bespoke
Relearning how to be your best self, w/help from the master cleanse, fashion designer friends and....Steve Coogan.
Apropos of nothing, my father said ’There are many painful moments in life’. Like a lot of things with my dad, it didn’t come with an explanation. It’s possible he was referring to his present situation; a bedridden old man in a nursing home, but it felt more like a warning to me about my own future. To balance the mood, I said there were magical moments in life, too. He lifted his eyes and uncrossed his fingers. I knew that response. It was him saying ‘you’ll see’. Despite the circumstances, my father was upbeat about some aspects of my life. He absolutely loved my fiancé, Maya. I swear he lived an extra six months because of her. When I visited him, the first thing he’d say was ‘is Maya with you?’ Maya was happy that he perked up in her presence, but couldn’t understand why. I told her he still had a pulse, however weak.
“What does that mean?”
“I guess he finds you attractive, just like me.”
“He’s bedridden.”
“He’s still appreciative. You’re a sunny presence in his day.” We were going to move up the date of our wedding, but my father didn’t want us to rush it on his behalf. He said it was important to enjoy being engaged; it was the real beginning of the honeymoon. This romantic advice was funny coming from him. After dating my mom for three weeks he asked her ‘how’s January?’ She replied ‘for what?’ not realizing that was his no-nonsense wedding proposal.
I was thinking about my father as I was boarding a plane at Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris. It’s been ten years since he passed away. I now understood what he meant about painful moments. Three months earlier Maya and I left New York City to move to Paris. She received a job offer as an art director at a major fashion house. She fell in love with Paris during a semester abroad in college and always wanted to return. Her dream job would have been working for her favorite designer, Dries Van Noten, who was based in Antwerp, Belgium. Paris was a lot closer to Antwerp than New York; the new job was a big step in the right direction. I’d made many of my own dreams come true during my years as a producer in New York. Now, it was time to support her. I would be her homme de la maison. Friends had been urging me to write a memoir of my experiences as a record producer. Paris might give me the distance I needed to make a start.
We chose to live in Belleville, in the 20th. It was far enough from the center to be affordable, but still an easy commute. It helped that the first apartment we saw had parquet floors, crown molding and floor-to-ceiling French doors that opened onto tiny balconies. In the first week we bounced around the kitchen, like kids, exclaiming ‘We live in Paris! We live in Paris!’. When we met people in the neighborhood they would say “Belleville is zee new Brooklyn!” That was the last thing I wanted to hear, but what can you do? The expat thing looks wonderful from a distance, but you quickly realize you’re still you, just in a different country. I set up lunch meetings with all my music industry contacts; guys at the major labels and the Nu French Kiss dance music people. They all welcomed me, picked up the tab for lunch and said ‘bonne chance’ at the end. I had the feeling I would never see any of them again. I’d lost my status as a useful New Yorker. The one exception was Francis. He was the manager of the late great Fela Kuti and the still living Rachid Taha. I got to know Francis ten years earlier, when I produced a Fela-themed project. A native of Marseille; he was equal parts friendly and crazy. Conversations with him always felt like arguments. It was hard not to love the guy.
After days of staring at a blank Word doc, I realized I wasn’t ready to write about my life experiences; I wanted to keep living them. Also, writing is hard. Everything I wrote sounded like ‘I did this, then this and then this..’. Since Maya was working late and eating dinner at the office, I started dropping by Francis’. He lived on a péniche, a converted coal barge, on the Seine, near Jardin de Plantes. Every night musicians and friends gathered there to cook, play music and smoke hash. The vibes were fantastic; I talked to everyone about everything. Maya calls this side of me Chatty Monster. I can’t help myself; my nervous energy needs an outlet. It’s fun talking to people, even if you don’t speak the same language. Francis mentioned the possibility of me producing some tracks for Rachid. I couldn’t believe it. I was on the verge of having magical moments in Paris. At the curved kitchen counter, Rachid showed me how to slice garlic with a razor blade. The translucent slices would melt into the olive oil as we sauteed chanterelle mushrooms. I felt like I was being initiated into the real techniques of French cuisine. He smiled at me and said ‘good Fela’. It was so cool that he was also a fan of Fela Kuti’s. I responded with ‘Fela’s great!’ and he would repeat ‘No good Fela’ pointing at the garlic. He was saying Goodfellas; as in the movie. He learned to slice garlic with a razor from the scene where the mobsters are cooking in jail. I felt stupid for missing an American cultural reference. Instead of letting the moment pass, I said ‘Gangsta garlic!’ which I immediately regretted.
