This Week's Look Book: Kaavya Viswanathan
The Look Book- Kaavya Viswanathan, Overachiever/OverplagiaristWhat do you do?
Well, until recently, I was just your average Indian-American Harvard student/author of a book on several bestseller lists. But one day last week, things started to go awry. There were these plagiarism accusations...and I'll tell you, I don't ever want to feel like I did that day. I said to myself, "I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can't bring me down," but my mind starting playing these foolish games, and they're tearing me apart. All this negativity in my head, in my head, zombie! Zombie! Zombie! It's like, flies in the vaseline we are. Sometimes it blows my mind, and it's totally insane in the brain. I mean, it's not confidential- I've got potential rushing around! I guess I had a bad day, and I'm taking one down, but I'll sing a sad song and I'll turn it around. Still, I wish the real world would just stop hassling me.What are you doing today?
Today? Today is totally awesome, it's like the greatest day I've ever known! Can't live for tomorrow, tomorrow's much too long. Besides, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. So I might go bowling or something.Where do you live?
On the dark side of the moon, usually. Sometimes with my parents. Hopefully, if i can get over this hump, this hump this hump this hump this hump, I'll get my own place.What are you wearing today?
I am wearing an Indian top with jeans so that there will be no mistake among New York Times readers as to my cultural background. I don't want them to see me and think I'm like, Puerto Rican or something. There's all kinds of weird confusion these days. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night. So it's like, I'm trying to simplify and stuff.Do you have hobbies apart from writing?
I enjoy mime, lithography, Xerox-ing, vocal impersonation, shopping on Canal Street, designing clothes for H&M and ABS, transcription, and watching DNA replicateA Jane-of-all-trades, in other words?
That is well said, replied Candide...um, I mean, replied ME, but we must cultivate our garden.
I've gotten word of a certain website
that ranks New York's socialites based on evaluation by a "Board of Directors which consists of three designers, four editors, two dames and one gentleman of the social scene, one gossip columnist and one party photographer who came up with the final rankings for the first and historic ranking." This is, indeed, a momentous occasion, and not just because a) this consolidation of New York's Finest means that I can meet the wise, all-knowing photographic gaze of Lauren DuPont or Plum Sykes at any time of day or night with one simple click of the mouse b) I can now bask in the knowledge that at least 12 people have even less to do with their time than I do- and also choose to abuse this boredom by showing a flagrant lack of concern for anything less superficial than a scratch c) the point discrepancy between Lauren Bush and Helen Lee Schifter has been plaguing me for many moons now. And while I kind of sensed all along that they were about .3 points apart, I couldn't quite nail the specifics of where they stood vis-a-vis Lisa Airan. Now I know!
All of those things contribute to the gravity of this groundbreaking, history-altering moment, don't get me wrong. However, the true significance lies in one major fact: these Mystery Judges have independently and scientifically come to the same conclusion that I came to long ago (well, three months ago). They, too, know that Tinsley Mortimer is #1!! All those times that I doubted myself, considered doing a Lauren Davis Report or an analysis of Amanda Hearst's dancing maneuvers instead of sticking with the Tins, I was simply trying to ignore the inner voice that kept shouting "Mortimer! Mortimer!" But I was right, and now I have evidence. This is truly a thrilling day for all involved (me). I will sleep well tonight, that's for sure...
Vegas Social Diary- Party Pictures
It was a splendid Easter Weekend in Vegas! High Society was out and about in all of its colorful, classy permutations in honor of spring, the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and legal prostitution. Notable socialites included Candi Johnson
from the Central Valley Trailer Park, Butch the Skinhead
, Martin and Sally Weinberger
of northern Peoria, all members of Tonya Perkowski's
bachelorette party, and a chronic gambler and drifter named Bo Blackjack
from Ocala, FL. With such a roster of distinguished guests, the weekend was a guaranteed success! Let's take a look at some of the fashionable men/women- about- town:
Here is Big Stu
, back in Vegas after completing a successful hit for one of his KKK clients. In this picture, he is unarmed, but he generally looks all the more dapper with a lead pipe or a tire iron in hand. You can't see it here, but rest assured that those jeans end at the knee. Stu wouldn't be caught dead in denim unless it's in shorts form; with a K-Mart model girlfriend to let him know what's "hot" and what's "not," he's always on the cutting edge when it comes to fashion!
Nothing says "I love you, so let's indulge in one too many bags of pork rinds together" like matching color schemes! Especially when they involve overalls and sneaker-clogs. Here, this chic duo struts the catwalk of Las Vegas Blvd and shows the world how to do oversized, red t-shirts the RIGHT way.
Warning! Style mavens ahead! That's what this second example of Couples Coordination screams to us with these bold orange accents. Socialites Krystal and Buck O'Reilly mean business; a man in cropped knickers doesn't mess around. Krystal's clogs serve as an ingenious geometric counterpoint to the angles created by her shoulder blades, the shirt that somehow falls far short of them, and the Sunglass Centerpiece on this metaphoric table of wonders.
In yet another example of this noteworthy fad, society trendsetters Phyllis and Bob Smith opted for a very Spring-ish floral motif. Phyllis' magenta capris were cropped just enough to allow the white on her shirt to match the white of her sun-starved calves. Bob's shirt beautifully complements the tint of his Blueblockers- and don't think for a moment that he didn't know it when he chose this finely nuanced ensemble!
Here is Ryan Abutino, ever-dandy member of Vegas' most established social circles. His high status is evidenced by his fluency in the universal language of Medallion. Even though you can't see it well in this picture (despite my fervent attempts to make it visible for the camera), suffice it to say that he's got one mean hunk of gold-plated copper on that white collar!
Buddy and Lynette Bibbers enjoy a quiet moment on the regal pillars of Caesar's Palace. Buddy, ever mindful of his physique and the importance of adequately "filling out" one's wifebeater, enjoys a bag of Lays while Lynette adjusts her Eagle Eyes to better view his mandals.
Uh-oh! Looks like David Patrick Columbia and I have competition when it comes to Society photography! I'm not sure which website or publication this shoot was for, but if I had to guess, I'd say Quest or Avenue magazines, or perhaps the New Yorker. Or the New Republic.
Ever the "businessman," Dirk Dragon checks his Blackberry to see if any "clients" have e-mailed. His lineage is impeccable, and Dirk prides himself on being a 14th-generation chest waxer. His tailor removes the top 5 buttons of every shirt he purchases, including this tasteful, elegant number lifted from the set of a 1987 film called "Boobs in Toyland."
And of course, last but not least, it's respected artist and toast of the town Val The Stripper. Typically camera shy, Val agreed to be photographed here, so long as it was done with levels of sophistication and class to which he is accustomed. Val's line of designer thongs has been featured in such magazines as Playgirl and Bulk Male. Additionally, he has hosted a number of notable, exclusive parties in Las Vegas, including the Young Republicans Banquet and Muffie Potter Aston's anniversary party.
