Scattershot: My Journey from the Projects to Paris to Rodeo Drive

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Scattershot

Copyright © 2024 Larry Chrysler

Cover design by Damonza

Interior design and formatting by Debra Cranfield Kennedy

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Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 979-8-88528-095-2 (hardcover)

ISBN-13: 979-8-88528-094-5 (paperback)

Author’s Note

E

I’ve always been recognized among my friends as someone who loves to talk. Whether it’s over dinner or any casual setting, if a particular topic sparks a memory from my past, I dive into a narrative filled with intricate details. Admittedly, there have been occasions where I’ve been sometimes less than gently nudged to wrap up my storytelling, as I tend to extend the tales. Fortunately, I possess a vivid memory that allows me to effortlessly recollect events, people, and the emotions woven into those moments, so it wasn’t long before the suggestion to document these stories in a book became a persistent refrain.

In 2007, I took the plunge into writing, penning down anecdotes about the myriad experiences and the fascinating individuals who colored my long and eventful life. Some of these encounters resulted in enduring friendships, while others remained fleeting acquaintances, leaving behind indelible imprints. As my words flowed onto the pages, I discovered moments that were humorous, titillating, and at times, deeply poignant. The process of crafting my first book became a cathartic journey, often accompanied by the shedding of a tear.

Within these pages, I share candidly the circumstances that shaped my world—moments that might evoke laughter, touch your heart, or even elicit a gasp of shock. This memoir is a collection of stories that reflect the tapestry of my life, a narrative that I hope inspires, resonates, and leaves you with an array of emotions.

Dedication

E

In fond memory of those dearly departed, who would probably be shaking their heads in disbelief that I, of all people, managed to string together more than two words and write this book.

You are the most famous person no one has ever heard of.

—Olivier Echaudemaison,

Former Creative Director Couleurs et Images Macquillage, Guerlain Paris

Mr. Chrysler, you are a living legend!

—Barney Pressman,

Founder of the store Barneys New York

"You open the refrigerator door, the light goes on,

and Larry talks for twenty minutes."

—Jack Hyde,

Former West Coast Editor, Menswear Magazine

Contents

E

PROLOGUE

Touched By Angels

ONE

Who Is Rod Stewart?

TWO

Sartorial Bloodlines

THREE

Changes

FOUR

New York, New York

FIVE

California, Here I Come

SIX

Love Can Be A Moment’s Madness

SEVEN

High Society

EIGHT

The Beginning Of Love

NINE

South Of The Border

TEN

Poor Little Rich Boy

ELEVEN

Misbehavin’

TWELVE

Chance In A Lifetime

THIRTEEN

It’s My Life

FOURTEEN

J’aime Paris

FIFTEEN

A Tragedy

SIXTEEN

Mike Bain (The Store)

SEVENTEEN

You Are A Living Legend

EIGHTEEN

Another Opening, Another Show

NINETEEN

Make Me An Offer

TWENTY

I’m No Angel

TWENTY-ONE

Those Who Make Magic

TWENTY-TWO

Movin’ On

TWENTY-THREE

Oh, Do It Again

TWENTY-FOUR

Changing My Way

TWENTY-FIVE

Past Life Therapy

TWENTY-SIX

Out Of The Blue

TWENTY-SEVEN

The Soviet Union

TWENTY-EIGHT

Art And Murders

TWENTY-NINE

A Paris Life

THIRTY

Welcome To My Paris

THIRTY-ONE

Looking For Love

THIRTY-TWO

Letting Go

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Touched By Angels

Do we realize life is predestined? Is it fate or kismet that guides us? I was sixteen when a stranger approached me on the street in downtown Minneapolis and told me she saw an angel on each of my shoulders. At the time, I thought she was some crazy lady and kept on walking. Yet ever since, I have navigated the turbulent rapids of life with something unknown guarding me.

I didn’t know it at the time; in fact, I didn’t take it seriously until after I moved to New York and then Los Angeles. Incredible opportunities and experiences kept happening regularly, and I understood that those angels weren’t a fluke, that they were there to guide and protect me. The memory of that encounter has remained with me and given me a way to understand the unexpected and profound events in my life that otherwise have no sufficient explanation.

Long before I realized a career in fashion was to be my destiny, when I was five years old, my kindergarten class was given an assignment to construct a grocery store made of cardboard. Each student had to bring from home an empty, clean food container, make a new paper label for it, and add it to a display on the shelves of our store. Once the shelves were fully stocked and our teacher, Miss Raleigh, had instructed us on the basics of operating a store, we took turns playing shopkeeper each day until everyone had gotten a chance to be in charge.

