“They’re fucking gross, man. Look, I love beautiful girls too. I think everyone should be free to have their knee socks and their sweaty shorts, but I’m over it. I’m over this weird, exhausted girl. I’m over the girl that’s tired and freezing and hungry. I like bossy girls, I always have. I like people filled with life. I’m over this weird media thing with all this, like, hollow-eyed, empty, party crap.”—Amy Poehler on American Apparel
1. You should put on the best version of yourself when you go out in the world because that is a show of respect to the other people around you.
2. A gentleman today has to work. People who do not work are so boring and are usually bored. You have to be passionate, you have to be engaged and you have to be contributing to the world.
3. Manners are very important and actually knowing when things are appropriate. I always open doors for women, I carry their coat, I make sure that they’re walking on the inside of the street. Stand up when people arrive at and leave the dinner table.
4. Don’t be pretentious or racist or sexist or judge people by their background.
5. A man should never wear shorts in the city. Flip-flops and shorts in the city are never appropriate. Shorts should only be worn on the tennis court or on the beach.
Listen up, fellas. Tom Ford is giving away pure gold here. There’s nothing better than a gentleman. Number three is important. Mind you, it’s not about chivalry. It’s not about courtship and gender roles. Tom Ford is heartbreakingly gay. He’s not trying to fuck me, but he still knows how to treat me. He still has manners. It’s a distinction that I appreciate. Fuck chivalry. Be a gentleman.
I called bankcard services this morning and spoke to a condescending robot that kept insisting my call was important.
Don’t lie to me, robot. Don’t thank me for my patience in that voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she talks to a waitress. Just play some shitty hold music while I wait for a live human to churn through my private financial records to discover why yet another one of your robot friends has insisted that the activity on my account is fraudulent.
Yes, I buy five dollars worth of gas at a time. Yes, I make large purchases in jewelry stores immediately afterwards. This is how I live my life, robot. I don’t need you judging me. I don’t need you questioning my choices.
You may sound like her, but you are not my mother.
Last week was fashion week. This week is market week. Naturally, this is the time I pick to open my online boutique. I’m frazzled bananas over here, but fuck it. I’m having a blast.
I stayed up late last night prepping the first round of whore talk orders when I probably should have been doing other work. Whatever. I was having way too much fun adding little treats to everyone’s envelope.
I’m gonna go to the post office for the first round of shipments tomorrow, so if you wanna potentially get your stuff this week, today is the day to order some shit. Oh, and to all you crazy fuckers who ordered entire sets of jewelry, you’re amazing. I’m sending you along a special thank you.
I have a couple of friends with soft candy centers who only seem to date fuzzy hipster musicians, and while they’d never admit it, I think they’re secretly hoping a song like this will one day be written about them.
So I’ve been loving this song for a few days now, and I thought I’d share it. I heard Mellencamp sing it the other weekend, and it got me. I’m kind of a sucker for ballads that manage to turn a rear view mirror on life without being drippingly sentimental.
Besides, this shit was so good live. Seriously, it was gorgeous. That’s no surprise, really. A man doesn’t make twenty-five albums without having something worth saying about the human condition, and Radio City Music Hall was the perfect room to hear a legend like John Mellencamp hurl out every last ounce of his soul.
In all my trips to New York, I’d never been to Radio City. Lemme tell ya, that joint was a candy store for an architecture whore like me. Art Deco was dripping out of every nook and cranny. My friends think I’m crazy, but I still haven’t stopped talking about the original foot pedal hand dryers in the woman’s lounge.
It was a New York crowd, a lot of industry types and hipsters pretending to be there ironically. There were only a few hardcore fans scattered throughout the hall, and to their credit, they were the ones doing their level best to swill beer like it was a fairground in Bloomington.
There wasn’t an opening act. Instead, they screened “It’s About You,” a documentary about John shot entirely on Super 8 film that set the gritty, foot-tapping tone for the music we were about to hear.
The band was a well-greased machine. Bacon grease, with a side of hot damn. You could tell they’ve been jamming together for decades, and it was hard not to be impressed by the general badassery of Miriam Sturm, the fiddle playing Tinkerbell who zigged and zagged around the stage rocking the fuck out.
Naturally, Mellencamp owned the room. Dude sang with perfect pitch, and even though his voice sounded like he gargles with charcoal briquettes, it all still came out sounding like honey.
"A word coined by blog Jezebel in 2007 describing a man who comes across as feminist due to his sensitive, emo demeanor but who is in fact emotionally immature and adheres to unrealistic fantasies of women.
Because he doesn’t participate equally in relationships with real women he is woman-hating, therefore emosogynist.
Zach Braff is the classic example of a celebrity emosogynist.”
(Wow. I just discovered this term after reading Molly Lambert's latest slice of brilliance in This Recording. I’m late to the party, but whatever. I love this word.)