A Birthing Poem For Little Suri Cruise
Little Suri Cruise:
Welcome to planet Earth!
I'm sure you miss your Home Planet
But you bring boundless mirth
To lovely Mama Kate
And Papa Tommy Cruise
Your name might come from Persians
Or maybe from Hebrews
No one seems to know, in fact
Where "Suri" had it's start
But it ends with you, and thanks to you
Your folks can play their part
See, Mommy signed a contract
And Daddy signed it too
And then he brainwashed Mommy
And then they ordered you!
They used a pretty test tube
With a dose of media spin
And a drop of L. Ron's dogma
(But not one bit of carnal sin)
So Daddy jumped on couches
And Ma became a drone
And Daddy promoted movies
While Mommy grew his clone
And then the Day arrived at last
The paparazzi began to riot!
And Mommy had a pacifier
To ensure that her birthing was quiet
And out you came, O little one
And the world owes you an apology
It's not your fault that your wacky Dad
Combined a good word like "science" with "tology."
I hope for your sake that post-partum depression
Is never in Mommy's presence
Daddy would rather have her eat you
Than put her on anti-depressants
But welcome, Suri, and congratulations!
The CruiseBaby Club is selective
So may all your days be merry and bright
And all your Dianetics effective
The Suspense Is Killing Me!
My dear friend M, whose camera I hijacked for my own nefarious purposes in Vegas, has not yet bothered to download my glorious photos onto her computer. So, sadly, I am still without the promised imagery. If she does not comply by tomorrow, I will send Val the Male Stripper to have a little chat with her. And by "chat," I mean "chlamydia transmission session." I am secure, almost as secure as Brangelina's Namibian birthing compound, in the knowledge that this tactic will be effective. Until then...
Vegas Social Diary
Coming tomorrow, so stay tuned...
But in the meantime, let me just say that Vegas might as well be Mars, only Martians probably speak better English and own fewer fanny packs. I have seen men wearing more jewelry than Queen Elizabeth, and I have seen a male stripper named Val, who has no body hair and a pronounced affinity for both coconut oil and herpes, give an xxx-rated lap dance to an overweight bachelorette from Indiana. I have had my dinner at an expensive steakhouse interrupted by an impromptu parade consisting of two drag queens, a pimp, and several midgets in matching dresses. I have learned the life story of a blackjack dealer named Tom because I spent three hours straight at his table. On a Sunday afternoon. Easter Sunday afternoon. I have seen call-girls in stiletto boots meeting their unattractive, short, balding "customers" in public as husbands and wives in matching denim overalls dragged their screaming, mulleted children away from the man handing out strip-club flyers. I have seen an enormous woman in leggings and Skechers clogs and her equally enormous, wife-beatered husband walking down the street at 1pm, sipping from 2-foot-long, plastic cocktail glasses full of rum punch. I have watched a Mexican man drop $400 for one bottle of not-so-great vodka at a club, while two greasy hombres with diamond studs in their ears and half unbuttoned shirts performed the dance equivalent of a gang-bang on a girl wearing a halter top and a chain belt with the approximate width of the Hudson River. I have been nearly deafened by the surround-sound trance music blaring from speakers at the hotel pool area. In the morning. I have washed down a $20 sandwich with a $6 bottle of water. Which I paid for with an $100 bill, because that is the only type of bill the ATM machine contained. I have avoided the cover charge at a lounge by blending in with a group of Midwestern spring breakers wearing capri pants with 6-inch platforms, and I have participated in their converation, despite the blank stares resulting from the fact that they have never laid eyes on me before, in order to keep the bouncer's suspicions at bay. Yes, I have done, seen and heard many, many things in the great City of Sin. And tomorrow brings visual evidence...
What Happens This Weekend Stays In This Weekend
Off to Vegas to properly commemorate the Resurrection of the Son of God and Savior of All Mankind, and to continue Passover observances with the proper degree of piety. Back Monday, minus a few thousand brain cells...
Watch That Girl Go!!
David Patrick Columbia provides us with an extra-special treat today. At the New Yorkers for Children benefit on Friday night, Tinsley Mortimer expressed her feelings about Underprivileged Youths by dancing up a storm...and fortunately for us, New York Social Diary was there to capture it in all of its glory! Here are some of the highlights of this most fabulous montage:
This move may look simple enough, but what you may NOT know is that Tinsley's dance partner has no right arm, thanks to a freak accident involving the zipper on a Loro Piana sweater. Thus, Tinsley is actually defying gravity by standing, unsupported, at a 45 degree angle. She has worked for many years to hone this particular party trick, and it looks like she's just about nailed it here. Notice how she keeps her mouth open in order to maintain proper balance.
This is an updated version of the traditional "Hokey Pokey"dance. Body parts are disqualified from entry into the "shake it all about zone" if they are not appropriately accessorized. Preferably in Stephen Dweck or David Yurman baubles and platform heels higher than 3.5 inches. Tinsley passed with flying colors! Green, white, and a warm, off-platinum honey blond
, to be exact.
In this shot, Tinsley is practicing a particularly lethal Jujitsu move. A waxed, yoga-toned leg is bent suggestively in the direction of the perpetrator, who, distracted by the enticing imagery, is completely oblivious to the neck-snapping headlock to which he is about to fall victim. Unbeknownst to her male companion, he will not be supporting another batch of Underprivileged Youths any time soon...
Here we see Tinsley and "friend" involved in an intricate dance step (evasive measure?) in which a metallic clutch is passed back and forth between blond socialites attempting to avoid physical contact with a sweaty, mildly effeminate, social-climbing Princeton graduate in the magazine industry. On every fourth downbeat, the clutch is opened, a small mirror is removed, and a Chanel lip gloss is liberally applied with a sweeping, syncopated motion.
I Am A Buzzkill
I am getting killed at work this week, so I apologize for the dearth of posts. But it's nice out! And it's almost the weekend! And it's spring! So go out, get drunk, loiter at Pastis, meet a cute Goldman Sachs VP, end up at Bungalow 8, wake up in a Tribeca loft, go to work in the same clothes you left in, and the world will be right again. I promise. And I'll be back before you can say "Tinsley"...
Gone Today, Here Tomorrow...
Breaking News: Tinsley Mortimer Not As Blond As Before, World Reacts
According to an article
about about New York Blondes in yesterday's Times, Tinsley Mortimer is no longer as blond as she used to be. Says Mortimer, "I loved being really light blond, but it was just super-high-maintenance. Now I have a little darker blond color that is easier to take care of." This is a very interesting development in the long and complex history of Tinsley's grooming habits. Analysts who track the subtle variations in her highlighter/toner ratios all agree that the repercussions of this particular departure from past coloring trends will be severe and far-reaching. In fact, UN Secretary General Kofi Annan has called an emergency meeting to discuss how this shift to a more honey-based color scale may affect global peacekeeping efforts and the overall political climate in the Middle East. Not since Nicky Hilton went brunette in 2004 has a modified hair care routine so profoundly impacted the course of current events. We can only hope that she does not also decide to switch pedicurists or start wearing a different mascara. Humanity may never recover from a blow (or a brush) of that magnitude.
