks Day!  If you havent been by the HOLLYWOULD store this month it is definitely worth a visit as our windows are littered with beer bottles and glittery plastic shamrocks in order to commemorate this fine day.  Its one of the classier window displays weve had, and Ive heard Manolo Blahnik wants to copy it for his March windows next year.  Just kiddin Mr. Blahnik.

Speaking of the HOLLYWOULD store, I called to check in on Saturday and we were swamped with customers clamoring for our new range of limited edition ballet shoes.  Weve just received a new shipment in 12 delicious colors and apparently they are flying out the door.  Attention Editors, Stylists, Socialites, Starlets, Mom, Sisters, and Cousins:  If I have, at any point, promised to set aside a pair of ballets in your size, please know that I didnt.  I cant be trusted to do these types of things with my here today, gone tomorrow lifestyle, so youll need to call the store ASAP to have them send you the ballet you want in your size.  Unfortunately the limited edition colors arent pictured on the site, but our store manager can walk you through them to help you pick your pair.  Good luck!

And last but not least, I would like to wish my baby sister Molly a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY!  (Yes, she is named Molly, and I am Holly, and I actually have another sister named Lily, and at one point we even had a dog named Lolly so between Molly, Holly, Lily, and Lolly our house was like an insane asylum.)  Since the names Molly & Holly sound kind of dorky together, Molly and I have taken to introducing ourselves to strangers as Venus & Serena, Mary Kate & Ashley, or most recently Tia & Tamara (of Sister Sister fame).  Molly turns 21 today which is a big birthday as she will finally be able to taste alcohol for the very first time.  Ahem.  And Moll Doll, when I see you in April We gonna party like its your birthday.

March 14th 2003
Milan, Italy

Girls, I am in love.  I never thought Id fall for an Italian but it has happened.  Its really true love and he is divine.  His name is Guido (give him a break, its Italy) and he has dark hair and big dark eyes and is handsome as can be.  Hes exceedingly bright and talkative, especially for his age, which is only 6 months old.  Guido belongs to my best friend in Italy, Jasmine, who is also known as Contessa Jasmine Serrurier-Sforni (Ive known the girl for ages and she just accidentally informed me that shes a real live Countess, which is the only way I am referring to her from now on, much to her dismay).  Anyway, I had barely arrived to Florence from Paris when I decided to Eurostar up to Milan for Countess Jasmines 30th birthday party.  Jas is an amazing painter and lives in the center of Milan with her husband Bruno and their two gorgeous kids, Viola & Guido.  I decided to surprise her for her birthday and because I live a free-wheeling, swingin single life I forgot that a surprise houseguest isnt quite the same when youve got kids, husbands, nannies, etc.  Nevertheless, the birthday party was a hit (Im posting the pictures on the sight as soon as I learn how) and I have vowed to make up for my impromptu arrival by babysitting Guido & Viola on the sailboat all summer and promise not to put sunscreen in their hair (its a long story).  Happy Birthday Jas!

March 9th 2003
Paris, France

I love Paris in the springtime, especially when it's fashion week.  Friday night began with a late dinner at Hotel Costes with all of my lovely editor girl friends from NYC.  It's much more fun being with New Yorkers in Paris than in New York, and the nine of us had a blast discussing every chic, intellectual topic you'd expect including The Bachelorette.  By the time we finally left at 1AM, our waiter has very happy to see us go.  From the Costes we headed to the new club Le Suite, for a party thrown by Celine's Michael Kors.  The party was a sweaty mob scene of people wearing Celine and as I pushed my way to the bar I was poignantly reminded of the fact that anti-perspirant is still illegal in France.  Deodorant is fine, but it doesn't quite do the trick.  From Le Suite all of my partners in crime decided to head to bed because, after all, they were here to work, not play.  Having had a few too many sips of champagne I decided that all work and no play was a bad idea, and headed off to the next club, Cabaret. 

Luckily, upon stumbling out of my taxi at the front of Cabaret I ran into all of my old pals from my days at Christian Lacroix who were there to dance the night away.  This is where the story gets good.  My friends from Lacroix work in the Haute Couture division, which as you may or may not know, is the crme de la crme of fashion.  Haute Couture customers are mostly royalty and/or insanely loaded, and an Haute Couture gown can easily cost as much as a Ferrari.  Well, they were there to meet one of their biggest customers, a Prince of Saudi Arabia.  When I heard this I was excited as I imagined the Prince would arrive on a camel wearing a white tunic with lots of wives and an entourage of belly dancers.  Wrong.  It was so much better than that.  Our Prince arrived wearing an outfit that can only be described as a cross between Diana Ross and Ashanti.  I actually think it was a re-worked Balenciaga.  Oh Nicolas.  Yes, the Prince isn't only the buyer, he is the wearer, and the lines between Prince and Princess are somewhat of a blur.  His entourage consisted of very, very badly dressed Arab discoteque managers and a couple of body guards, which he needs as his Muslim people don't exactly encourage the gay lifestyle, let alone dressing in drag.  My favorite moment of the night (and maybe of my life) occurred on the dance floor as he sang I'm still Jenny from the block while watching himself dance in the mirror.

