I knew immediately that Jean-Paul Gaultier‘s spring 2012 couture collection was a tribute to Amy because I did the math. Behive + eyeliner+”Marilyn” stud = Amy Winehouse.

What a wonderful feast of crazy hives and mish-mash of retro vampy girly excess!

It makes me happy to know that Amy’s influence will live on. Her swagger and her vulnerability, her beautiful voice, her tiny little body supporting all that hair…she will haunt me forever. This collection is an  homage that’s right on point, as Amy liked to say of her beehive.

Lindsey Wixson is especially adorable in her purple hive and I can’t get  enough  of her.

Check out the beauty details here.

Also, did everyone see the new Karl Lagerfeld stuff at net-a porter this morning?   Horrible, right? What is he thinking?!   Please let me know if any other runway shows are worth looking at. Right now, I only have eyes for Amy.

Oh god, what a fucking travesty. I’ll try to break it down for you.

A large group of untalented people “sang” awful songs for an enthusiastic audience of vacuous industry types.

Lady Gaga pretended to be The Fonz and wouldn’t stop. She made you long for the meat dress. Britney Spears won an Achievement Award and thanked her little boys. Kanye and Jay-Z butchered an Otis Redding song by rapping over it, and Justin Bieber thanked both god AND Jesus.   Is Justin confused, or am I? Isn’t Jesus their Lord or what?

Adele offered a moment of true artistry and elegance. She was totally out of place.

Chris Brown danced around in a white suit and then flew around in one of those harness things. He was no Pink, let me tell you. At least  he didn’t punch anyone in the face, or not during the show, to my knowledge.

Beyonce performed an uninspired pop song, her hair blowing in a wind machine, and revealed her pregnancy by patting her small tummy.

Katy Perry won an award that belonged to Adele.  Some guy called Something the Creator won an award, and a guy called Pitbull presented a mystery as to his ethnicity and popularity.

Russell Brand introduced a tribute to Amy Winehouse, striking a sour note by calling her an addict and an alcoholic. What a fucking cunt . I can’t hate him enough. He made things worse by asserting pompously: “There IS a solution.” No, you cunt, there is no solution to addiction except to not start doing drugs in the first place.   Rest in peace my darling Amy, Max, and everyone else who could not be helped by 12 steps or 12,000 steps.

Tony Bennett was poignantly humble in his admiration for Amy’s genius. and played part of the video he made with her.

Bruno Mars horrified me by singing “Valerie,” but in the end he made me cry by singing directly to Amy. God bless him with his retro pompadour and his great horn section!

Lil’ Wayne came out and rapped about how angry he was. Every third word was bleeped out but one “Fucking” escaped in the last verse, in which I think he compared himself to John Lennon. He took his shirt off and ran around like a crazed monkey. I’m sure he’s a very nice person in real life.

That’s all I remember. Let me know if I missed anything important.

An article in the New York Times offers an affectionate tribute to Amy Winhouse’s style, giving her credit for creating a unique look based on several Bad-Girl templates.

The article reminded me of how many girls still try to imitate Bettie Page. There are millions of clones out there with dyed black bangs and deep red lipstick, all going for the same trampy   rockabilly look. With all due respect, it’s a look I’m really sick of.   I think it should be saved for Halloween or costume parties.

The article also led me to the work of Karlheinz Weinberger, a Swiss photographer whose pictures of sleazy hooligans and teenage delinquents made him famous among artists and intelligentsia. Looking at his work, I finally undertand the aesthetic that Gnarlitude Jen and her ilk are so infatuated with.

Biker  paraphernalia, big messy hair, tough sullen expressions, it’s all there in Weinberger’s old photos. It’s a look that I personally affected when I was around twelve years old, trying to copy the tough Mexican gang girls who represented rebellion. By fourteen, though, I was over it.

Today, the only way to be a style rebel would be to dress inconspicuously.

Still, I’m happy to remember Amy as an original force in style as well as music. Her mixture of   50s and 60s influences, punk, pin-up, tough, girlie, retro and rapper, added up to something fresh, defiant and  irresistible.

God bless her, and all bad girls everywhere.

Growing up in Los Angeles, I discoverer the magic of cholas at an early age. A chola promised to kick my ass in 7th grade, so I left school early and ran all the way home. She was mad because I’d been hanging out with her ex-boyfriend, a Mexican boy who wore a white t-shirt with khakis and a plaid Pendleton. What the hell was his name?? The main thing about him was that he was taboo.

Fashion changes but chola style is eternal. I’ve only just realized why Amy Winehouse struck suck a resonant chord for me:   She’s a Jewish chola, a hybrid I longed to be but couldn’t really pull off.

Thanks to youTube, everyone knows about cholas now and they are widely parodied. For me, they are too magnificent to make fun of. They are girls who want to kick your ass after school. They know how to use eye-liner and they look sexy in the most masculine get-up.