Maya got concerned when I kept coming home later than her; reeking of garlic and hash. I told her I was meeting people and networking; it was how business happened in Paris, etc. I felt like I was finding my niche at the péniche. In truth, the talk of producing tracks was just that; talk. A few years back, as a favor to Francis, I drove Rachid’s tour van from NYC to a gig in Boston and then to the Canadian border. Rachid nicknamed me Van Gogh. I thought it was because of my reddish hair and passing resemblance to Vincent. What he actually meant, in his limited English, was Van Go; as in drive the van, Bro. Francis suggesting me as a producer was insulting to Rachid, because he saw me as a van driver. It’s possible Francis was using me to manipulate Rachid into working with some other producer. Who knows? A few days later, Rachid left for London to record his next album. Francis started exiting the parties early to put his young son to bed. I was now hanging out with the hangers-on; the people who had no talent but loved to party. This guy Hugo kept telling me about getting his nostrils waxed. One night, I slipped, smashed my forehead on a railing and almost fell into the Seine. I wasn’t that wasted; I’m nearsighted and need glasses. Maya saw it differently. She told me if I wanted to be Chatty Party Monster every night I had to leave. Not just the apartment, but Paris, too. She didn’t care where I went. She was working her ass off to support us. If I couldn’t walk straight, I needed to sort myself out. When I woke up in the morning Maya had already left for work. She didn’t leave a note.
I had a video production job coming up for a benefit concert at the Barclay Center in Brooklyn. I decided to leave a week early for it. I’d already finished editing the videos and uploaded them to Dropbox. I emailed them to the video tech, the guy who handles playback during the show. I threw some clothes in a bag, mostly t-shirts and underwear. The last thing I put in my bag was a bespoke button-down shirt Maya made for me. She designed, cut and sewed it on my father’s kitchen table on the weekend of my 35th birthday. Since I’m vain and delusional I asked her to make the shirt really fit my body. The problem is, I’ve gained weight; it hasn’t fit me for a while. This shirt represented Maya’s loving thoughtfulness and how she always wants me to shine. The fact that I’d gotten too bloated to wear it now was a sign of how much I was letting her down. I decided to lose weight until the shirt fit me again.
At the airport ticket counter, I realized I didn’t want to spend a week sitting in the bowels of the Barclay Center. I didn’t need to be on-site for pre-production or even the concert; the video tech does everything. My client was a pretty cool classic rock star; 30 years sober. If I said I was going into rehab, he would be understanding. Of course, I wasn’t going to rehab, but it was an easy out. I decided to go to Los Angeles. This was when I was certain I was entering a painful moment in my life. I don’t dislike LA; it’s that I had to text someone I really didn’t want to text and ask him if I could stay in his cabana. Todd Donatello and I met after college in New York. We started a band together. Ganges Donut was a riff on our nicknames. He called me Ganja, instead of my last name (Gannon) for obvious reasons. Ganges sounded better than Ganja; we didn’t want people to think we were a dopey jam band. I always called him Donut. He was a great front man, even if his need to be the center of everything tested my patience. He kicked me out of the band for what he claimed were my ‘downer’ vibes. I tried to explain that being constructive (you’re singing out of tune) was not the same as being negative (your singing sucks). He wasn’t interested. I was relieved. Our friendship couldn’t take the stress of collaboration.