Geez, and that was just Friday.  Saturday began with an all too early phone call and a series of top secret, hung-over business meetings (my real reason for the trip to Paris) which you won't find out about until September.  Very exciting.  Coming to Paris during fashion week and not attending a show is a crime, so on Saturday night I headed out to the Alexander McQueen show which I will give the following review:  Magnificent.  Amazing.  Genius.  Wearable.  To-Die-For.  I have a soft spot for McQueen as one of my best friends Jenne works there and I've gotten to know him and his fantastic crew as a result.  I usually stay up all night before the show helping them sew, but this season I somehow managed to get out of it, though I have to say I missed it greatly.  My personal love for the whole McQueen gang aside, I would have to say that he is one of my favorite designers in the world.  The best investment a girl can make is a McQueen dress, and I've got a couple of pieces in my closet to prove it. He is the smart girl's answer to sexy.

After the show and dinner we headed to the McQueen after-party at Maxims, which was packed with all the usual fashionistas, from Kate Moss to Isabella Blow.  I ended up spending the evening entranced by none other than my Secret Crush who happened to be in Paris for the week as well.  If you read this diary you know that my Secret Crush is officially supposed to be my Former Secret Crush (see Feb 28), and I was hoping he would say or do something that would make it easier for me to dislike him, but every move he made had the opposite effect.  Oh la la.  However, since he's never even given a hint of material evidence (ie: flowers, phone calls, dinner dates, diamonds, furs, etc.) that my crush is reciprocated, I will need to go to drastic measures to erase him from my brain.  A week in Ibiza is the only answer. 

March 7th 2003
Florence, Italy

Arrived at the factory today only to be told (by my 70 year old Italian pattern-maker) that my new haircut isn't very flattering.  I don't like it either, so lay off.  For those of you who aren't clued in to my hair trauma over the last few months, here is the scoop:  Last October I made the fatal mistake of telling my hairdresser I wanted my hair Gwen Stefani white.  Not a good idea.  In the process of trying to make my shoulder length, sandy brown hair white, he managed to burn it all off leaving me with 3 inches of what looked like baby bunny fur.  The next day I had to appear on Good Morning America wearing a scarf on my head and looking like a gypsy fortune-teller.  Ever since that horrible day in October, I have had non-stop hair problems due to the fact that My Hair = Dead.  My new hairdresser has been working on finding a non-mullet solution, but even he has admitted that, Honey, you just aren't going to have cute hair again until June.  Long story short: his latest attempt is a haircut that makes me look like a cross between a high school gym teacher, southern news anchor, and mid-western soccer mom.  Not good.

March 4th 2003
New York City

Mena Suvari has just left the HOLLYWOULD store.  Let me tell you something about Mena: she is drop-dead gorgeous.  Usually celebrities look better in pictures, but Mena in the flesh is prettier than you could ever imagine.  For one thing, she is tallish.  Not tall, but I thought she may be a hobbit and shes not.  Her hair and skin are perfection, and she is as nice and smart as they come.  We love these kinds of girls!  She is in town for the premiere of her new movie Spun, which also stars genius boys Jason Schwartzman & John Leguizamo.  Cant wait to see it.  Watch out for her wearing HOLLYWOULDs to the premiere of her film, as well as her appearances this week on David Letterman, Conan OBrien, etc, etc, etc.  Oh the life of a star.  I think shell be pairing the shoes with some of fabulous hand-sewn dresses by M.R.S., which we love.  Go Mena!

In other news, weve been getting all sorts of email asking, 'Who writes Hollys Diary?'.  Doesnt the title 'Hollys Diary' say it all?  I guess weve got some skeptics who think that this diary must be written by a PR firm, ghost writer, etc. and cannot fathom that it could really, actually, in fact, be written by me, Holly.  Anyone who knows me personally knows that I write the diary, but the rest of you all seem to have doubts.  Just look at my horrible grammar, spelling, and over-use-of-the-dash (I love dashes).  We would fire someone who wrote like this.  One person even wondered, 'How could Holly write the diary when she is in Italy?', which I will answer with two simple words: modern technology. 

I'm off to Florence tomorrow and then to Paris and then to Milan and then to London, and thanks to the recent advent of portable laptops and a new thing called the internet, I will indeed be sending you updates.  Ciao ciao.