Mexican gangs go back several generations in Los Angeles, and have a nobility lacking in Crips and Bloods. Not that long ago, I was still planning to have my (imaginary) gang name tattooed on my bicep: “Lil’ Spiteful.” I went around asking my Hispanic friends to find out how to say ‘spiteful’ in Spanish. The closest I got was the word for ‘vengeful.’

Max grew up loving cholas, too. The first girl he ever brought home, when he was around 13, was a chola he met at Magic Mountain. She was 14 going on 25, with earrings the size of dinner plates.

His last girlfriend before the crazy one was the perfect chola, even though she was born in Israel. They met in rehab, and when he brought her home, she let me do her make-up.

It was easy to see what he loved about her. She’d been arrested fourteen times, and she could text a dirty joke at lightning speed.

All of his girlfriends were beauties. But beauty without brains was a deal-breaker for him. He always had friends who were women and he wasn’t afraid of intimacy.

God bless the Mighty Chola. Maybe I should get the tattoo after all?

Finally! For all of us who’ve been praying for Amy Winehouse to unload Blake Incarcerated, our prayers have been answered. Thank you, Lord, for saving our Amy from that rotten little scumbag, who now wants a divorce and half of her money.

I didn’t even know that Blake Incarcerated was back in jail after failing his drug test in December! What a horrible horrible shit that guy is. At least Pete Doherty is a musician, for Christ sake.

I blame Blake for everything. Poor Amy was under his spell, but now she’s learned that a nice clean hunky athlete is the way to go. According to the Daily Mail, which makes up its celebrity quotes, Amy even told a ‘reporter’ that Blake was “rubbish” in bed, “adding ‘Almost every time I slept with him it was like I was dead’.”

If only Blake could read, he’d be furious!!!

Now Amy can make another record, and her label can stop emailing me about all the extra special versions of Back to Black I can buy.

I love you, Amy! Don’t worry about that tattoo on your chest, you can have it removed. Keep up the eating and stay strong. As each day passes, you’re closer to realizing what self-esteem is.

And whatever happens, do NOT give that idiot your money, unless he promises to leave the planet and never come back.

*And also too, speaking of music, treat yourself to the genius of the Firstborn Wolf, whose song Omelette will make your day, or your money back!

I was amazed that Amy WInehouse actually made it to the concert for Nelson Mandela. Just days ago at death’s door, she looked like a little Q-tip under her giant hair. Not only did she wear that crazy Blake thing in her beehive, but during her wailing rendition of the old anthem “Free Nelson Mandela” she substituted the lyrics: “Free Blakey, my fella!”

Hahaha! Amy is nuts but godammit I love her. If only we could save her!

You can watch her performance here. Listen up at 5:25 for the shout out to Blake Incarcerated.

Now, this is hair! Do you love it or do you love it!

I believe these hair sculptures are the work of Nagi Noda. I hope Amy has seen these.

The Grammy Awards show was all about Amy Winehouse, but here’s what else happened.

Frank Sinatra, who won’t stay dead, talked about the awards and then joined Alicia Keyes in a duet. Alicia looked gorgeous, even though her hairdo was crazy. That Rihanna girl pranced around with Morris Day and his band, who were probably too old for anyone to remember them except for  their buddy Prince. Prince looked fabulous in a fitted red suit and dark sunglasses with diamante accents.

Some idiot introduced Tina Turner as the Queen of Soul. Girl! Everyone knows that’s Aretha’s title. Anyway, Tina looked a little scary in a silver lame jumpsuit but she still knew how to move. Beyonce joined her,   wearing a silver mini that highlighted her enormous legs. Her shorter blonde hair and new face were not enough to erase the My Pretty Pony effect.

I think John Mayer came out and accompanied someone on guitar, although I may be thinking of the David Letterman show. All you can think about when John Mayer appears is “Eeoow!” anyway.

Kanye sang his big hit and I know I wasn’t alone in thinking, what about your Mama? Sure enough, he had the word MAMA carved into his hair. I asked my teenager if he would do the same for me, were I to die before he accepted his Grammy award. He argued over some technicalities but I believe we have a deal.

Tom Hanks gave some award to the Beatles. Paul couldn’t be there, because he can’t just give Heather the money and call it a day. The always excruciating Cirque du Soleil performed a creepy routine to Day in the Life. If only that girl had fallen off the rope! Heather could have helped out with a new leg.

Aretha sang, accompanied by a gospel choir, a mountainous vision in a sea green dress. Be as fat as you want, Aretha, you are the Queen.

Two guys sang an aria or something, and the Foo Fighters had lank, greasy hair. Finally, the live by satellite performance by Amy Winehouse, in London. Amy looked gorgeous but very nervous. She rushed through two songs, screwing up a few times and wiggling her hips in obvious terror. Her desperation to prove herself was touching, just like her shock at winning the award. She sent out her thanks to “My Blake, incarcerated” and hugged her tiny haggard Mum.

Then the Album of the Year was mistakenly given to Herbie Hancock, who played the race card as he accepted the honor that rightly belonged to My Amy, not in rehab.