Todd moved to Portland (the original new Brooklyn!) and released three acclaimed freak-folk records. I took it as a compliment that he auto-tuned all his vocals. People said it was cheesy. When Bon Iver used the same auto-tune effect Todd was considered a visionary. I guess he was. By the third album he realized there was little to no money to be made in selling music. He became a CBD entrepreneur, moved to LA and made millions when he sold his company. He and his family mostly live in Ojai now, but he still has his place in Santa Monica. I know all this because he’s an extremely online person. Promoting himself and his healthy lifestyle might be his greatest talent. I was hoping he would see my outreach as the cry for help it was. I was also hoping we wouldn’t actually hang out together. I know that sounds fucked up, but I hated myself and wasn’t in the mood for sharing with Mr. Wellness. The main difference between Todd and I was that he always puts himself first. I am more comfortable, as a person or a a producer, in putting an artist or a client first. It’s my nature. It might be a Catholic thing, but Todd’s Catholic, too. Maybe it was an Italian vs. Irish thing. Todd learned a lot from Stallone. Irish people don’t have a Rocky. It was painful to realize I might have something to learn from Todd’s approach to life, but it was true. It was time to produce a better version of myself.
He texted back to say it was ‘totally epic I was visiting LA on the DL’. He gave me instructions of where to find the keys to his cabana and also his Venmo, saying he would give me the ‘Bro’ rate. Venmo? Shit, I would never charge him to stay at my place. I guess there’s no free lunch among Bros these days. I replied ‘Awesome, thanks, Brofus!’ At least I would get free lemons. There was an old lemon tree in the yard between Todd’s house and the back cabana. Lemons were on my mind because I decided to do the Master Cleanse, a juice fast created in the 1940s by this guy named Stanley. It’s a great way to detox and rebalance your body. I had done it a few times before I met Maya. She never let me do it again because she was afraid I would die, which was ridiculous. Okay, fasting and drinking nothing but lemonade for two weeks is a little extreme, but I’m an extreme person.
I arrived at the cabana and discovered it was more of a storage area, than a tidy Airbnb. There were boxes of Ganges Donut CDs and t-shirts stacked up everywhere. At least I could exit and enter via the back alleyway. I was worried Todd would show up and charge me for the lemons so I picked a shit load of them and stuffed them in my backpack. I walked to Ralph’s to buy maple syrup and cayenne pepper. That was all I would need to make lemonade for the cleanse. On the way back I walked by the Universal Music Group building on Colorado Ave. I thought about the people I knew who worked there, but decided against reaching out to them. People in LA have this trick where they ask you how long you’ll be in town. You say ‘I’m flying out on the evening of the 25th’. They all reply ‘great, let’s have breakfast on the 25th’. You get excited and wonder if you should reserve a huge booth at the Polo Lounge to accommodate everyone. Their assistants call on the 24th to reschedule, knowing full well it’s impossible because you’re flying out the next day. The irony is that if you do get a meeting it’ll be amazing, but go absolutely nowhere. So, fuck them all. The only person I wanted to meet was myself.
It was 10pm in LA and 7am in Paris. My heart was still on Paris time. I decided to go out for a very long walk. First, I had to do the saltwater flush. Drinking a gallon of warm saltwater is the least pleasant part of the cleanse. You have to stay home after you chug it because in 30 minutes a raging brown ocean comes blasting out of your butt; there’s no holding it back. I choked the water down, waited awhile and then did the thing. I made a lemonade mixture, put it in my backpack and started walking up Santa Monica Blvd. I decided to walk to The Chateau Marmont. It’s not a chateau, but an old school Hollywood hotel. I stayed there in 1995 during the MTV Video Music Awards. My first music production wasn’t nominated for anything, but the label thought it would be a good networking opportunity. I was clueless about networking, so I went to the hotel pool and sat on a lounge chair. The fashion designer Marc Jacobs appeared. We kind of knew each other in New York. His studio was across Spring Street from my office. We had been introduced by mutual friends. Soho was like that, back then. Marc came over and gave me a hug. A minute later, Evan Dando, of The Lemonheads, came bouncing down the pool path and introduced himself. We sat around talking and comparing our toenails. It was weird, but seemed perfectly normal at the time.
