Leslie Smith: Freelance Writer

Perhaps it was just an irrational fear, like my phobias about snakes and high places. All my life I have avoided Los Angeles because I couldn't see the point of an ordinary woman purposely visiting a city where every waitress, shopgirl and passerby on the street is reputed to be prettier, thinner and younger. Why speed up the depressingly inevitable decline into sexual obscurity, I reasoned, by rushing headlong to the one place in the world where beautiful people are so abundant they comprise their own voting block?

But all fear -- irrational or not -- needs to be confronted. And so I decided to see if I could cut the mustard among L.A.'s self-styled elite.

Arrival

My dark green Ford Mustang convertible is the perfect L.A.-type vehicle. Cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, I find the scenery amazingly unspectacular: lots of low-level shops mixed in with white-washed bungalows and palm trees. But as my car passes the You Are Now Entering Beverly Hills sign, I notice a sudden change for the better. Spiky grass and masses of flowers line the roadside. And the windows of the buildings are fitted with a more elegant brand of anti-theft bars.

I check into the truly elegant Four Seasons Beverly Hills Hotel and check out their Windows Lounge. It is packed with cell phone-toting women all wearing the same low-cut black Lycra dresses and cell phone-toting men attired either in dark business suits and ties, or khaki pants, running shoes and baseball caps.

Everyone looks like they are in deep discussion over impending movie deals, although they could just be discussing whether to order the Russian Beluga caviar en brioche or the calamari arrabiata with the saffron aioli drizzle. I intentionally eavesdrop: They are indeed discussing movie deals. I feel I have really arrived...

Photography: M. Parmelee/Tony Stone

On a recent CBC Nature of Things program, a scientist interviewed by David Suzuki half-jokingly referred to dogs as "parasites."

"Everyday," he explained, "I go to work and leave the dog by the fireplace, all cosy and warm. I go out to earn the money to pay for all the dog food and the vet bills. Who do you think is getting the benefit from this relationship?"

Having been the human host to a doggie freeloader for nearly nine years now, I have to admit that he has a point. But there is more to the canine connection than this man avows, much more. I believe that dogs were put on this earth by a beneficent God (whose very name spelled backwards...) to teach us a few home truths. Not necessarily deep philosophy -- we were given cats for that -- but simple, everyday maxims designed to ease our way through life.

Waste not, want not is a prime example. Before owning a dog, recycling was just a word. I could look on with equanimity while friends scraped the remains of a dinner plate into the trash can, and tossed their leftover plastic bags on top. Now I lunge for their offending hands, removing precious pieces of beef fat and bundles of bags. Like a triumphant Roman back from barbaric shores, I proudly bear these pillaged trophies home before me.

Another canine club motto is always save for a rainy day. For instance, dirty, chewed-over bits of rawhide can be buried under Mommy's cherished rose bushes for future excavation, and stolen Christmas cake (as I learned over the past holiday season) can be safely stored under sofa cushions for days. Although my pet's methods of stockpiling do tend to be rather messy, I can't really fault his foresight. If I had any money to spare after settling my monthly dog expenses, I too would want to put a little something aside.

As you perhaps can tell already, much of a dog's existence revolves around eating. Further gastronomic maxims gleaned over the years include: forbidden foods are the most delicious (cat poo, frozen sticks and sidewalk pizza crusts for him; doughnuts, butter tarts and whipped cream caffe lattes for me); and never neglect to give thanks for your daily meal. It is truly amazing the amount of gratitude that a handful of kibble and half-can of processed chicken parts can engender in a dog. I do not think I would be so appreciative were the positions reversed.

From my pet I have also acquired a healthy scorn for material possessions, something the world's religions have been trying to teach me for years. Dog owners and parents of small children will concur that it is possible to have a neat house, spiffy clothes and a clean car, but not on the same cosmic plane as their little darlings, whose awesome destructive powers would shame even a force four hurricane.

I part ways with religious fundamentalists, however, who preach that there is such a thing as unnatural sex. No one who has ever owned a dog, particularly an alpha male, would ever fall for this line. Until his fateful trip to the vet's office, my Roscoe's attitude was identical to that old Crosby, Stills and Nash song about loving the one you're with: other male dogs, gentlemen callers' legs, hell even table legs, were all fair game. Just think of how much mental anguish our society could have avoided if only Jerry Falwell lived with a Labrador or Lhasa Apso.

Occasionally, my dog has taught me a few things that I'd rather not know: like the fact that persistent whining really does pay off; or that looking cute will get you just about everything you want out of life.

At other times I'm not so sure about the lesson being imparted. Are his constant run-ins with porcupines up at the family cottage a case of if at first you don't succeed, try, try again, or merely Forrest Gump's oft-stated precept that stupid is as stupid does?

There is one rule, though, that has been drilled into me so often that I am unlikely to ever forget it: Routine is good, but variety is the spice of life. Yes, a regular exercise regimen, plenty of daily social interaction, rest and a balanced diet are all vital components to healthy living. But sometimes you just have to shake things up a bit.

