This is not shameless, only because I do feel embarassed (but, obviously enough, not so bashful that I'm not typing this shiz right now).
Every now and again, I write things, and I'd like to think that someone other than my father—no, I mean it: my dad's my lone reader as my mom "can't find the time to sit down!" and "isn't good at checking her email!"—consumes these "published works."
Now that I've made the stories look fancy, I will tell you they are always, always, always about 1) celebrities/actor-types and 2) food. As you can see, I'm a super serious reporter who will probably be up for a Pulitzer in '09. WATCH OUT.
Two of all, I did a profile of this up-and-coming actress Kate French for FOAM. It's a fashion-surfing magazine and is pretty rad. Kate is both adorable and hot (cause we all know those are totally different things). She is on The L-Word and, starting Mon. (a.k.a. my birfday) is doing a stint on Gossip Girl as, duh, a Chuck Bass love interest. All together now: DIE. For the pretty, picture-filled version, click here and navigate to pg. 94. For the user-friendlier option, direct your attentions here.
Most importantly, the teaser for next week's GG that promises to bring us K.F.—and a Blair Waldorf expulsion?!?! Yah, prolly no.
(That aren't produced in some sex-soaked American Apparel factory in L.A.)
Michael Williams of the amazing men's site A Continuous Lean has a list of cool clothing/style brands that still make their goods in the ol' U.S. of A. Now, 1) this business is boy-centric and 2) I'm not so much a chinos-and-top-siders kinda girl, but I do love a reaaaaalllly classic bag. I mean, canvas totally goes with my color-less look. Here are the ones I wish I had the money to buy instead of the LL Bean tote that I can actually afford:
These bonkers hat doodads on Mr. Lagerfeld's Chanel runway? They are made of 11x17 office paper, per WWD. Like, the business you use to print PowerPoints. How uncreative do you feel now? They were designed my Katsuya Kamo (Japanese...shocking, I know), and there's plenty more headdress bananas-ness right here.
T, who is always impressively good at reading the non-Americanized news from the U.K., sent me this awesome Guardian photo feature of seventies rockers at home w/ the 'rents (as shot by John Olson of Life). There's something especially charming about the one of David Crosby and his dad. Maybe it's D.C.'s suede shirt. Or that rad mustardy flowered chair.
Also, I feel the need to apologize (again?) for my major blogging malfunction as of late. It's winter. My futon is on loan to a too-big little brother. I've actually been reading and going to the gym. Blah, blah, blah. My Jan. 28th resolution is to suck less.
While I did get to watch Obama's speech and hand-on-Lincoln's-bible moment today—in the comfort of my office conference room, which was strangely feel-goody—I missed every ounce of inauguration coverage before noon or after 12:26 PM. Alex Pareene of Gawker (already) has a pretty sweet roundup of best-of today clips, but I think we can (AND SHOULD) all agree that this was the highlight:
The word hat just doesn't do that creation justice.
I'm totally obsessed (pronounced ooooooooooobsessed) with this fashion story in the latest Elle that's all black leather, studs, tall shoes, eyeliner, denim, bangs, and COWBOY HATS. I think it should be my look for '09 (perhaps with less bangles?).
Oh, look. Those damn Alexander Wang shoes. STOP STALKING ME.
At the other end of the Elle spectrum is this gripping first-person article about anorexic (to simplify, as it's more complicated than that) actress and her relationship with the boyfriend that for some reason never left her, no matter how distant and evasive she got.
Apparently it's a fashion day 'round these parts. My favoritest of favorite men's designers is launching a women's collection for fall '09. What will it be like (please not little boy-ish, please not little boy-ish)?
I was feeling like an a-hole—and legitimately so—for not yet having read Dreams from My Father, but now I'm quite proud of myself for holding out. A of all, the story is even more dynamic now that Barry's officially our main man than it was even six months ago—to think that he was talking about change the same way in f-ing 1995 (if you recall, that year's hit singles included Coolio's "Gangsta's Paradise," Oasis's "Wonderwall," and Deep Blue Something's "Breakfast at Tiffany's") is, in a word, BANANAS. B of all, I'm not so much reading as I am listening. Almost a full year ago for sure, my friend P told me about Audible, which is basically the Netflix of books-on-tape—well, excuse me, since I've identified that it's NOT the mid-nineties anymore: audio books.
I mean, seven hours of Barack Obama talking for a mere $7 (introductory rates...gotta love 'em until they F you)??? Amazing, especially on Monday mornings when you don't want to relinquish the down comforter that is shielding you from the world, let alone walk to work in peep-toe shoes (dumb). It's hard to be lazy with all that YES, WE CAN-ness triumph plugged into your ears.
And, I'm pretty sure that I'm going to become an Audible addict. One of the best parts is that, unlike my Netflix queue that eats away at my SOUL, the audio book selection is somewhat limited. Yes, there's lots of stuff, but you can't get, like, every single book at a bookstore. And that's a good thing.
Next up: Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot as narrated by Stephen Colbert, Conan O'Brien, David Cross, etc. and Richard Price's Lush Life in the voice of Bobby Cannavale.
First of all, let me just say that going to work every day is really hard. This is something you realize when you go back to the office after two weeks and are bomb-fucking-barded with business that just haaaas to be sorted on Jan. 5. And this stuff that had been sitting in your inbox while you pretended that your remote email access wasn't working so that you could watch Jerry Maguire again (yes, watched it twice over the vacay)? Well, this makes it impossible to catch up what's happening in the news, and the 352 unread Perez Hilton posts in your Google Reader start to make you about as sane as John Trovolta (didn't miss the "what's autism?" Jett thing—don't worry).
So, I'm easing out of OOO mode by first posting about the sometimes charming, sometimes batshit (or, as J would say, PILLS) crazy that monopolized my couch movie watching during the last lazy days of 2008: Mr. Cruise. What's fascinating about him to me—beyond his omfg-adorable toddler—is that there is seemingly this societal need to make him MEAN something. This week, Stephen Metcalf of Slate wrote a really fascinating article about how Cruise's ups and downs mirror those of the ol' Dow Jones. He explains:
"But note a curious fact about his career: It maps perfectly onto the 25-year bull market in stocks that, like Cruise, is starting to show its age. Nascent in the early '80s, emergent in 1983, dominant in the '90s, suspiciously resilient in the '00s, and, starting in 2005, increasingly prone to alarming meltdowns. For both Cruise and the Dow Jones, more and more leverage is required for less and less performance. Place Cruise next to Nicholson, Newman, and Tracy, and he is a riddle. Place him next to Reagan, and he is not so confounding at all."
And, a couple months ago, I read this ridiculously gripping essay by Anne Peterson (a film studies grad student) about, among other things, how Tom Cruise's couch leap from grace explains what it means to be a celebrity in the age of cum-strewn internet photos. These are far from the only cases, and why is it that T.C. deserves such constant analysis? Think of other actors that came to rise in his era who have lost their edge—guys like Charlie Sheen (hi, crappiest show on television) and John Cusack (Must. Love. Dogs.). They stood for youth and love and whatever else back in the day, and no one thinks about them with such fervor—even C.S.'s n-word voicemails to crazy daisy Denise were just circulated, not broken down, and they knocked the bizarro socks off Cruise's antics.
It took me until 2008 to realize that writing things on the internet doesn't (necessarily) make you the most annoying person in the universe. Then my friend had a dream that I had a blog where I posted a photo of myself in an orange sequined dress. Hot.