On the day I was to be the shopkeeper, a reporter and photographer from the Minneapolis Star Tribune were in our class to write a human-interest story about children learning the value of money at an early age. I posed behind the counter with my hair combed and neatly parted, smiling at the camera and pointing to my wares on the shelves. I loved getting all the attention I was getting and waiting on my fellow students; in fact, I may have loved it a bit too much.

The next day, when it was time for another student to be behind the counter, I refused to give up my position. I liked being there and I wasn’t moving. Unable to reason with me, my teacher telephoned my mother and explained the problem. Exasperated, the teacher handed me the phone. Gently, Mother said I’d had my day and now it was another classmate’s turn. I was to be a good boy and share it with the others.

I cried and reluctantly gave up my job, but it had already sparked the dream of owning a store, which I carried deep inside of me for years to come. Little did I realize at the time how the experience would foreshadow the life that lay before me.

To this day, I have never forgotten the glorious feeling of standing behind that counter. Even back then, I believe those angels the stranger had seen were by my side, leading me toward the person I was fated to be.

ONE

Who Is Rod Stewart?

It was April 1969 when I launched my first retail menswear store in Los Angeles. The shop was named after my friend and business partner at the time, Mike Bain, and the angels must have been watching over me, because our timing and location could not have been better.

The adjacent Sunset Strip was buzzing with hot shops and restaurants. Motown Records and Playboy opened offices directly across the street, giving us an instant and immediate fashion-conscious customer for our high-end, forward-thinking European clothing. In less than three months, the store became a popular hangout for customers—and celebrities—because of our casual and comfortable approach to fashion and shopping. They were just as eager to spend time in the store as they were to hang out at a trendy restaurant.

The first Christmas season was busier than we’d anticipated. Swamped by hordes of shoppers, we hired a young lady to wrap gifts on a card table set up in a corner of the store. The poor darling was so overwhelmed that when the legendary singer Diana Ross came in and saw her, she said, Move over, honey, and let me help. I know how to wrap gifts. At the end of the day, Diana asked to use the telephone behind the cashier’s desk and called her mother in Detroit.

Mama, Diana said, go next door and get Auntie. I am inviting both of you to my opening in Las Vegas.

That would be her first big Vegas concert. We knew better than to be starstruck, but even so, it never ceased to amaze me when celebrities visited our store and felt right at home.

The celebrity clientele loved coming by just to be there, to schmooze with their friends and know they wouldn’t be bothered by the other equally affluent or famous customers. Popular Las Vegas stars Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck often shopped together and teased one another about the way their new clothes fit.

Donald Sutherland was a size 42 long. He was going to be acting in a picture with Julie Christie in Italy and came in to ask me to design his wardrobe. Much of the film would be shot in Rome, and even though he would ultimately choose the Italian fabrics and sketch ideas I presented, the clothes would be made at Brioni Rome on the Via Condotti, where he could have his fittings done in person. His role was a schoolteacher whom I highly doubted could have afforded one piece of expensive Brioni clothing on a meager teacher’s salary. I wasn’t in the movie designer union, so I didn’t get screen credit, but it was exciting working with Donald.

Our customer relationships often became personal, and Donald Sutherland was a warm and approachable person. I once checked into a small boutique hotel in London. When Donald signed in after me and saw my name in the guest book, he called my room and invited me to dinner. I had to decline the invitation because I had previous plans. Stupid me.

The inimitable Motown singer Isaac Hayes was another lovely customer. With his first royalty check in hand, he excitedly asked me to cash it instead of going to a bank the next morning. I happily obliged! How often can you say you got to cash the check of a man who made the movie Shaft a household name with its incredible soundtrack?

On any given Saturday, there were so many beautiful people shopping and engaging us in lively conversation that I would go home after work exhilarated and overly satiated by the experience.

On one such Saturday, John Lennon and Yoko Ono walked in wearing white T-shirts and faded blue jeans. I did my best to keep cool, introducing myself and offering our best salesman, Philippe Auber, to assist. After a few minutes, John came up and asked if I would mind if he didn’t refold the sweaters after looking at them. Here was the great John Lennon asking me with the utmost sincerity when just the day before some mediocre TV actor had thrown merchandise all around after trying it on. Of course, we never heard of that TV actor after his one-season claim to fame.

John and Yoko had rented a house up the street behind the store and almost every day they came in to buy jeans and T-shirts. At the end of the summer, their houseman presented me with a signed photo of John, that said:

To Larry, With love and peace. John Lennon and Yoko Ono

1971. This photograph was autographed to me by Lennon and Yoko Ono.

Copyright unknown. From the author’s collection.

