Date Archives February 2010

NY Fashion Week — MAC @ L.A.M.B.

Charlotte Tilbury describes the look at L.A.M.B. as, “The feeling was 1930s prostitute–trampy, smoky eye, deep “rougeoir” lips and beautiful pale skin.”

You know, it’s not often that ‘prostitute’ is openly admitted to being an inspiration. Gee, the clothes are nice, but you know what would tie everything together? Just a smidge of whore. Not 1990s Julia Roberts Hooker With A Heart Of Gold whore, but a more classy sort of starving rabid raccoon whore. Perhaps we could have them walk to ‘Money (That’s What I Want)’, too? Or is that too whorish? One thing’s for sure–we need overdrawn red lips or we risk our models with deeper eye sockets looking like Skeletor.

So let’s see it in action–



I know the look you are going for, and it is NOT 1930s prostitute. It is 1975 transvestite.


I just…wow. Wow. I suppose if they wanted the clothes to look beautiful by comparison to the jacked-up things they’ve done to the models–horrifyingly unflattering makeup, frizzy hair…THOSE BANGS, then jolly good show, L.A.M.B.. The problem is we can’t not look at a trainwreck. I look at that picture and I don’t even see the clothes.


On Sunday, I attended the cardboard tube duel in Cal Anderson Park, because if there’s a better way to work out misplaced Valentine’s Day aggression than hitting someone with a tube, I certainly haven’t heard about it.

Cardboard armor was encouraged but not required, for which I was thankful. Because while I will wear a lot of things on the bus, up to and including full Santa regalia, cardboard armor is where I draw the line. I know, given the whole robot costume thing, you’d think I’d be all over it. Maybe next time, when I can transport it in a car, folks, and don’t have to drag it all over the city. However, you were not allowed to bring your own cardboard weapons; any outside tube was considered contraband and had to be handed over prior to the duels.

I was signed up in the ‘Naked’ division, which is a sexy way of saying non-armored. Before they divided up the Armored, Partial Armored and Naked groups, they held the children’s tournament, because there was no other division more likely to draw blood, and we all had cardboard tube bloodlust.

This adorable little pixie took two swings and after the challenger whacked her solidly in the huggies armor, she decided she’d had enough and ran back to mom. Her little brother started to sob as mom suited him up in his cardboard box, wanting none of this action. It’s surely a topic that will come up in therapy twenty years from now.

After the kids failed to bruise and maim one another, we split into our respective groups and took business into our own hands. Cardboard tubes are not the sturdiest of instruments, and since the fight only lasted until one tube was broken or bent at 45 degree angle, they were all over relatively quickly. In the lovers’s duels, they were encouraged to keep fighting until the tube was entirely destroyed.

When my name was called, I strode into the center of the ring and seriously told my opponent, “We must fight to the death, or they will kill us both.”

She did not like that one bit, and screeched every time I took a swing at her, eventually falling to the ground. My tube was broken on her defensively placed forearm, and lo, I was out of the tournament, so I meandered up the hill to watch the armored division fights and wait for the melee.

One guy got cracked in the face and got a bloody nose. From a tube.





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The guy on the left ended up taking home the championship trophy, as his finishing move was consistently knocking the tube out of his opponent’s hand and then stomping on it until it broke. Not exactly sporting, but not against the rules, either. The only rules were: hold your tube at the end, avoid face-hitting if possible, and no jabbing.

After the tournaments came the melee, where everybody was to grab a tube, or two, or part of a tube, and just wail on one another. The very moment they cried ‘GO!’ for the melee, and we began running and screaming at one another at the height of cardboard bloodlust, the skies opened up and it began pouring. Within seconds, we were soaked to the bone, slipping in mud, and STILL smacking one another around with soggy cardboard.

When all that remained was limp paper bits and defeated participants, that is when Frank texted me to ask if the fight was still going on. Yes, Vomit Date Frank was supposed to attend the duel, but missed it owing to one: his night owl schedule and two: not feeling particularly well. If he can give turning into a living vomit fountain a pass, I can excuse this sort of lateness. He asked if I’d still like to get together and see The Wolfman, and I agreed that sounded mighty fine. On my way to the theater, I ended up having to buy a hoodie so I would have something warm and dry to wear so I wouldn’t freeze in the theater for two hours.