I was so caught up in reliving that moment that I almost walked by the actual hotel. It’s set back from Sunset Boulevard and the view of it was blocked by this stupid iPhone billboard. I stopped to rest. It was 2am and the air was frigid. No one tells you how cold LA can be at night. I was going to have to layer up with extra Donut Ganges t-shirts. Los Angeles was nice in the middle of the night; less people and no traffic. I thought I would be tripping over sleeping winos as I walked, but the real danger was these damn e-scooters that people leave parked everywhere. Since there are no good songs about e-scooters I sang Bran Van 3000’s “Drinking in LA” as I walked home. It’s a dopey white boy rapping Beck rip-off song but it’s got a great hook.
I fell into a nightly rhythm of walking to the Chateau and back (it took six hours, seven if I walked on Sunset the whole way). I did some yoga to wind down after the walk, then slept from 4am to noon. When I woke up I did 100 sit-ups and push-ups. This kind of disciplined regimen feels so good, but I rarely ever do it. I started to shed weight. Maya’s shirt was no longer straining against my belly. Despite deleting all my social media accounts on the plane, I started a new Insta account and only friended Maya. I wanted her to know I was doing okay, even if she didn’t want to know yet. I posted photos of my nightly walks. Instead of writing a caption I borrowed a few of Todd’s hashtags, like #healthychoices and #wellness. I wasn’t ready to use #epicliving or #crushingit. They worked for Todd, but I didn’t want Maya to think I’d lost my mind. In the afternoon I’d write in a notebook, while sitting under the lemon tree. A long rant about my scumbag first boss in the music business poured out of me. It felt good. If I was purging my body I might as well purge my mind, as well.
A paradox of Los Angeles is that the more you focus your energy inward, the more people take notice of you. I could have been delusional since I hadn’t pooped in a few days, but it seemed like women were staring at me as I walked to Ralph’s. They probably thought I was a TV actor or a health-conscious unhoused person. The Ganges Donut t-shirt over one of Todd’s long sleeve rash guards gave me a throwback hesher vibe. My pants were slipping off my butt, too. I found a surf leash to use as a belt. After a week I’d lost ten pounds and had boundless energy. My eyes seemed bluer, too, if that’s even possible. Maya’s shirt fit perfectly now. I got emotional whenever I tried it on. I have no idea if she’ll welcome me back. At least I’ve sorted myself out. That’s a start.
I felt ready to add a little more structure to my routine. I called Andrew, a friend in the hospitality industry and asked if he knew of any temp hotel jobs; cleaning pools or vacuuming hallways would be fine. He called back a few hours later and said the Chateau Marmont needed a short-term parking valet for the overnight shift. I couldn’t believe it. I called Andrew’s contact at the hotel and made an appointment for later that afternoon. In the interview they asked if I could start at midnight. I took the bus to the Beverly Center to buy a white short-sleeve shirt and black pants and went right back to the hotel. I was too excited to wait until midnight. Carlos explained how things worked and did all the parking and retrieving of cars while I manned the valet desk. A few recognizably famous people arrived and departed. Carlos gave everyone a warm smile and greeted them by name. If he didn’t know them he offered a polite ‘sir or ‘madam’. I did the same. It was intuitive work. I felt ambient; at one with the night.
By my third night I was allowed to park and retrieve cars. The Lamborghinis were so low to the ground it was like driving while in bed. Carlos said we were not allowed to adjust the driver’s seat position since it would inconvenience the guests. When the Lakers’ Rui Hachimura drove in, Carlos waved me off, thank God. Carlos, Raymundo and Baltazar treated me with the same respect they gave the guests. I was humbled to be a part of their crew. I wondered if I had a future in valet parking. As I was caught in this reverie, a guest approached the valet stand. It was Steve Coogan, the English actor and comedian. I couldn’t believe it; he was one of my favorites.
“Good evening, Mr. Coogan.”
“Coogan? I am Van Noten.”