When Naomi Speaks, We Listen
"I COMMAND YOU TO HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND. OTHERWISE, MY JEWEL-ENCRUSTED BLACKBERRY
WILL MAKE AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOUR HEAD."
This Week's Look Book: Whitney Houston's Sink Fixture
The Look Book: Mr. Sink, celebrity bathroom componentWhat are you doing today?
Today I am waiting for the housekeeper to come and clean me so that little Bobbi Kristina doesn't accidentally mistake the "rock candy" for rock candy and eat it like she did last week. After I'm tidied up, I'll probably go out for a light lunch and run some errands. I'm meeting with an agent this afternoon- all this tabloid coverage is great exposure, and I'm hoping to pursue a career in acting. It's really inspiring to see how Hollywood is finally writing some good roles for bathroom fixtures. Did you see "V" for Vendetta? The shower stall in one of the murder scenes is my good friend Eddie.What do you do?
For my first owners, I generally served as an appropriate surface for various toiletries, grooming accessories, moisturizers and the occasional wet towel. For Whitney, I serve as an appropriate surface for various narcotics, their accompanying paraphernalia, beer cans, blunt roaches, and occasionally, for Whitney's unconscious body itself.Is it a difficult job?
Well, I wouldn't exactly call it difficult, seeing as though I don't actually do anything but rest immobile while Whitney uses me as her own personal chemistry lab. I have
accumulated various dings, scratches and burn marks because of Whitney's carelessness. But they're no worse, really, than the various dings, scratches and burn marks that she's accumulated because of Bobby.What do you wear to work?
Generally, I wear outfits like the one I'm wearing now. My neutral marble base tone allows me to experiment with a variety of accessories. Sometimes I wear Budweiser with a spoon and a dirty ashtray. Other times I wear a glass pipe, a mirror, a broken lighter and a light residue made of coca byproducts, tar, THC resin, and drool. I love to be creative with fashion. It's how I express myself.With a celebrity employer, do you ever have any strange on-the-job experiences?
Well, once Whitney came in and started rambling to me about life, love, her career, crack...but her dentures were out and she was wearing a Hefty Cinch Sack, leggings, and one shoe, so I accidentally mistook her for a schizophrenic homeless person who'd somehow broken into the house. I threatened to call the cops on her, which would have been super embarrassing if she'd heard me! But luckily, I do not possess vocal cords, so it all worked out. Whew!Do you have any style icons?
I love the work of AvroKo, Phillippe Starck. I'd love to move to New York and work in one of Ian Schrager's condo projects, preferably as the sink in a high floor loft with open views and all-new kitchen appliances. A fixture can dream, right?Does anyone ever tell you you look like someone?
Some people think I look a lot like the sink at the Cleveland Marriott.
Hot Accessory Alert!
According to CNN and various other news sources, Jessica Simpson is planning to adopt a Child at some point in the near future. Says her stylist, Jessica Paster, "A Child can be purchased in brown, black, white, yellow, or red, and comes in several different sizes and skins. It's truly the perfect accessory for all four seasons, daytime or evening." Simpson has not yet selected hers, but friends say she's incredibly enthused about Children, and is therefore likely to snap up as many as the store has in stock. That way, not only can she choose the Child that best suits her outfit and mood on a given day, but she can also easily dispose of and replace one, should it lose its luster, grow, or express the need to be fed. For those of us mortals who lack bottomless bank accounts, and can therefore only afford one, Children will also be available in a limited-run, life-extending taxidermist's edition. Either way, with Jessica on the Child Train, I think we can safely say this: a new trend is born!
Inside The Lyricist's Studio: Pussycat Dolls Edition
In today's analysis, we shall cover a stanza from "Beep," the Pussycat Dolls song:
"I don't give a...
Keep looking at my...
'Cause it don't mean a thing if you're looking at my...
I'm a do my thing while you're playing with your...
Ha, ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha"
In this cryptic, deliciously nuanced verse, the Pussycat Dolls adopt a lighthearted approach to the concept of "taboo" as a means of cultural control, while at the same time providing general commentary on the illusions of liberty and free will that characterize human thought. Employing a groundbreaking, vocalized usage of the ellipsis, the Dolls appear to withhold from us, to tease us with incomplete phrases and inconclusive thoughts. However, this harmless device only serves as a cleverly disguised means of providing us with even more in the end; by acting as musically inclined, scantily clad Robinhoods, stealing from the ends of their sentences in order to further enrich our ability to think critically, the Dolls actually render the Final Truth all the more rewarding.
As is the case with all great poetry, art, and music, it is precisely that which is left unsaid in this masterwork that grips us, pulls us from our chairs, and drags us to the forefront of our collective consciousness. Looking at my...what? Playing with your...what? Your Tickle-Me Elmo? Your Sony PlayStation? It could be anything, and this sense of infinite possibility wreaks havoc on our intrinsic craving for information, for knowledge, and for answers. But the Dolls are smarter than we are. They know that we know that they know the exact nature of the message they wish to convey, and they also know that, in reality, there is not one drop of mystery to be squeezed from this carefully constructed verse. Sure, the songwriters may very well have envisioned a lyric that proclaims, "I don't give a darn, keep looking at my yarn." But we know better, and that is not what we see. Our well-trained neocortical matter is not fazed by the ellipsis, and it easily "reads" those words that are, in fact, unwritten. We may loathe ourselves for possessing this knowledge, but try as we might, we cannot fight against a force of this magnitude, an unstoppable momentum generated by year upon year of cultural conditioning.
"Ha, ha-ha, ha-ha," the Pussycat Dolls taunt with smug derision at the end of the verse. We are the humbled victims of their mockery because we have reached conclusions, but not conclusions that they have forcefully imposed upon us. The song is the medium, but the Dolls did not compose this message; they merely pressed "send" and watched it weed-whack its way through our preexisting cosmological order. And they chuckle heartily, secure in the knowledge that we have incriminated ourselves with filthy, smut-laden, gender specific thoughts while they remain innocent of any crime other than that of mere suggestion. Yes, this verse is but a Rorschach Test for American culture as a whole, and our interpretation indicts us. Like a mirror held up to a figurative face, the reflection of who we are as a People is cast back upon us each time "Beep" soars out of our speakers and collides with our cochlear nerves. But we mustn't panic. We must use this as an opportunity, a chance to embark on a perilous voyage of self-discovery, a reason to pause and ponder the means by which preconceptions and socially-generated thought processes beyond our control hold us captive, prisoners of our own minds. And then we must laugh, "Ha ha-ha, ha-ha," with our sagacious, erudite Pussycat Doll friends, and then we must press the forward arrow on our i-Pods and wait with open arms and open minds for whatever new diversion the "shuffle" function has selected.
