Wednesday, July 30, 2008
As August, the most dreaded month of the year for teachers and students alike, looms overhead, one can address such an unpleasentries in a variety of ways. First, capitalize on the last few weeks of summer by drowning so many scholastic sorrows in a Hawaiian Tropic/ Old English haze. Secondly, indulge in some good old fashioned schadenfreude and remind all your friends with real jobs that you aren't working and they are, even though their bank accounts probably aren't overdrawn from said base pleasures. Thirdly, design your fall style!
So my summer style and manera de ser draws on elements including but not limited to Valley of the Dolls, Lolita, Ocean Pacific surfwear circa 1973, kinderwhoredom, candy, coconut oil, skateboarding, and JonBenet Ramsey. Now that's all fine and good for the summer, whose resounding chorus of "I don't give a fuck" sets the tone of each daynightday, but fall calls for a more mature, demure look. And who better to be my guiding light of fashion than Mrs. Robinson herself.... the fabulous Anne Bancroft, R.I.P!
Not only did she make sweater sets, nude nylons, pencil skirts, and lotsa leopard sexy in a subversive way that I think actually gives the finger to the quasi Upper East Side/ Jackie Kennedy wannabes who borrowed from this look, Ms. Bancroft lived with style. That white streak in her hair that grew progressively whiter with her as she aged, those Cleopatra eyes, AND the most important accessory to any dame, the man on her arm... MEL BROOKS! While not a hotmaster, or even ugly hot, Mel Brooks, duh, is the man. I remember watching a 20/20 interview where she descried their relationship, saying something to the effect of, "I love hearing his keys in the door because I know the party is about to begin." Is that not the best kind of relationship, and the way one wants to be loved?! Okay, so these are the things I think about on days when I am premenstrual and have literally nothing to do. And now I am going to go see Brideshead Revisited, dump a bag of M and Ms in the popcorn, and have a good cry...
So I was walking along Christopher Street yesterday, en route to lay out on the pier. Despite the fact that I am not a homosexual, I loooove laying out on the Christopher Street Pier for a number of reasons. As a female, you could be stark naked and have not even a waxed eyebrow raised in your direction. Yesterday, I watched an Adonis of a man leap over sunbathing bodies practicing his flag twirling in short shorts. He wielded a massive purple flag with the grace and style of a gay gazelle. Anyway, this detective store makes my heart sing! I purchased a magnifying glass and a pipe that blows bubbles, and I think I smell CAREER CHANGE! But since I'm subtle like a T- Rex, I'm gonna need to work on my sneaking if I am to be a successful detective. I knocked over a nanny cam in the store as I was trying on mirror sunglasses. Maybe my flag- twirling friend can hook it up...
Friday, July 25, 2008
These pictures are from an interesting and exciting soiree, the Interview Magazine- sponsored opening party for Delicatessen. The party started at 7:00, we arrived fashionably late at 7:05, and I was wasted no later than 7:12. Padma Lakshmi showed up to taste my food to make sure it wasn't poisoned, and indeed it was not, far from it. I would actually put the dainty little pastrami sandwiches (seemingly counterintuitive, wholly charming) in the delightful category. Infamous photographer/ pervert Terry Richardson asked me to pose topless, which simultaneously thrilled and horrified me, to which I politely declined. Patrick McMullan, however, did take some snapshots, which ended up on the internet, which is cool because it's probably the first time I've been on the internet when I haven't put myself on the internet.
From left to right- Amy, Harriet, Anna, a stroke victim.
While my friends dressed in cocktail attire, I opted for slutty kindergartner.
---From left to right- Amy, Harriet, Odell, Anna, a cyclops
One guy I talked to asked me if my skirt was from Ralph Lauren. "Hell no," I guffawed... "All my parts still work, thankyouverymuch!"
from left to right, below: a stranger, Amy, Harriet, Anna, a mental retard
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Puerto Rican sensation pictured above is why I may never have a well- adjusted adult relationship with a man due to an unrealistic standard he has set on love, or el amor. Chock full of conceits that would make Petrarch ditch Laura for J.Lo, Marc Anthony's album "Sigo Siendo" is the ultimate Latin Love Letter to the world and to women... that powerful voice he conjures through his skinny little throat, "que precio tiene cielo?" Those googly eyes! That strong jaw line! His vast forehead! Marc Anthony, lovelorn and tortured lyrics or not, is the dictionary definition of ugly hot. My friends challenge me on this one constantly, but Marc Anthony is like doubly hotmaster because he is so weird looking, like a handsome hobbit or something. Ugly hot is so much more interesting and unexpected than hot hot, like Brad Pitt or whoever. M. Ant is my number one baby daddy.