Before the movie started, we had some time to catch up, and when I asked him if anything new and exciting was going on, he said he would be in Vegas in two weeks. “Really?” I exclaimed. “I’m going to be in Vegas in two weeks.” As it turns out, we’re going out on the same flight, so I will have a seat buddy in whom I do not have to fake an interest for a few hours. What are the odds!?

Cool! Even this menu is made of meat! It’s an entire chicken pounded flat!

On Saturday, I went to Ipanema with Tristan and Daniel for Rodizio. Daniel’s vegetarian girlfriend was out of town for the weekend, and thus we felt it was right and natural to cram him full of meat, like Atkins on overdrive.

What is Rodizio, you ask? Only the greatest invention in the history of time, where handsome men bring a variety of twenty-two different meats skewered on swords tableside, cutting you slice after slice until you absolutely cannot eat another bite and then you eat one anyway because it’s all so delicious. THAT is Rodizio. A veritable orgy of meats, excess to the point of feeling foolish for having also gotten veggies, because while the balanced diet can include the occasional eating contest, you don’t win friends with salad.

They brought us sword after sword of meat–pepper steak, parmesan pork, spicy sausages, The Most Tender Chicken On Earth, garlic steak, tri tip, sirloin…I can’t even remember it all. Tristan asked if we’d ever eaten so much we’d gone temporarily blind, and it seemed like if it was ever going to happen, that would be the day. Our organs were all crammed full of meat, even ones outside of the digestive tract. Our lungs were full of meat. Our sinuses were packed with meat. My uterus was storing a pound of pepper steak. And still the handsome waiters kept circling. All I could think was, “What’s happening to me? There’s still food, but I don’t want to eat it. I’ve become everything I’ve ever hated!” Even attempting to summon up the competitive spirit of Eater X could not convince me to eat even one more bite, aside from the fried banana. And the remainder of the veggies on my plate. But that was it, I swear.

I stared at the table and groaned while the boys continued to eat. Eventually, they flipped the card on the table, signalling ‘OH GOD NO MORE’ to the waiters, and we cracked wise that I would go off to my afternoon meeting with Lurch smelling like Eau de Au Jus*.

Actually, I probably STILL smell like Eau de Au Jus.

*Yes this phrase is completely and utterly meaningless in French but I maintain that it’s funny and punchy regardless.

Presidents, Schmesidents…Helloooooo Long Weekend!

This weekend has been insanely busy, and instead of posting about it and getting caught up, I have elected to spend the entire day playing Mass Effect (the first one) and cleaning. Verdict: I still don’t know if I like it. Ok, I’m pretty sure I don’t like it but I can’t quite pinpoint why, especially when it’s so acclaimed. The fact that I had no problem getting up and cleaning the kitchen, taking a phone call from my mom–this doesn’t say good things for this game.

Leave it to me to tell you about the first game when everyone is shitting their pants about the sequel; I am nothing if not Miss Day Late and Dollar Short (hence all the buying of games from the bargain bin).

To start off, I loved Knights of the Old Republic. No, really loved Knights of the Old Republic.

No, REALLY loved it:

I found it engaging and compelling and just the right level of challenging. I actually completed the game, which is (shamefully) kind of rare for me–if I get bored or stuck or really frustrated, I move on. Anything hard to do isn’t worth doing, right?

Mass Effect feels like a watered-down version of Knights of the Old Republic to me. I should like it, all of the elements are there: space exploration, the opportunity to be Queen Bitch of the Universe, the guy who voiced Carth Onasi…I should like it. But it’s not there. For me, Mass Effect is like going back to that boyfriend you dumped years ago and for a while, it’s ok because it feels familiar, but familiarity doesn’t spark passion and it’s never quite the same as it used to be. Even the Elcor cribbing speech patterns directly from HK-47 made me wistful for the old game, not engaged with the new one.

So far, the story isn’t compelling. I’m supposed to STOP the killer robots from wiping out all of galactic civilization? A galactic civilization that I find highly annoying and wouldn’t mind seeing wiped out? Yeah, ok.

