September 2008 Archives
You were one of the best. We'll miss you.
Debates last night: Obviously I thought Obama better informed, smarter. I despise McCain so much--his condescension, his outright lies, his inability to know who is running Pakistan, the fact that he cannot even pronounce Ahmadenijad's name--I wanted to throw my beer at our television. But the utterly confounding moment, the one that was so hilariously ridiculous it broke my anger streak, was this:
Pardon my French senator but what the fuck are you talking about?!
I cannot live in this country if this country elects McCain. Was brainstorming places to go and think my best idea is to get a job as a music director on a cruise ship, so I can float adrift on the open seas, boundless, stateless. The problem with this idea, however, is my terrible motion sickness; I sometimes want to throw up in taxis and recently barfed in the movie theater bathroom after watching 30 minutes of the film Ballast, which seemed excellent but is shot using nine million rapidfire jumpcuts and a hand-held camera. So I'll probably just end up hawking Fanta on the beach of Barcelona, or selling baguette in some tiny tourist town in France. I would go to Mexico but it's too close, too tied to the US economic situation, and too fucked by NAFTA, not to mention scary as hell right now what with the copious violence bleeding over from the narcos and drug-runners into the middle class for...no reason but poverty.
However, tomorrow I'm going to a NYFF party for Voy a Explotar (I'm Going to Explode), the first film produced by the joint prod.company owned by Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna, so maybe I will find some hot brilliant Mexican national to husband and take me away from this potential McCain-Palin nightmare. Not Gael, he's fiiine but way too short for me. Holler if you're 6' and over papis! Let's go half on a 3/4 Mexican baby!
I have a google alert set up for "Mayan Apocalypse" (obviously) and today it brought back a hilarious review of a SciFi channel show about the crystal skulls we need to bring together in order to prevent the Mayan Apocalypse. Further, this person's tags are of my own heart. This story is filed under "Mayan Apocalypse Beach Party" and "Pyramidiots."
Our contributing style editor Mobolaji Dawodu on the Sartorialist!
[He dresses like this every day, except when he is wearing a turtleneck and jeans from K-Mart, in which he looks preternaturally classy.]
Good bye to the towering hair hats she sculpted from her dreams.
Good bye to the pastel peony monsters she made barf red rose blood.
Good bye to the dancing lovers that bled out of her eyes.
This video was Japanese artist, director, designer, inventor, conceptualist, magician Nagi Noda's final work. Two weeks ago, she died at the age of 35 from complications related to a surgery. I am sad we never met. This video features a magic pop-witch and a dancing cat dinner party. It is the best music video ever made.
I have a question to pose.
What is that irreversable action (or actions) that makes you realize you need to dead a friendship?
For me, this happens when said party does something that psychically, spiritually or ethically revolts me, i.e. narcotic drug addiction (sometimes), megalomania (usually), extreme-right social views (unless they are blood relations), and/or rawdog cheating (ew). I am really good at not being friends with people who transgress my probably-too-lenient boundaries. What about power-addiction? Major friendship-interfering vice and gluttony? Narcissism? Instances of disrespect piled one by one like so many princess-pea-mattresses? When do you cash it in and cut the leash?
Question B: Would you stop being friends with a someone who cornily chunked deuces and/or "ironic gang signs" in all their myspace photos?
I found this reading David Foster Wallace's obit and it hit my gut.
The Department of Defense announced today the death of a soldier who was supporting Operation Enduring Freedom.
Pvt. Michael R. Dinterman, 18, of Littlestown, Pa., died Sept. 6 at Outpost Restrepo, Kunar Province, Afghanistan, of wounds suffered when he received enemy fire while on dismounted patrol. He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 1st Infantry Division, Fort Hood, Texas.
Rest in peace, Pvt. Dinterman. Eighteen. Your life is worth more than this.
Photographs from the war by my friend and colleague Peter van Agtmael.