Sudden dashes across a busy city street, losing oneself for hours while hunting in a ravine, or ingesting a half-pound box of Belgian chocolates necessitating a midnight car trip to a prohibitively expensive emergency pet clinic -- these are the little particulars that add piquance to the otherwise clockwork mundanity of day-to-day existence.

All these truths and more I have learned from my dog. But beyond doubt, his most basic axiom is this: Squirrels remain our most treasured natural resource.

FASHION POLICE

Wednesday, 1:37 PM. The name's Joe Thursday. Ever since Monday, after receiving a hot tip last Friday, my partner Al Jones and I have been staking out the underside of table 13 at Chez Lucky Pierre. Some sloppily dressed businessmen had been spotted power-lunching in the vicinity. We're detectives, working out of the Accessories Unit of Two Division, Metropolitan Fashion Police.

"Say Joe, how much do you think they charge for an omelette in a place like this?"
"I dunno. Maybe twelve, fifteen bucks."
"As much as that?"
"Maybe."
"Huh."
"Shhh, somebody's coming."
"Joe -- look at that!"
"I am looking, and I don't like what I see. Judging by the scuffmarks on this guy's shoes, he could be one tough customer. Let's move."
"Wha...Who are you people? What were you doing hiding under my table?"
"Fashion police, sir. My name's Thursday, this is Detective Jones. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Certainly, I've done nothing to be ashamed of."
"Then why are you surreptitiously trying to polish the top of your shoe against the leg of your pants?"
"I -- I'm doing nothing of the sort. It's just a little nervous gesture I have sometimes."
"Uh-huh."
"Look, who do you people think you are, barging in here, interrupting me at lunch? I'll have you know I'm an important man in this town, with plenty of connections. I could have your jobs for this."
"Well until then, mister, why not let us do our jobs? You're under arrest for violating Section 195-A of the sartorial code -- severe shoe abuse."
"Joe, look out!"
"Okay, mister, just keep your hands on the table where I can see them."
"I wasn't doing anything! I was just reaching down to scratch my leg..."
"He's lying, Joe. Take a gander at his socks."
"Droopy mid-calf socks with a suit! When will you business punks ever learn? All right, Al, cuff him."

The case you have just read about is real. The names have been changed to protect the ignorant. Don't let fashion crime catch you unaware. Here are the facts about proper footwear management -- just the facts:

DANDY WEAR (Excerpt)

YOU SAY CAPRI AND I SAY KARATE

Designers and the fashion press alike are in complete agreement about the fact that casual trouser hems for both men and women have moved up to the calf. From New York to Milan, Paris to Toronto, no Spring runway was left untrammelled by these abridged breeches.

What they cannot seem to settle on is a name. Among the many titular choices already aired are: clam diggers, pedal pushers, waders, crops, three-quarter lengths, high waters, capris, Gilligans, floods, toreadors, judo, kick, karate, sailors and skate pants.

Fashion insiders seem just as divided on the impetus behind this abrupt rise in trouser futures. Some cite urban couriers, who have a habit of rolling their pant legs to keep them from getting caught in the bike chain. Others claim it is an offshoot of skateboarding style. Still others credit a renewed interest in the Asian martial arts. Then there are those who hold that after several seasons of rolled cuff jeans, it is only natural other casual pants try to raise the stakes.

Whatever the reason and whatever you end up calling them, one thing about these pared pants remains perfectly clear. Only people with great-looking gams, shanks, limbs, trotters and stems need apply.

SLEEVELESS IN SEATTLE

The sleeveless muscle shirt, aka. the shooter shirt in basketball circles, is a strong men's silhouette this season. Neil Barrett is plain bullish on muscle Ts, while other designers have chosen to re-interpret this straight-from-the-shoulder style. Lanvin favours sleeveless V-front woven shirts, Dries van Noten a boatnecked knit vest, Prada has sleeveless hooded jackets, and Richard Edwards the white cotton 'flak vest.'

But far and away the best farewell to arms comes from fashion's latest bright light, Hedi Slimane, who is at present busily regalvanizing the Paris-based Yves St. Laurent line. In addition to peaked lapel vests meant to be worn simply over bare skin, the designer has proposed sleeveless dress shirts worn with ties and open armhole leather trenchcoats.

There is a showman's element of shock value here, and certainly no one is suggesting these looks would be acceptable in most offices on casual days. Yet it should be acknowledged that this represents deconstruction at its most sensible, and just might be indicative of a whole new wardrobe direction.

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME PURR

Strange to think that modern feminism was born in the 1970s, and now designers are harking back to that era in order to help modern women celebrate their femininity.

Bid goodbye, therefore, to the past decade's stark utility and unisex styling. And welcome instead clinging jersey dresses set with small ruffles and asymmetrical handkerchief hems. Give a hearty hello to halter tops, hip-huggers, and up-to-there hot pants. And while you're at it, embrace flesh-coloured fabrics, spaghetti-strapped high-heels and knits with peekaboo key-hole cut-outs.

Revel in the new feminine fashions. Just don't let the nagging doubt that you are somehow letting your sisters down sneak in through the side door.

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