My Boss Won't Let Me Out Of My Cage
I hate when this inconsequential thing known as "my job" gets in the way of my work. But the sun'll come out, tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar that tomorroooooow, there'll be suuuuuun (insert stylized Star Search child actor over-trained vibrato here). I will leave you to ponder this palindrome in the meantime:
"A man, a plan, a canal, panama."
Talk amongst yourselves...
Every Picture Tells A Story, Part II
Lizzie Grubman and Chris Stern's wedding reception at Cipriani 42nd Street last Saturday was a mirthful event for all involved. If you missed out on the action, here's your chance to catch up!
Andy Russell (left):
"Lizzie, run away with me! I know you love me, and you mustn't hide from the truth anymore."
Lizzie Grubman (right), nervously:
"Andy, people are staring at us! This is my wedding party, for God's sake. And don't put your nose so close to my hair, the peroxide fumes have already killed three people tonight."
"I don't care! Let it kill me! I already have sun poisoning from standing within three feet of your UV-saturated skin, so fumes are the least of my worries. Run away with me, Lizzie! We must go tonight!"
"Andy, how would we even leave without everyone in this room noticing?"
"That's easy! We'll hide behind the Patrick McMullan logo that floats around us as we dance."
"Ah, perfect! I am so glad they are covering this event. Just give me a sec to put myself in Reverse..."
Dori Cooperman (second from left):
"Guys, I'm starting to regret trying to one-up Tinsley's horn implants
by having this forearm and hand grafted to my neck. Holding my head at this awkward angle all the time is starting to get a little painful."
Daniella Rich (far left):
"Quit your whining, Dori, you know that most women would kill to have a gratuitous appendage like that. And look on the bright side- at least Patrick McMullan listed your full name, which is more than I can say for Mr. "?" to your left."
? (second from right):
"False! If you must know, ? is my actual name. My powerful, mysterious essence, which I am currently attempting to convey facially, transcends language and can only be adequately captured through punctuation."
Goga Ashkenazy (far right):
"Oh shut it, we all know you changed your name to "?" because that's what they always called you anyway."
"Ummmm. Hmmm. Hey, Dori! How's that third hand? I think it just fixed my hair!"
"Whatever, hair-fixing is nothing. MY third hand holds my cocktails for me!"
Goga Ashkenazy (right):
"Ha! You are all complete amateurs. Serena and I just had our HEADS FUSED, and your puny little hands can't hold a candle to our conjoined skull. Now that we have twice the cerebral matter, we can perform mind-boggling mental feats that we never would have attempted individually. Such as basic addition and subtraction!"
Serena Boardman (left):
"Enough, Serena. I already told you, Dr. Blobbenstein assured me that he'd reposition your head so you can talk again. I really don't think this warrants a malpractice suit."
Rachel Peters (right):
"Umm...that's all very well and good, guys. But has anyone else noticed that Dori's third hand has separated itself from her neck and is now getting a little too close for comfort to my leg?"
Jeff Goldstein (left), to Jennifer Raines (center):
"Honey, don't let Rachel distract you. The hand is her problem. We need to keep our priorities straight and focus on this very important photo opportunity. This could be our big break!"
"Into what? Lizzie Grubman's wedding album? Look, I'm starting to get really scared...I think this thing is going to grab me!"
Jennifer Raines (center):
"Rachel, do you EVER think of anyone but yourself? Gosh, I look amazing tonight."
Raspberry Tartlet (second from right):
"Dude, I don't know what to make of these people. It's totally surreal."
"Really? And the fact that we are inanimate food products with both a masterful command of the English language and the ability to vocalize it is not?"
If New York Magazine Can Have A Look Book, So Can I
The Look Book: Jessica Joffe, "Writer"/"Socialite" What are you doing right now?
I am modelling for my good friend Holly Dunlap's "Hollywould" collection. Perhaps you've heard of her? She has many celebrity friends! She selected me because I am "beautiful, albeit in an unconventional, unfussy way," and because I have a "quirky, unique sense of style." But of course, I am modelling ironically, and I am actually engaging in a subversive act of resistance by placing myself within a societally-constructed concept of "feminine idealization" and then tearing down the very structure that I have helped to build. I am an intellectual, as you might have noticed. Did you know that I'm writing a book?I see how you are operating within those constructs, but how exactly are you tearing them down?
Is it not obvious? I tear them down by dating the scion of a multi-billion dollar corporation and then a rockstar, attending numerous benefits, wearing expensive clothing, and adopting an upper-class British dialect despite my American childhood.Perhaps a Cockney accent would have been slightly more subversive?
I have been featured in Vogue. Isn't that fascinating?Where do you live?
Inside the vastly inflated hype that surrounds me. On holidays I visit my delusions of grandeur or spend a weekend with my affectations.What do you do?
Sometimes I read aloud from various Greek philosophical texts while wearing vintage Ossie Clark, legwarmers, and a John Deere trucker hat. On other occasions, I crank up the Wagner, pour myself a glass of black market absinthe, and reenact Millais' "Ophelia." Did I mention that I'm writing a book?How would you describe your style?
It would take me a while to translate the nuances of my conceptual framework into layman's terms. But I'll begin by pointing out that Zac Posen is my friend.Tell me about this outfit...
I think that would be Holly Dunlap's job. I was only the model, and since I was not at liberty to select the physical garments, I could only control the "wardrobe" of my attitude. For that, I chose a neutral shade of "smug" and layered it with a bias-cut "self-important" I picked up in a little store southwest of Bangladesh. I am also wearing an embroidered, Chinese silk "jaded" that I found in my mum's closet, and I top the whole thing off with an adorable little "pretentious" from Barneys.
Blame It On The Leprechaun
After his Lucky Charms
Queen Of The Jungle
Simba, Serengeti monarch and world-famous star of "The Lion King," has shocked the public by announcing that he recently underwent gender reassignment surgery. "Back when I was a cub, frolicking about the savannas and partaking in a variety of lighthearted escapades with a warthog and a meerkat, I knew I was different. I just didn't know how," muses the newly-minted lioness. "Besides, transgendered animals were not the norm in those days, especially within the royal family." Adds Nala, his ex-wife and the mother of his cubs, "In retrospect, the fact that he conducted his day-to-day life in musical format should have set off alarm bells. But we were young and foolish at the time." Everything changed, however, when Zazu, avian aide to the royal family, flew into Simba's cave and found him wearing Nala's heels and shaving his mane. Simba had some real soul-searching to do, and some real ballads to sing.