On Friday, Fashion (two) Week(s) was officially fini. S/S '09. I missed most of it: was in Portland for the first week and work-crazed for the second, so I really only got to see the Betsey Johnson tent show, didn't lament absenteeing the rest except for Baby Phat and the show we sponsored for Kesh, who is the raddest designer/DJ/MIA stylist ever. Get familiaroso homeys. Betsey was fun (thanks for the cupcake and pink cupcake thong, Bets) but some of it seemed uninspired, our girl recycling her own ideas which are now so ubiquitous to be rote, i.e. Pirate skull leggings. Really Bets? Really? But apart from her florals, which she always nails, three looks, I adored: a tie-dyed satin maillot with ruched sides; a semi-tie-dyed blue-green gown with satin sweetheart neckline, corset back and a skirt with millions of gathered pieces that resembled mermaid scales; and the white version of that gown which, sans dye, had the appearance of swan feathers. Otherwise the theme was crazy pirates, clowns and babies. Which was cute but also freaked me out. She played music from the "Sesame Street" OST and did her trad cartwheel at the end wearing a sequined Peter Pan outfit. She is like 50. MAD respect to that chica.
So while I was suspended in mid-week stress zone, Chioma and Erin went to Marc by Marc and came back saying they loved it and that "It was basically what you'd see in Teen Vogue." Teen Vogue being, visually, graphically and fashion-ally, one of the three best fashion magazines in America (WORD UP TO JUSTIN KAY), obvs my interest was piqued.
I have kind of a problem with Marc Jacobs. I think he goes to cool indie/hipster spots in Brooklyn, copies what the youf are wearing, and then steals their outfits for his next season's line but priced at like 300X what they were worth when they were worn by, say, a Cooper Union student watching Gang Gang Dance play at the Market Hotel. Actually, I know he does this. I think it is ridiculous and that, in a sense, he is an unabashed fashion carpetbagger. The only thing I truly like about his pieces is that he is unafraid to pair red with purple. I respect that. (And covet such things.) However, in his S/S 09 collection, I saw this look and immediately died:
I would wear the SHIT out of this if I had like, what, $4500 extra dollars in my non-essential slush fund. Not happening.
But seriously tho, if I had that kind of free-will clothing allowance I would be dropping it on Philip Lim's textured and bedazzled shifts, or Rodarte's knitting-project-gone-awry punky dresses with black bandeau bra tops beneath or, hell, a classic Herve Leger bandage dress, which I've been lusting after ever since the line was revived and Kerry Washington and Kim Kardashian started flaunting their banded shit on every red carpet (and uh, shitty LA mega club) like, two years ago. If you have a lot of disposable income, and have already donated money to worthy charities and have reached the capped amount of individual donations to the Obama campaign, I wear an L and prefer the classic grey shift or the gorg/glam lemony one the zzzzz-list actor Rachel Bilson is wearing in this photo. It will cost you approx $1500, which is slightly more than my rent. Spanx a million.
David Foster Wallace died by apparent hanging on Friday in his California home. He was discovered by his wife.
I developed my writing by reading sharp essayists in my late jr. high/high school years, marveling at their style and pressing myself to shape a strong personal narrative voice that was true to "how I talk," rhythmic and at best inimitable. In this formative time no other writer influenced me like David Foster Wallace. I happened upon him by chance; at 16 I discovered a markdown first edition copy of his debut book of short stories, Girl With Curious Hair, at a Barnes and Noble. I think I bought it for four dollars. It enveloped me: I was so enamored with the weird freedom, the disturbing tone, the creepy social satire of the title story especially, the tale of a bigoted businessman on a date with Hollywood punks who dropped acid and went to a Keith Jarrett concert. In the music / skateboarding fanzine I published from ages 16-18, I signed my editor's letter by the moniker Gimlet, the name of the free-spirit protagonist in the "Girl With Curious Hair." I didn't know it was a vodka drink; I thought it was an intense, free alter ego. (I guess, in a way, DFW also got me into alter egos.) My love for his refined work (the tennis essay, the amusement park essay, the short story about being on Jeopardy) so overshadowed anything else he wrote I neglected to read his hallowed 72-lb. opus, Infinite Jest, leaving me in the minority among most of my generation and anyone who has attended a liberal arts school since its publication. I'm not too concerned. I own it, I skimmed it and read some of the footnotes. After it was published, everyone wanted to do footnotes. He really was sculptural in his writing, wasn't he? But I just wanted to read the shit out of his 10,000 word pieces. He was much better when his word count didn't allow him to be verbose.