“Dries Van Noten?” He nodded. Shit, I really have to get glasses. “My mistake, sorry Sir.” I took his valet ticket and ran into the garage to get his Range Rover. I pulled up, got out and held the door for him. “Have a good evening, Sir. My wife loves your designs.” He smiled and handed me a tenner. I stepped back and bowed, like an idiot. Dries Van Noten! When Maya heard he was retiring from fashion, she sent him a heartfelt letter and included blue cornflower seeds for his garden in Antwerp. She’d felt compelled to thank him for his years of beautiful designs. That’s how cool she is. She’ll be pissed I mixed him up with Steve Coogan. I saw Coogs once at the Whole Foods in the East Village. He had shoulder length hair and looked kind of daft, in a funny way. I was going to say hello, but he was studying all the oatmeal brands. It felt weird.
At the end of my shift, I walked down the hotel driveway to head home. I heard a car beep. It was Dries Van Noten. He pulled up, rolled down his window and said his friends at dinner couldn’t stop talking about the resemblance between him and Steve Coogan. I didn’t know what to say so I smiled. He asked me where I was heading.
“I’m walking home to Santa Monica.”
“It’s cold. I can give you a lift, if you’d like. I’d love to see the ocean as the sun rises.” He was so polite and friendly; all I could do was get in the car. He turned onto Sunset Boulevard and headed west. I thought about Maya waking up in Paris. I wished she was here or I was there. I had to bite my lip to hold back tears. Dries asked if I was okay. I didn’t want to burden him with my troubles, but he insisted. I started to tell him about Maya, our life in New York and then Paris. How she sent him a thank you letter with cornflowers. He smiled about that. Finally, I told him how I ended up in Los Angeles and what I was doing to turn things around. He listened intently and rubbed his chin. After I stopped talking we rode in silence until we arrived at the Pacific Coast Highway. Dries pulled into Lot 3 at the State Beach and parked at the edge of the sand. We walked to the water. Then, he circled around me. From behind he pinched my shirt seams on my shoulders, then smoothed them out. He walked around me again, rubbing his chin.
“I am going to invite Maya to my final fashion shows in Paris.”
“Seriously? She’ll be thrilled.”
“I want you to walk in the show. I want her to see you at your best.” I started crying. Blubbering, really. Hyperventilating, too. Dries patted my shoulder. He asked for Maya’s email and said Patrick would send her the invite. He told me not to put on any weight since I was barely the fit model size. I was going to ask him if I could wear Maya’s shirt but I didn’t want to push my luck. I offered to drive him back to the hotel, but he said he wanted to walk on the beach for a while. He said he loved Los Angeles at this hour. I told him I did, too.
A week later I was in Paris for Dries’ Fall 2024 Menswear show. All the clothes looked incredible. My suit fit me perfectly. He truly is a master. There was so much excitement and nervous energy in the backstage area. I was able to peek out to the audience and see Maya, looking gorgeous in the front row. I couldn’t wait to see her face as I strutted down the runway. Across the room I saw Dries with …. Steve Coogan!? Dries pointed towards me, said something to Steve, then Steve walked over.
“All right, mate?”
“Mr. Coogan! Hi…” We shook hands.
“Call me Steve. Dries said I needed to thank you. Ever since you pointed out the resemblance no one can unsee it. His people rang me up and asked me to walk in the show. It’s nice having a Belgian twin. Well done, you.” Before I could reply, he was pulled away to be interviewed. There was a call for all the models to line up. My heart was pounding as my moment neared. I tried to look sullen and pouty, like the other models, but I was overcome with emotion. When it was my turn, Dries gave my suit a final smoothing and me a big smile. I strode out into the lights, too happy to cry.
All Maya has ever wanted is for me to succeed. I didn’t expect my next success to be on a fashion runway, but when life gives you magical moments you have to embrace them. I don’t want to be an extreme person any more. Chatty Party Monster has been cleansed from my system. Normal life with Maya; giving her a hug, holding her hand and waking up next to her is a better high than any party. All I need is to be by her side. For me, that is #epicliving.
Great story!
This is a great story!