Five years later, Simba is now "Jocelyn Wildenstein," and she owns two luxury apartments in Manhattan. Why did she adopt that particular name? "Well," explains Jocelyn, "My first name is derived from the Latin word for 'joy,' which was my exact emotion upon emerging from the figurative prison of constructed gender roles. The 'wild' in 'Wildenstein' is a nod to my Serengeti origins, and the 'stein?' Well, much like imprisoned rapper Shyne, I have determined that I am actually descended from an ancient clan of Ethiopian Jews."
Now that she has fully assumed her female identity, Jocelyn could not be happier with her new environs, and, more significantly, with her new body. "Eyeliner, lipstick, curling and blonding my mane- this is everything I ever hoped for. I know my father is looking down from the lion-shaped constellation in which his spirit now resides, and he is smiling at me." Bursting into song, she then sums up her situation perfectly: "Oh I juuuuuust can't WAIT to be queeeeeen!"
Tinsley Mortimer Exclusive: Schedules of the Rich and Semi-Famous
In this Road More Traveled exclusive, I present to you a formerly classified page from Tinsley's day planner:
9:oo AM: Wake up! Lovingly caress Pratesi sheets, praise Lord for deliverance from low thread counts
9:15 AM: Brush golden locks 1,800 times with boar bristles to best distribute natural oils and maintain all-over silky luster
9:45 AM: Play dress-up with own clothing, engage in elaborate roleplay. I'm a princess in a pretty castle! Riding to the Royal Ball in a Peter Som-designed coach! Which "accidentally" runs over Zani Gugelmann and Amanda Hearst and Olivia Chantecaille on the way!
10:30 AM: Apply a light mud mask
10:45 AM: Eat a spoonful of Splenda for breakfast. Check New York Social Diary and Patrick McMullan. Print relevant pictures and paste onto personal, self-dedicated shrine in the Tinsley Room. Revise graph that charts comparative photo-coverage of young socialites, see if anyone has finally surpassed self. If so, call Tonya Harding for "assistance."
11:30 AM: Work time! Practice facial expressions and poses in mirror, focus on expanding emotional range. Pout. Grin. Feign surprise. Chuckle. Exude mystery. Smolder. Make flashcards, have maid give quiz.
12:15 PM: Sift through invitations, figure out which already list self as "board member" or "chairwoman." Make flashcards, have maid give quiz. Of remaining invites, decide which poor people/sick people/cultural institutions/designers are worth time. Add rejects to Invitation Compost Pile. Turn contents of pile with Tiffany salad tongs. Admire own eco-friendliness. Also admire own reflection in salad tongs.
1:00 PM: Fred's at Barneys for lunch. If cloudy, stop on lower floors to have sunshine blown up backside by salespeople. If sunny, wear oversized Chanel shades and do same. Call flamboyant, male-designer friend for daily positive affirmation. Agree to receive free clothing from his showroom.
3:00 PM: Have existential crisis. Realize do not know definition of "existential." Reconsider, get pedicure instead.
4:00 PM: Arrive home for prayer session. Pray for deliverance from dress duplication at tonight's benefit. Pray for burn-free encounter with hair curler. Pray that Zani Gugelmann and Amanda Hearst and Olivia Chantecaille have "accidental" encounter with double-decker tourist bus.
5:00 PM: Try on tonight's outfit. Videotape self lip-synching to "Don'tCha" by the Pussycat Dolls
5:30 PM: Massage non-drying facial cleanser into face. Rinse. Repeat.
6:00 PM: Dress and apply make-up. Do extensive mouth stretches to prepare for fake laughter, double-cheek kissing, emoting. Wonder if 29 is too young for Restylane. Ponder moral implications of wearing same sandals twice.
7:00 PM: GO GET 'EM, TIGER! I AM TINSLEY, HEAR ME ROAR.
11:00 PM: Turn in early, as to appear well rested in tomorrow's photos. Ponder adopting Chinese baby. Realize do not know where China is. Reconsider, brush teeth instead.
11:30 PM: Enter hyperbaric oxygen chamber. Remove batteries from self, place in charger. Send daily morse code report to native planet. Fluff pillows. Praise Lord for deliverance from polyester fiberfill. Sleep.
Spring Is Coming!
Spring, glorious Spring! You have left Palm Beach, your jet has landed at Teterboro, and you are now safely ensconced in your townhouse just off of 5th Avenue. Esperanza has taken your matching Vuitton luggage up to the master bedroom and is sorting through your collection of Indian tunics, linen pants, Eres bikinis, bejewelled flats, funky, offbeat necklaces from that loveable and charmingly malnourished street urchin in Morocco, and vintage Pucci. Those belong to Summer and Resort, but you are Spring, and you have a job to do! The city is counting on you, waiting for you to pry it from the icy fingers of bleak, ugly Winter. And you must prepare yourself.
You walk to Bergdorf, past the American Eagle and Claire's Accessories-intensive school group from Tulsa posing in front of a horse and carriage, past the dazed Texan family with matching fanny packs, past the gaggle of giggling Japanese girls with Hello Kitty t-shirts and Gucci handbags, past the lovebirds from Paramus in for a day of window shopping at Tiffany and actual shopping at the Abercrombie & Fitch flagship store. Oh Spring, they don't make it easy for you, do they? But you soldier on bravely, past the US Weekly devotees with their cowboy boots, newsboy caps, aviators and Kooba handbags, past the homeless man and his paranoid delusions, past the Sean John and the football jerseys and the Burberry knockoffs and the Eastern Europeans in surplus L.A. Gears from 1992. Yes, you forge stoically ahead, your "Les Plumes" scarf from Hermes flapping in the breeze and your new Chloe handbag swinging at your side, and you press onwards until you finally, gleefully reach those magnificent and inviting revolving doors. There at last!
But Spring, your trials and tribulations are not yet over. You glance longingly at a Nancy Gonzalez tote in black crocodile, and you pause at the Ippolita display, but you know you mustn't dilly-dally. After all, you have a mission. And Spring, to complete that mission, you must traipse through the maize of stovepipe jeans tucked into knee-high boots, of bleached heads and gum-snapping, Prada-toting, D & G Belt-sporting Ladies of Leisure from the other side of the tunnel. You must dodge the slick, European man in his tinted shades, custom-made loafers and Etro scarf as he escorts his mink-encased wife towards the elevator. You must plow through the 14-year-old city natives with Razrs pressed to their ears, toeing the line between adolescence and later adolescence with their Marc by Marc Jacobs boots. And when, at long last, you finally reach the escalator, you must take your turn behind the elderly woman with her beehive of Licari-tinted hair, her red lipstick and her nicotine-induced baritone.