He co-wrote that bumbling stranger-in-a-strange land / academic hip-hop book Signifying Rappers (id est "we, ur-white folks clad in topsiders and preppy pleated Dockers, are en route to Dorchester to meet a gentleman by the name of Benzino") and I read it and still I admired him.
Why did he end his own life?
Gimlet dreamed that if she did not see a concert last night she would become a type of liquid, therefore my friends Mr. Wonderful, Big, Gimlet and I went to see Keith Jarrett play a piano concert at the Irvine Concert Hall in Irvine last night....
This is the best example of Sarah Palin's A. idiocy and B. apparent inability to pick up a newspaper regarding the war in the Middle East to learn the definition of "Bush Doctrine" C. hyperactive snaky defensiveness that is snippy and paternalistic and patronizing in the exact same way as Dick Cheney. This titch be tripping, and this titch is no wilting flower. I hope Biden cuts her off at the knees. Luckily for everyone, she's not going to look like a dainty little damsel up there, which is good for a. women who do not enjoy being seen as the gentler sex and b. Biden. STRIKE BACK JOE!
While I was in Portland, my roommate Mo bought a tube of bright orange lipstick and entered this Sarah Palin lookalike contest at some corny bar. Mo is probably the most proselytizing Obama fan that I know; she is also my favorite character actor in the $12-50,000k/year income bracket. I have seen excerpts from her 11th grade star turn in Oklahoma! and, believe me, it's a crowdpleaser.
It's pretty unsurprising that she won the contest. Prize: five margaritas. She will be in New York magazine next week for her efforts. Blurb or sidebar or spot on the Approval Matrix coming soon! Congratulations Mo! I hope we can stay laughing at this on November 5!
Mo on her night: "I gave a ten-minute speech on top of a bar table about how horrible Barack Obama was. I literally had to force myself to stop. I can't remember the last time I was that drunk. I kept saying, 'The only difference between the mayor of a town and a community organizer is... actual responsibilities."
Get the facts straight! LOL
Addendum: this is referring to an article I vaguely recall writing eight years ago. I have no idea what it said (when the WW's weird publisher mentioned this article to me at a party a couple nights ago I didn't even remember that the director of a major national music festival had written me a letter telling me to "fuck off" hahaha). I do, however, remember what I titled it: "North By Northwest: Au Revoir to a Load of Crap." No what did I really think of it? GREAT KICKER, 19-YEAR-OLD VERSION OF JSHEP. [shut up, my industry age is 27. i just turned it.]
Oh yeah: I'm in Portland. I'm mostly twittering from shows and sending my friends BBMs with inside jokes about Portland hip-hop and Birkenstocks but there will be blogs both here and the old official spot on el FADER dot com. I saw some band called Starfucker last night that I was pretty ehhhh on but yo, No Age and Deerhunter on the same day, okay. The only thing that would have made it better as far as band bills go: Lizzi Bougatsos. Tonight is TVOTR, which I am pumped about because oh p.s. their NEW ALBUM IS AMAZING. And a load of other PDX bands with cleverly spelled names.
Say what you want about Diddy, but the man has emerged from the chrysalis that was his 2-3-year-long corny phase with a fierceness. This year, he turned Danity Kane kind of cool (i know), made a great Trumpish reality show about being his godforsaken PERSONAL ASSISTANT, and popularized his offhand Day26 diss into a citywide t-shirt phenomenon ("No BitchAssNess"). NOW, HERE HE IS, TELLING JOHN MCCAIN WHAT TIME IT IS.
This video makes up entirely for whatever psychological damage we incur when Donnie Klang's album drops. I don't care what kind of reality Midas you are Puff, Donnie Klang is basically the star karaoke singer in the Greek nightclub in Astoria. He's the best baklava waiter in Queens. Shit is preternaturally cornball. The new NKOTB album is cooler than Donnie Klang.
Respect to Diddy's McCain swag.
Alaska? Alaska? Alaska? I don't even know if there's any black people in Alaska. John, like COME ON. I'm calling all my youth, all colors, all youth, November fourth, we gotta protect our future cause John McCain is bugging the fuck out. Lady's nice, she's cool... SHE'S A HEARTBEAT AWAY.
Genius!
(via Bossip)