We did have our share of difficult customers and shoplifters just like any other store, but despite what most people would believe, the more important the star, the easier they were to interact with.

One Christmas, a well-known furniture store owner bought twenty-five gifts for each of her three sons. The day after Christmas I received an irate call from her. You ruined Mikey’s Christmas! He only received twenty-four gifts and his brothers got twenty-five! Apparently, in the rush and craziness of the shopping season, our gift wrap person neglected to include the twenty-fifth gift. My apology fell on deaf ears until I finally blurted out, Christmas? You’re Jewish. What do you know about Christmas?

Needless to say, I lost her as a customer, but her sons continued to shop with us.

Another time, Barbra Streisand’s secretary called and asked if we would close the store for an afternoon so that Miss Streisand could shop discreetly. I explained nicely that we would be happy to have her come to the store, but we didn’t close for anyone. Company policy. That was the only request of that type we ever had from a customer, and Barbra never ended up coming in.

Things tended to slow down in the summer, especially in the hot, smoggy middle of July when many folks were on vacation or lazing around by their pools. The store got particularly quiet during those periods, and I remember one day in particular which was no exception. The small parking lot in front was vacant and the store was empty of customers. A completely dead day. Suddenly, the front door opened, and in strode the one and only Elvis Presley, followed by four younger men. Elvis announced this was a new group he was promoting and would like them outfitted.

We showed the men velvet blazers and silk shirts, while Elvis wandered around the store pulling more clothing off the racks to be bought. During the tailor fittings, one of the men, in awe, confided to me that Elvis had just bought them a new Cadillac. While the group continued shopping, Elvis spotted a handmade silver and leather belt prominently displayed in a glass cabinet. He tried it on and then bought it for himself to wear at his upcoming Las Vegas opening. By the time Elvis left the building, the parking lot, which had been empty upon their arrival, was teeming with giddy, wide-eyed fans. He strode through that crowd like a pro who had done it all a thousand times before. Elvis was quiet, unassuming, and generous, and even without an audience his presence was unforgettable.

Not being very familiar with rock stars, I was sometimes unaware of their fame when they came into the store. One day, a man walked in carrying two shopping bags filled with very expensive boots he’d bought at a shoe store we’d opened a couple of doors down. He wandered around Mike Bain unassumingly choosing clothes he would casually hand to a salesman. When the salesman helped him approach the cashier with his arms laden with merchandise, I happened to be there to ring up the purchase. When I read the customer’s name on his credit card, I discovered the man standing in front of me was Rod Stewart.

The name seemed vaguely familiar. I glanced up and said, Oh, are you a painter?

He smiled and said he did paint.

Yes, I said, satisfied, I knew I recognized your name.

The salesperson kicked me in the shin.

I had no idea who Rod Stewart was, but I certainly did after that day!

Buying clothing for retail is a guessing game. One never knows what’s going to sell like crazy—or end up on the discount rack. There are winners and losers, and one fall season, I lost big.

Paris designers were showing knickers that year and for some reason I still have never quite figured out, I bought a huge number of them in corduroy. On the shelves for weeks, they didn’t sell at all. Then hot pants became the fad of the next season, so, being resourceful, I had our tailor shop cut down the knickers to create short shorts. Those didn’t sell, either. Still stuck with almost the original amount and not about to give up, I purchased leather straps. Then I had tailors cut and sew up the bottom of the hot pants and put the straps on them, thereby creating a corduroy shoulder bag. The third time was a charm. They sold like hotcakes.

On one of my Paris buying trips, the designer Jean-Paul Germain invited me to a dinner his mother Manouche was giving in his honor at the Left Bank eatery and nightclub Alcazar. Alcazar was bright and wonderfully stylish, with a fascinating history. Located right off the Boulevard St. Germain-Des-Près on a small but buzzing street and set on a seventeenth-century tennis court, Alcazar was once home to a notorious transvestite bar. The club next door was the infamous Rock ’n’ Roll Circus, known as the last place Jim Morrison was seen partying before he passed away.

That evening, there were eight of us at the table. Sitting nearby at the banquette was the actress Melina Mercouri and her brother. Melina looked chic in a black dress, with her long blonde hair framing bright blue eyes. The broad smile on her face made a stark contrast to her brother’s dour expression and Manouche’s slightly red, boozy face and heavy red lips.

On stage, the host announced that Manouche was present, and the applause was deafening. Then he pointed out that the wonderful Melina Mercouri was in attendance as well, and the clapping was polite but not nearly as enthusiastic as it had been for Manouche. Upon hearing the applause for Mercouri, Manouche said very loudly in French, At least I got a bigger hand than that bitch! The comment was met with uproarious laughter and foot-stomping.