When you reach the second floor, you simply can't resist taking a peek at the shoes and seeing what Manolo's up to these days. But Spring, you mustn't be distracted; you still haven't found the perfect ensemble for your fast-approaching debut! Will you take the young and flirty route with the yellow Zac Posen or the adorable little Temperley number, or will you opt for clean sophistication with the Narcisco Rodriguez sheath? Will you choose the Oscar de la Renta with its matching bolero, or you will you spice things up with the Derek Lam? You explore the possibilities, and you start a fitting room. O Spring, your options are limitless, and like the commission-hungry saleslady, we anxiously await your decision. Hurry, Spring! Hurry! Do not fuss so much about your appearance; nobody will notice those crow's feet or those five pounds of Fauchon goodies that now rest squarely on your hips. Nobody will care if your roots are showing. You always look smashing when you finally decide to grace this Noble City with your presence, and surely you won't disappoint us (or David Patrick Columbia) this time around. Thus, dearest Spring, we now respectfully beseech thee: show Bergdorf your Platinum Card, and show us your face!
Mormons are all the rage these days, thanks to "Big Love," the new HBO series about polygamists. But I don't need Chloe Sevigny and Bill Paxton to show me Mormon. I KNOW Mormon. And I must confess, this talk about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is making me a bit nostalgic for the days of yore, the halcyon days when Mormans ruled the earth. Or, at the very least, ruled over my bathtime.
You see, many years ago, years before I was a disgruntled 20-something with a cirrhosing liver and a miniature apartment owned by the Chinese mafia (and quite possibly constructed out of medium grade cardboard), I was a young lass attending Prestigious Private School, a lovely institution where blond children with an average of 8 names apiece based their entire conceptualization of the physical universe on which of two local country clubs one frequented. The parents of Prestigious Private School students were very, very busy; as committed participants in a groundbreaking anthropological experiment, they had selflessly and wholeheartedly devoted their existences to the faithful, page-by-page reenactment of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Consequently, there were horses to ride, luncheons to attend, Lyford Cay and Jupiter Island trips to plan, trust funds to feed upon, 9-irons to pull from the club bag, squash matches to play, Tod's to sport and affected, lockjaw parlances to cultivate. Furthermore, since said experiment was generously constructed to provide plenty of room for personal interpretation and creativity, there were also backs to stab, affairs with the tennis pro to discover, children to kick out of boarding school, single-malt whiskeys to abuse and plastic surgeries to undergo. Now, as you can probably imagine, this demanding roster of activities required significant amounts of time and energy. Thus, any duties that weren't directly linked to the Cause simply had to be relegated to other parties. And one such "other party," responsible for the inconsequential and rather bothersome task of raising the children, was the nanny. The noble nanny!
Nannies came in all shapes and sizes at Prestigious Private School. The Janssens, with their Scandinavian roots, preferred statuesque, Nordic 20-year-olds with polite, British-inflected English and names like Bjorn or Birgitta. The McNeil's, on the other hand, passed the reins to Alice, the ancient, grandmotherly type who had also raised Mrs. McNeil (and had, in all likelihood, raised Mrs. McNeil's mother, too). Now, to be sure, my parents were substantially more hands-on than those I've just mentioned, and generally eschewed the tweed-and-tonic-saturated lifestyle favored by the PPS community. However, they certainly didn't want to be left out of the loop when it came to nannies. And left out they were not!
They kicked off the Nanny Spree with a wave of personable Jamaicans, followed by Carmel and Deirdre and Sinead, our seemingly inexhaustible supply of Irish farmgirls. By the time I was six, we'd already been through (traumatized?) enough nannies to populate a small, 3-2-1 Contact-fluent Nanny Nation. At that point, my parents knew that it was time to change tactics, or at least to change cultural backgrounds. But what, exactly, did they want? Who was the Michelangelo's David of the au pair world, the idealized representation and distilled essence of all that was Nanny? A solution was necessary, and one day, that solution arrived in all her glory, a Mary Poppins who sailed into our lives on her umbrella of fundamentalist dogma. It was time for something new. It was time for a Mormon.
Tanny was about 19, and she came from Idaho. Her name was actually Tammy, but according to legend, her numerous siblings could not pronounce the "m" sound properly when it was first introduced into their collective vocabulary. Despite the fact that they had all long since outgrown this innocent butchering of the English language, Tanny was forced to forever bear the burden of their childhood speech impediments alone. Whatever the case, every good Mormon has a mission, and Tanny's mission was to instill her wholesome values in our half-Jewish, half-Protestant, wholly heathen minds. She rocked a modified version of the she-mullet, and she teased it proudly whenever she went to play pillow polo at the local Mormon church. Tanny was also a talented pianist, and she taught me how to hammer out the right-hand parts while she played the more complicated chords with her left hand. One of her favorite numbers was Perry Como's "Tonight I Celebrate My Love For You." Actually, Roberta Flack also recorded this sweeping, melodious ballad, so I'm not sure which rendition Tanny and I were perfoming. What I do know is that we sang our hearts out, loudly crooning the verses:
"Tonight, I celebrate my love for you! It seems the natural thing to do, tonight no one's gonna find us, we'll leave the world behind us..."
It occurs to me now, in my fully-formed adult state, that the lyrics of that song were perhaps entirely inappropriate for a six-year-old, and by extension, for a devout Mormon. But none of that mattered at the time; the world was our oyster, and Perry Como was our cocktail sauce. I will never forget the sight of Tanny's Reeboks skillfully working the piano pedals as the aroma of Aquanet slowly permeated the entire living room. I will never forget her stories about potatoes, and farm life, and God's distinct preference for those who adhered to the tenets of her particular sect. Ah, my innocent and carefree youth! It couldn't last forever. And it didn't.
They say that all good things must end, and the end of Tanny was unceremonious and sudden. You see, she made the fatal error of saying the four words that a grown-up must never say to a child whose confidence she desires. And what are these words? Don't. Tell. Your. Parents. It came during one of her routine brainwashings, after she had once again convinced me that God loved her more than he loved me, and that he always would so long as I was not one of her People. She'd made other comments to that effect before, but this time, she panicked and tacked those Four Magic Words to the end of her diatribe. Bad move, Tanny. Why? Well, naturally, I went straight to my parents and told them every word of what she said. Unsurprisingly, they were not pleased to learn that their six-year-old was being actively indoctrinated with creepy religious principles by a GED-possessing 20-year-old from the Midwest. I'm not quite sure what they expected, but whatever it was, that wasn't it.
Tanny left shortly after that incident. My parents took one more crack at the Mormon thing, this time with Linda. She also played the piano and teased her bangs, but Linda was certainly no Tanny; her interpretation of Joseph Smith's teachings was decidedly more liberal, and her method of spreading the Lord's word involved bringing a cologne-saturated cop named Ken back to our house on a regular basis, drinking heavily, crashing our car, and getting knocked up by some unidentified fellow from her pillow polo group. I think Linda's harrowing stay in our otherwise happy, colonial home settled things for my parents. Never again would I feel so intimately connected to the Latter-Day Saints, whoever and wherever they are, and more importantly, never again would I have another nanny. It was out with the old, and in with the Disaffected, Ninth-Grade Babysitters from School. But that, my friends, is a different story entirely...
