Il Primo Passo -for shoe addicts-: October 2008

Dear Rachel Zoe,

I was fortunate enough to finally catch your “reality program” last night and boy, now I know what I’ve been missing. Before I go on, I implore you to find your fabulous way over to Il Primo Passo, a boutique for shoe addicts. Not only do we offer an outstanding selection of new and up-and-coming designer and luxury footwear, but we have an array of items that you’ll only find here at 1624 Montana Ave (that’s in Santa Monica, 90403). Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk about you.

I was surprised by how quickly I was drawn into your world—and oh, how I loathe admitting it. This was, of course, the first episode I had ever seen. For weeks, I have been saying, “Have I seen The Rachel Zoe Project? No, sorry, I’ve never really cared for the Muppets.” (This is both true and false. I never really cared for the Muppet Show, but the Great Muppet Caper is an astonishing piece of cinematic mastery. Rent—or rather buy—this gem at your first available instant. I’ll wait while you go visit Amazon.)

Are you back? Okay, good. The point is, I didn’t want to give you (Rachel Zoe) a chance. I prejudged you—or rather, I was prejudiced against you. However, when this week’s promo ran and you were crying, I thought, now’s as good a time as any to start watching. Plus, my Tivo was already set to record The Real Black Housewives of Orange County, or whatever that new show is about rich black ladies who love nothing more than buying stuff and talking about how much money they have. God, please make me rich and black!

Anyway, Rachel, I finally got to watch your little show and it just filled me with so much emotional stress that I can see how you’ve given yourself an ulcer (although the doctor said you didn’t have one, you still kept telling people it was an ulcer – confusing, I know). Your slim, coffee-stained universe, though just feet from my own, is so different, so foreign … so full of racks of clothes you are “obsessed” with. I wonder how, with all the weight of the fashion world on your emaciated shoulders, you find the strength each morning to pile on your Cartier panthers, fur vests, and Jackie-O sunglasses, and how those little twigs of yours manage to carry such an enormous handbag.

Now, I’m not a psychiatrist, psychologist, or social worker. Nor do I have professional training of any sort. Think of me as a Dr. Phil-type, if you will. But darling Rachel, things have got to change. I am concerned when you use statements like, “My uncle won the Purple Heart medal.” It’s not a door prize; it’s a national honor. I worry when a quiet, 10-year anniversary dinner between you and your husband includes a Bravo camera crew. And it disturbs me that your support of “local” businesses is necessary because you believe designer boutiques are finally making their way out to this quaint village we call Los Angeles. Oh, and please fire Taylor, she really bugs.

On a more personal note, I feel so much closer to you now that I’ve witnessed your “coming undone”. Though it was my first time, as well as Brad’s, your ability to open yourself up so freely and bare your soul is a statement almost too transgressive for prime time cable television. Rachel, I beg you to keep a little bit of your light for yourself.

Stay sweet my darling angel.

Xoxo,

Brent