I also don’t like that the dialogue options that you’re given is never what Shepard actually says. Example courtesy shadowstitch:

> How’s it going? > I can’t talk now > Get out of my face

Shepard: “I’ll eat your children and fuck your mother.”

If I’m supposed to be in control of the conversation as the player, the option I select should accurately reflect the in-game dialogue, even if it’s more succinct in the options. When it doesn’t match, it feels like I’m being given an ‘option’ just to placate me as a player.

Switching between weapons in battle or between weapon attacks and biotic attacks seems unnecessarily complicated. I don’t like that you can’t switch between party members–what’s the point of having me level up an entire party’s worth of characters if I can’t control their skills and attacks directly? If Kaidan is the one with lock-picking skills, why is Shepard the one who picks the locks? If Wrex falls in battle, how is it that he is magically revived afterward, but if Shepard falls, it’s game over?

In a gripe that’s likely personal to MY game setup, entering the menu screens causes my TV to buzz horribly. In-game, no buzz, reasonable volume. Menu? It’s like the volume has doubled and it’s ALL buzz. Ugh. It makes me want to spend NO time looking at mission objectives, leveling the characters, choosing weapons and armor–I want nothing to do with anything on that menu screen.

I don’t like to think that I’m penalizing it for being KOTOR-but-not-quite, but I can’t quite figure out what merits it DOES have. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll put a few more hours into it and see if it picks up, story-wise, and draws me in. Otherwise, I’m calling this one a miss.

“Can we look in our little red boxes?” “Ladies, get out your mirrors!”

Two days until Valentine’s Day and the majority of the straight male population is thinking about vagina: Will they get some? How over-the-top-ridiculous do they have to behave to not be banished to the couch? Will she notice if I wrap up some Halloween candy in newspaper? No seriously, will they get some?

Ladies: I propose that you give vagina some thought, too, particularly if you don’t have enough other flaws to obsess over.

Is it pink enough? A dye job might be in order if you want to have the appeal of pre-necrotic Marilyn!

Are you neat and trimmed? Have you considered a design? Perhaps a sweet little heart or for the more swaggery among you, a bitchin’ set of mutton chops?

Is it as fresh and youthful feeling as your face? Is it time to schedule a Vajacial? This anti-aging treatment will keep your business from looking like Dumbo’s trunk.

While you’re in the area, anal bleaching is all the rage and will really demonstrate to your man (and the press and your peers if you are Britney Spears) that you’re willing to go the extra mileinch to be aesthetically pleasing.

Last but not least, it’s too late to surprise your man with a designer vagina or a restitched hymen this year (during the healing process, it’s apt to look like your cooter went six rounds with Tyson) but it’s never too early to book for next year! Hopefully by this time next year, I can get speakers installed so that when I whip off my panties, the low rumbling tones of Barry White will emanate pleasingly from my ladybusiness. I will call it my vajayPod.

With it all tricked out like an amusement park, an admittance price of flowers doesn’t seem particularly high, does it?


While at the Editors show, I received this entirely charming text message:

“I just watched a Microsoft computer security lead run a gallon of gasoline onto a fire with a leaf blower. Wish you were here. :)”

I don’t know why I’m flattered that someone was thinking of me while watching an explosive mixture of fire and stupidity, but there you have it.

The Editors @ Showbox Market

On Friday, I received a text from Aisling asking if I one: had heard of The Editors and two: wanted to go see them. She had bought her boyfriend a pair of tickets to the show as his Christmas present and he had also bought a pair of tickets, so they brought me along with one of the extras.

Since I’m not a TOTAL mooch, I bought them both dinner at The Honey Hole beforehand, and was frankly surprised to see ‘Beer Battered Onion Ring And French Fry Platter’ under the category of ‘Lite Fare’.

This, folks, may be why we are fat.

We ended up missing the first opening band alltogether, and the second (Princeton? I think?) left me thoroughly underwhelmed. Truth be told, I kind of wanted to beat these guys up. I’ve never been a bully, but the urge to give the singer an atomic wedgie was almost overwhelming. Everything about them was awkward. The music was awkward. The stage banter was awkward. They were awkward. Whether genuine or contrived, they are owed a wedgie by someone at some point.