And Now, A Very Important Public Service Announcement
Every Picture Tells A Story...
Sometimes, however, they need the assistance of a translator. And while New York Social Diary chauffeurs us straight up Park Avenue, past the overly-obsequious doorman and his mildly disturbing interest in 16-year-old Buffy Barrington from 6B, and into the lives and leisure activities of New York's haute societe, there is still something missing. Is it love in Crawford and Lulu Webster-Bartleby's marriage? Brain cells in young Chip Jr.'s head after last night's encounter with a cannister of nitrous, a gravity bong, and two eight balls? Wrinkles on 75-year-old CeCe Dillingworth's face? Well, yes. But also, while NYSD shows us where they are, what they wore, and with whom they gallavanted, it fails to tell us what they said. Therefore, allow me to fill in some of the gaps in this photo-coverage of Lucy Sykes-Rellie and Bettina Zilkha's Victoria's Secret Luncheon and the Preservation Foundation of Palm Beach gala.
Natalie Leeds Leventhal (center):
"And would you believe it?? THAT'S where Barnaby asked if he could put it! So I was all, 'Down, Tiger! At least let me take out the Harry Winstons first.'"
Martha McGuinness & Jackie Astier (all-too-knowingly):
Somers Farkas (left)
"Muffie, I have come as Satan's messenger to reclaim your soul, piece by piece. And I will start with the furry adornment on your turtleneck. "
Muffy Potter Aston (right):
"Ha! Somers, your sense of humor is divine! Love the Fembot outfit too, what a riot."
Dana Hammond (center):
"Haha! Haha! Yeah...Muffie...actually, Somers isn't kidding. So I'd stay put if I were you. And when she's done, I'm going to eat you."
Susan Fales-Hill (right):
"Ok, calm down, Honey. I'm sure Somers and Dana didn't mean it. They value your friendship, even if they ARE Lucifer's minions."
Muffie Potter Aston (left):
"Nah, nah it ain't LIKE that, yo. Those bitches were MAD serious! You think I ain't being real wit' y'all? Go ask the damn ho's yo SELF."
Chris Meigher (right):
"Grace darling, I fear that we didn't stay in the tanning booth long enough. I thought we weren't going to leave until we'd changed races!"
Grace Meigher (left):
"But Sweetie, then we'd be black and they wouldn't let us into the party. And it was important that we attend this gala for the Preservation Foundation! After all, they might know of some new preservatives that we can use on ourselves. Wouldn't it be nice if we could find a botox alternative and once again be able to move our mouths when we speak?"
Alan Bleznak (right):
"Did someone say 'preservation'?" Check out this young lady, not a day over twenty-two!"
Cathy Bleznak (left):
"Oh, Alan! It's OK, you can tell them I'm thirty. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"All right, so now they know your age...but they still don't know your secret!"
"Let's just say it involves a human-sized jar of formaldehyde and some quality scuba gear."
An Ode To Kate Moss
O Kate, you Queen of the Shabby-Chics!
O Kate, who snorts before she speaks!
Off the mirror, off the ground
In the South African presidential compound
Before hitting the runway, up in the suite
In the living room, or in any room with Pete
With a euro bill, with a straw
With a Post-It, or with your well-manicured claw
From a spoon or from a ladle
Off your wrist or off the table
With the lead pipe, in the loo
More methods and places than a game of Clue!
Kate sees London, Kate sees France
O Kate, you see the world, but you won't take a chance
Before you go, you send out feelers
Out go your slaves, and in come new dealers
Designers use your face to sell us clothes
You use your face as a vacuum hose
O Kate, how you've helped Bolivia's economy thrive!
How noble of you to keep its coca farmers alive
O Kate, how we'd all give an arm and a leg
To see the powdery yolk of your Faberge egg
You'd make "omelets" galore for all to consume
'Till not one nasal membrane is left in the room!
An Afternoon Fable, or Why One Should Always Keep Spare Pants In The Office
Once upon a time, there was a young and hideously underpaid Ivy League graduate whose boss did not condone temporary absence for such trivial matters as "doctor's appointments" and "funerals." Thus, when this young and hideously underpaid Ivy League graduate (let's call her YHUILG) required a routine blood test at her local Quest Diagnostics, she was forced to schedule it for an ungodly hour of the morning when most New Yorkers are still far from exiting their Ambien, Lunesta, Benadryl, quaalude or barbituate-induced slumbers. YHUILG wasn't a morning person, and since she'd eaten a dinner consisting of vodka and several gourmet cheese twists the night before, she wasn't exactly off to the best start. Nevertheless, she forged on into the chilly morning air, intent on keeping tardiness at bay, and therefore, keeping her boss from strangling her with his Jesus piece.
YHUILG arrived at Quest Diagnostics and signed her name on the clipboard by the front desk. The friendly receptionist smiled, pointed at the seating area, and instructed her to wait her turn. YHUILG was relaxed. She'd had blood taken zillions of times before, and furthermore, she had a brand new issue of Parenting Magazine in front of her. Therefore, when the needle-wielding gentleman in the back called her name, she blithely scooped up her belongings and marched into the curtained-off area. Sure, she hadn't eaten breakfast and was feeling a little woozy, but that was no matter. Up went the sleeve, out went the arm, on went the latex glove, out came the alcohol pad. She turned her head away from the needle and thought about the Kellogg's Fruit Harvest cereal that awaited her at the office. Would it be peach strawberry? Or strawberry blueberry? And would she use 2% milk, or the fat-free? Then, all of the sudden, something changed. You see, the kindly receptionist had neglected to tell YHUILG that the needle operator had received his training from two pre-schoolers using a Cabbage Patch Kid as their instructional tool. What does this mean, you ask? Well, it means that he stabbed her like she was an anaphylactic shock victim getting emergency Epi-Pen treatment, and then realized that he did not, in fact, have any idea how to properly execute the very complicated "fill vial and remove" operation. And as he contemplated this minor predicament, he left the needle firmly lodged in YHUILG's vein, twisting around, probing her arterial walls, poking through her skin...and she was feeling dizzy...very dizzy.....