Another example of ugly hot, if you're just not getting it: Michael Rappaport. Yes he has beady eyes and ginger hair, and in this picture he looks like he should be among the mentally challenged people that Diane Arbus photographed, but he does have a certain twinkle behind those baby blues. Marc Anthony has lo romántico, but Mr. Rappaport has the funny. He has that wild abandon and wigger swagger often associated with white boys from Dorchester or the Bronx, mixed in with a simpleton's joie de vivre. He breaks my heart in Mighty Aphrodite, with his desires for a girl with class and values, and makes me laugh til I cry when he calls his friend "douche douche" in Kicked in the Head. And if Spike Lee and Woody Allen have adopted this unusual but fabulous man as their male muse, he can't be all ugly, but a little bit of hot. Ugly hot, so much more satisfying.
After a good four night stretch of indulging in such base pleasures as being drunk/ making up new dances/ eating Subway/ watching "I Love Money," one feels the need for a good purge. I'll go to an especially abusive cardio kickboxing class that showcases my impressive lack of coordination, eat raw spinach, and do an OCD clean on my room. But nothing else can repair the body and soul like a healthy dose of culture, or CULT-CHA, for my New England compatriots. Yesterday, I dragged my sleep deprived and saturated body through midtown in 92 degrees. After scowling at all the freedoom- hating Europeans who spend our dollars like pesos at Abercrombie and Fitch, I went to the Landscape/ Typology exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. The MoMA is great because it's high falutin' without being completely inaccessible, pretentious, and ridiculous. I visited the New Museum shortly after it opened and I found it to be all those things. Their collection actually looks like an NYU student went dumpster diving and opened up a museum staffed by smug anorexics to house his treasures. Anyway, this exhibit was awesome. This hodgepodge of photos is all by unknown photographers, but the photographer's shadow appears in all of them. Super eerie and mysterious, it has the feel of impending doom of a Flannery O'Connor short story. I left feeling sufficiently spooked, a tad bit smarter, and like less of a bottom feeder.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
These tacos from the Big Enchilada on e12th street make me say "¡hola!" not "holla!" These tacos twins + diet coke cost $4.50, in dollars, not pesos!
I just realized that the Moroccan Grilled Chicken from Trader Joe's- $5.99- pictured below actually looks pretty nasty, but it is in fact delicious. If I'm feeling especially anorexic, I can make three meals out of one package. Usually, it's one and a snack.
Flowers are not food, but these are especially delightful. Actually, I ate flowers at a junior prom I attended in the late '90s. I was on mushrooms, and ate my date's boutonniere.
This tiny cherry pie is the dictionary definition of delightful. I became addicted to wee pies when I lived in Hell's Kitchen. The Little Pie Company is the only redeeming feature of the entire neighborhood, unless you're gay. The charming staff there knew me by name, and I learned that scale is of small value when you eat little pies by the dozen. This cherry pie in the spotlight is from the Union Square Farmer's Market, and cost only $1.50. I bought out their stock.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Here's an example of what Tyra Banks teaches the young ladies on America's Next Top Model, when they're not posing as homeless people or with reptiles. The slumped shoulders, awkward angles, and googly eyes is not so much a premeditated pose as it is my state of being, me and awkward are like rice and beans. This picture is from an event and evening of my life that actually was interesting AND exciting- my first opening at the Met! My friends and I saw the J.M.W. Turner exhibit, which we turned into a fifty yard dash to the open bar. I always envisioned a slow descent down the main staircase, brushing scapulas with Anna Wintour and Graydon Carter, and spitting out caviar a la Tom Cruise in Big. Instead, I stormed the hors d'oeuvres table like literally running and piling as many cocktail napkins as our little hands could carry and hiding in the corner of the Robert Lehman Collection. The caterers laughed at us, the guests who were properly invited wouldn't look at us. Selling to women indeed.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Tracy from London says,
"Having my best bunch of friends round my place, my sister cooks dinner while I relax... I invite my funniest of friends, and we laugh til our stomachs hurt."
I needed some new ideas...
Jack (above) from NYC says:
"Going out with girls like you."
This string quartet (Billy, Caroline, Christine and Hanna)
from all over says, "Practicing!"
Chris from Maryland says:
I call it volume therapy."
Osiris from NYC says, "Reading books on yoga and meditation."
Bobby from Chelsea says,
"Cruising the Christopher Street Pier for cute boys."
I currently live in a picturesque village under the Brooklyn- Queens Expressway calledWilliamsburg! Chockfull of Sopranos extras, shoeless toddlers who will occasionally shout curse words I’ve never even heard of before, and self- important nineteen year olds who dress in costumes reminiscent of Jeri Blank, Williamsburg is a modern day tragicomedy.