I was both amused and mortified and didn’t know what to say to Jean-Paul. Now you know what I go through with her, he said and downed the rest of his champagne.

Unlike buyers for large department stores, I was able to take time off to visit a museum and absorb the local sights during my twice-yearly buying trips to Europe. Le Club Sept was the trendiest bar-restaurant in Paris. On any given night there might be Paloma Picasso (the daughter of Pablo Picasso), the designers Yves Saint Laurent, Kenzo, Jean Paul Gaultier, and Karl Lagerfeld, or high-profile personages like Jackie Kennedy Onassis dining and dancing the night away. The place was always filled with celebrities until 4 a.m. The brasserie La Coupole was another hangout for models, designers, and buyers. We danced till the wee hours at Le Palace. Paris evenings during Fashion Week were always fun and intoxicating. There were times I almost forgot I was there to work not play.

Le Club Sept was where I met my first French boyfriend, Jackie LaFourcade. He was seated across the room on a banquette, and I couldn’t stop staring at him. His eyes were as green as new grapes. When he caught me looking at him, he smiled shyly. The way he was dressed, in a crewneck Shetland sweater, corduroy pants, and loafers, he looked like he might have been American, but I was wrong. I went over to him and introduced myself, and he said he didn’t speak English. After successfully trying to communicate in sign language (my French was rudimentary at best), I invited him to spend the night with me at the hotel Le Meurice where I was staying. At three in the morning, we entered the reception area only to be met by an imperious male receptionist demanding to know if this gentleman was a guest of the hotel. I said, No, he is a guest of mine. And at that, we left the open-mouthed receptionist and were whisked upstairs in the elevator.

Jackie and I continued to see one another on my subsequent buying trips to France and my French improved enough so we could communicate verbally. (There is a saying that the best way to learn a foreign language is in bed.) He lived with his parents in Troyes, a small town in the Champagne country southeast of Paris, and I would stay the weekend there with him if I had enough time.

One weekend, we drove in his sleek, low-slung black Citroën from his home in Troyes to lunch in Dijon, where we spent a lovely afternoon. When it was time to return home, we glided along the deserted country roads as the sun disappeared behind heavy gray clouds and a light rain began to fall. The setting made me feel as though we were two characters in a François Truffaut film noir.

We were passing through the quaint village of Colombey-les-Deux-Églises when Jackie pointed to a large cemetery and said, That is where ‘Le General’ is buried. I had just read that the famed General de Gaulle had recently died and was curious to see his tomb, so I suggested we go in.

We drove up to the high wrought-iron gates and were promptly stopped by a guard asking where we were going. He then informed us that the cemetery was closing shortly, at 5 p.m. Jackie pleadingly replied I was an American and had come all the way from California to see the grave of Le General. Suddenly, the demeanor of the guard changed, and he saluted us, saying of course we could go in.

It’s an honor you’ve come so far, you’re only the second American to visit the grave of Le General.

Who was the first? I asked.

Snapping to attention, he said, President Nixon!

For me, it was a dubious association to be sure, but a privilege nonetheless to visit the grave of General De Gaulle.

The Menswear Fashion Week in Paris was packed with buyers from around the world, and I was lucky enough to be one of thirty Americans among two hundred foreign buyers feted at a black-tie dinner dance each September hosted by the French Fashion Federation at a historical landmark site. The first I attended was at L’Orangerie in the Chateau Versailles. Not realizing the acoustics were sharp, I walked in with a buyer friend from the I. Magnin San Francisco store and, standing in the entrance, said in what I thought was almost a whisper, We made the palace, baby. Above the din, my voice unmistakably carried through the room, and I was instantly embarrassed. It seemed like every guest looked over at me—some laughing, others scowling.

Another year, dressed in my Armani tuxedo and carrying a martini in my hand, I tripped and fell on one of the fragments of Roman pillars strewn about the garden of a twelfth-century church. Still holding the martini glass and not having spilled a drop, I looked up at the group I was with and said, I know how to fall. I used to be an ice skater! Of course, I’d ripped a hole in the leg of my tux, but I think I managed to pull off the rest of the evening without anyone noticing but me.

Those European buying trips were not all fun and games. I usually got off the plane at 7 a.m. after a ten-hour flight and had to be at my first appointment just a few hours later, then work without a break until dinner. Many times, international buyers suffering from jet lag would take a quick nap in their respective hotels before going out to dinner, only to wake up late or sleep through the night. It happened to me multiple times.

Pitti Uomo in Florence, Italy was another major destination where I would