Having never heard The Editors before, Princeton’s underwhelming performance left me a little concerned for what was in store. I oughtn’t have worried, I generally agree with Aisling’s tastes and I don’t think she’d invite me to a show that she thinks I’d hate.

They were really energetic performers, the music was tight, and I am a really big fan of the singer’s voice. If Muse, Interpol, and She Wants Revenge had a baby, I think it would sound a lot like The Editors. However, it was really, really, really loud. At one point, I am certain I could feel my hearing getting damaged.

Protip to concertgoers: Everybody brings in cameras to shows now; with a camera standard on every phone model, it’s a rare venue that will try and take any camera away at the door. Young Ansel Adams, should you feel the need to photograph over a short person’s head, capturing images you will likely never look at again, you ought to take care not to let your camera strap dangle and continually brush the hairs on the top of that short person’s head, thereby interrupting their concert experience. You may find that short person has an equally short temper to match, loathes being touched by strangers, and may be considering whipping around, grabbing your camera, and smashing it in your face and the only thing stopping this person from doing so is the desire not to embarrass this person’s friend in front of her new boyfriend and that next time, you may get the beating and wedgie combination you so richly deserve.

Blasting across the alpine hills in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated tube

On Sunday, I went tubing with Tristan, because we both agree that skiing and snowboarding sound like a lot of work, but that sliding downhill at high speed on our stomachs should be completely doable.


Two out of the last three weekends, I have had to sign documents promising not to sue if I break my face. This is a good trend, I think. We ended up getting there with quite a lot of time to spare, and instead of standing around in the snow for an hour like schmucks, we hiked up to the ski lodge and hit up the bar at ten am.   22270_282134638939_125871_n

Gin & tonic & mac & cheese: truly the breakfast of champions. The bartender was maybe a little heavy-handed for ten in the morning, but I can hardly fault him. By the time we hit the snow, I was already toasty warm inside.


We were maybe a little apprehensive about flinging ourselves downhill on a tube; after all, they wouldn’t have us sign a waiver unless there was actual danger involved, right? What if the abominable snowman doesn’t just go after skiers but instead enjoys snacking on the easier prey of adults on less-maneuverable tubes, swelled with dairy and starches and too drunk to run away? Worse, what if we enjoy it so much we end up concocting a special tubing uniform like this guy?


The only way I can describe this outfit is: A clown ate crayons until he exploded, and a passing unicorn was so amazed by the sight that HE exploded, too. We oughtn’t have worried–flinging ourselves downhill was insanely fun, even better as adults than we remembered as midwest tykes. We conducted a series of experiments as to which position led to the fastest and furthest ride and didn’t come to any official conclusions, but unofficially, flinging yourself onto the tube, superman-style (belly down, legs out or up, arms extended) was the most fun, knees into the hole of the tube was probably the most dangerous (Tristan flipped his tube, to the raucous laughter of us all), and on your back looking up at the sky FELT most dangerous but actually got a shorter overall distance owing to not being able to run and dive onto the tube with any great accuracy. About half the time, we trudged back up the hill on foot, and half the time we took the tow. We probably could have gotten more rides in during our two-hour block if we’d trudged up every time, but then I might have died. 22270_282130263939_850911_n

22270_282136613939_1032835_n This is my ‘I’m boozed up and overstimulated’ face. The two hours positively flew by, but at the end, I was surprised at just how worn out I was–it didn’t seem like we’d done anything worthy of the term ‘exercise’ but my body told me otherwise. Everyone else seemed to be running out of steam as well. Tubes were being abandoned at the bottom of the hill and I ricocheted off one and nearly flew off my tube. A kid who didn’t want to hike back up the hill threw snow at his dad’s camera and the dad lost his shit. The employees were perky as ever, cracking jokes, asking us if we had fun, saying they hoped we would come back…it was really nice. On the way home, we loudly sang along to the Rocky Horror soundtrack, maaaaybe drawing stares from passing cars. Maybe.