In the case of the latter, let us take the cultural significance of late ‘90s- present day hipster Williamsburg with a grain of salt. I’ve noticed that people who move to Brooklyn (as transplants from other places, like myself, all locals are duly forgiven) consider this distinction as a badge of honor. Like they are Mos Def in Dave Chappelle’s Block Party or something. “Where do you live?” “Brooklyn.” An air of superiority and smugness permeates the conversation, doesn’t it? While I certainly loooove living here, and anytime that “Where Brooklyn At?!” anthem comes on in any bar, I will spin around and scream a white girl “wwwwooooo,” my arms flailing arythmically, I’m not entirely convinced anyone lives here by authentic preference. I think that if given the viable choice of living in a decent neighborhood in Manhattan (NOT the Upper East Side, where I resided prior), then the answer would be a no- brainer. I would take the first boat outta this Mexico City landfill given this option/ financial solvency. So perhaps this resolute, steadfast, “claiming- on” of Brooklyn is but a thin veil for resignation and failure. Ha! I want to scream that from the rooftops to the hordes of skeletal dipness née hipness at Union Pool on a Saturday night!
Interesting, exciting anecdote: My friend Anna “downtown socialite” Del Gaizo and I were at Union Pool a couple months ago with our horrible male counterparts and out of boredom and misdirected anxiety Anna started throwing broken glass from a votive candle into the crowd absentmindedly. She is destructive by nature, but she was, like, chucking glass at innocent bystanders. I was none the wiser at the time, because I was working out some yoga asana under the table. A bouncer came over and tried to kick us out, but after Elijah made a compelling argument for letting us stay, (“She was just drunk!”), the man changed his mind in an unprecedented moment of grace and let us stay! But then she just started assigning the onus of glass throwing at to other members of our party, which resulted in less diplomatic negotiations.
So of course Williamsburg is just another mutation of the NYC outer borough/ crap neighborhood transforming at the hands of better- heeled white people. And I, or course, am no exception: I am one of the handful of white people ruining a perfectly vibrant, diverse neighborhood just east of the Lorimer L.
If you are reading this, then you are probably a member of my immediate family or I at one time possessed your pager number. If not, then maybe you are a member of the BLOGOSPHERE and you BLOG and you read tons of BLOGS. If you write a blog yourself, then you must also surely lead an interesting and exciting life, so sated with emotion and intrigue that you feel the need to share your glamorous pictures of you and your friends outside of Limelight, or put your personal plan for an exit strategy in Iraq into the market place of ideas. (see for example http://www.theiraqinsider.blogspot.com/ That enthusiastic young man is keeping us safe from terrorists!) As Jenny Lewis says, "Any asshole can open up a museum, put all the things he loves on display so everyone can see 'em..."
Writing a blog is really a major turn- off when pursuing members of the opposite sex. If some hotmaster and I were getting familiar, and he revealed that he was in fact the author of any kind of WEB LOG, be it political, personal, or otherwise, my thoughts would only turn to images of him honing his Magic: The Gathering skills, cavorting in short pants at a Renaissance Faire, and bringing the heat with his fantasy football league. Perhaps these negative feelings stem from the fact that technology is not my forte (obvy) and the internet is still an unknowable terrain that Al Gore invented. But more than that, blogs are a platform for self- deification, self- aggrandizement, and self- promotion: I’m IN!
The idea for this riveting, voyeuristic, postmodern account came as part of a divorce agreement from my last boyfriend. Ivana Trump gets homes, Heather Mills gets a gazillion dollars, and all I got is inspiration. But that’s because, in the words of my best girlfriend and comedian Harriett Halloway, I only date guys “who reek of poverty and arrogance.” So since living inside his asshole didn’t work out, he suggested that I take up a hobby. I guess this sheds some light on my worldview: some would see this as patronizing and condescending, but I think it is sweet and romantic. Girl, get a clue! My gardening projects also didn’t pan out, and aforementioned asshole dwelling notwithstanding, BLOG it is.
I mean, my life really is interesting and exciting. On any given day, I could be eating a Trader Joe’s frozen pizza, choreographing the Selena songbook, watching season six of the Sopranos for the umpteenth time, teasing my hair, affixing lemons to cherry trees, trying unsuccessfully to wean myself from food, and/ or planning my wedding to Marc Anthony. While all this is tragically interesting AND exciting, at some point, one has to come out from under their afghan and take a stand! Ess muss ein! That’s Kundera or German or something for It Must Be Done!
Unemployment also lends a certain exigency. To be fair, I am currently gainfully unemployed, or I am a teacher… more on that unsettling fact to follow. Lately, I have been whiling away my days testing out new sandwich recipes, catching up on my correspondence, stretching out a fifteen minute errand to Walgreen’s into a three hour event, and jumping with glee when the mailman visits. The following is an account of these interesting, exciting times.