Somewhere in the back of YHUILG's mind, she wondered why she was back in bed, asleep once more. Hadn't she woken up and gotten dressed already? Or had she imagined it? But it was so nice and warm under the covers. And the pleasant din of people talking to her was so very soothing. But why was she careening through a tunnel...and why was she moving so fast? And BAM!!!! She opened her eyes. The sadistic needle-man was standing over her, as was the very personable receptionist. Fluorescent lights beamed down on her. "Ok," she thought to herself. "Clearly, I fainted. But I'm fine now, and I'm awake." Whew. Embarrassing, but not life-altering. She took a deep breath. Wait a second...what was that strange sensation? She didn't understand why she felt such a strange sensation. And she decided to inquire about this strange sensation. "Why," she demanded, "is there water on the floor?" The Stabber and his minion looked at each other, then at YHUILG, and smiled their most sympathetic, un-condescending smiles. It was only then that YHUILG realized what she had done. And it wasn't pretty. "It's totally common!" chimed the receptionist, cheery as usual. "Yeah, sometimes it's a lot worse than that, if you get my drift," said Stab-Man. Words of encouragement, apparently, but for some reason they weren't exactly doing their job. YHUILG was horrified. No, she was beyond horrified. Nothing in her four years of liberal arts education and two years spent pursuing an utterly useless major had prepared her for this sort of humilation. Not while sober, at least. And to top things off, she had twenty minutes to get to work.
So, what does any reasonably intelligent being with soaking wet pants, low blood sugar and an audience of concerned phlebotomists do in such a situation? Well, naturally, she swipes a pair of scrub-type pants from the receptionist, throws her own pants in her handbag, and heads to work. Thus, when YHUILG showed up at her desk (not a minute late, mind you), feeling mildly nauseated and wearing pegged, navy trousers that were three sizes too big in the rump area and boasted a gloriously elasticized waistband, the last thing she wanted to do was explain herself to her boss. So she didn't. And she let him, at least for a day, silently wonder when YHUILG's fashion sensibilities had taken a turn for the "Jerry Springer Audience Member." Actually, come to think of it, he probably felt right at home. So the day went on, and the world kept turning, and YHUILG's boss kept his Speakerphone on, and YHUILG's pants were laundered, and her scrubs were incinerated, and she kept watching Lost episodes on her i-Tunes at work, and order was restored to the planet Earth and its outlying galaxies. But from that moment on, she would always keep a pair of jeans in her bottom desk drawer. And she would never take her brain's pontine micturition center for granted again.
Moral: "Accidents" can happen.
From Jailbirds to Lovebirds: This Week's Date (see previous posts to meet the Daters)
Welcome back to Meet Market. This week, Pete, a 26-year-old musician who describes himself as "undescribable," was on the prowl for a Heptatis C-free woman with well-disguised track marks. He picked Martha, a 65-year-old Businessperson who compared herself to various craft projects and then supplemented those descriptions with financially-based similes. We thought that, given their recent legal troubles, Martha and Pete would feel most comfortable at a restaurant with its own share of law-related woes. So, we sent them to Benihana, newly invigorated after its victory in the Case of the Flying Shrimp Parts.She says:
"Our reservation was at 8pm, but I arrived a little early. There was a nice buddha statue near the door, which happened to look like it could seriously benefit from a garland of assorted yarn flowers. I immediately asked the hostess if she could spare some embroidery floss and a bit of floral wire, but she said they were fresh out of both. I had to improvise with some twist-ties i found on garbage bags out by the dumpster! Pete showed up two hours late, but I didn't notice because I was busy papering the light switch plates in the lounge area. When I found him, he was standing by the newly-garlanded buddha statue, clearly in a state of deep admiration (yarn flowers aren't easy to make). I tapped him on the shoulder and said hello. He introduced himself, and I was immediately struck by his beautifully glazed, delicately marbled eyes and lightly greased hair. I knew we were well-matched when he reached out to shake my hand and a small bag of white powder fell out of his pocket. I'd never met anyone else who carried around extra baking powder and flour! We were seated at a rather nondescript table with a large grilling surface in front of it. Luckily, I had some twig coasters and a monogrammed tea cozy in my handbag, so I was able to spruce things up nicely. Once we got to chatting, it turned out that we had so much in common. Both of us had been in prison recently, so we talked for a while about shivs, smuggling, stuff like that. When I asked him about hobbies, he said he was into junk. I couldn't believe it! I explained that I also adored junk, and that I'd built an entire media empire based on making it and making things out of it. Such a coincidence! We both love cooking, too- he even used his miso soup spoon to heat up his "specialty dish" right at our table's grill. Pete wouldn't tell me the ingredients, but it sure looked good. I don't think he actually formed any coherent sentences throughout the course of dinner, I'm now recalling, but his scattered interjections were both informative and charming. And he didn't eat anything because he said he preferred liquid dinners, but that just left more fried rice and hibachi steak for me! I had such a magical, glorious time that night. I would DEFINITELY go out on a second date with Pete."
Rating: ****He says:
"I was just leaving the police station after my second arrest that day when the Post called and asked why I wasn't at Benihana. I told them to f*ck off, but then they explained that it was free, so I decided to check it out. When I got there, I saw Martha sitting cross-legged in the front entryway. She was very still, but she was smiling serenely, and she was wearing a lovely garland made of yarn flowers. We got to talking a bit, and I was quickly enthralled. She seemed so spiritual and wise, not to mention the fact that she was a great listener. I was immediately at ease, and I wanted to tell her everything! Just when I thought we were really connecting, however, some blond broad tapped me on the shoulder and started talking to me. She had a piece of wallpaper in her hand, and at first I thought she wanted an autograph, but after I introduced myself, I realized that she was actually trying to have dinner with me. I had a mild case of the DT's anyway, so I thought what the hell, why not get a few cocktails out of this? Plus, Martha said she didn't mind hanging around up front for a while. I was reluctant to leave her, but I ended up getting a table with the blond lady. She said she was cool with junk, which was cool with me. I think she even built something out of it, which is totally far out! And there was a nice grill at the table, so I could cook up a little snack for my veins without ever leaving my chair. I pocketed some of the silverware and a few tiki statuettes, too, which is always an added bonus. When Blondie finally took off, I found Martha still waiting for me where up front I'd left her. She was by far the most beautiful woman in the room! We picked up right where we'd left off, and we got on so well that she even agreed to come home with me. I carried her to my car, and we ended up having an amazing night together. I would absolutely, definitely go on a second date with Martha. This woman is incredible!"
And that concludes this week's Meet Market. Join us again next time...
Meet Pete's Potential Dates (see previous post to meet Pete)
, 65, Businessperson
How would you describe yourself?
"Like an intricately decoupaged wall, I am a little bit of everything glued onto a one-dimensional surface and coated with several transparent layers. Like a lit eggshell votive candle, I am hard (yet fragile!) on the outside and soft on the inside, but I will still burn your sorry ass if you touch me. Like a share of ImClone stock, I roll with the highs and the lows, but like a well-executed inside trade, I'm always one step ahead and I'm engineered to generate profits!"
What animal do you most resemble; why?
"I think I'd have to say an impala. Not only are all members of the antelope family incredibly en vogue right now because of Tinsley Mortimer's recent horn transplant (see last week's Tinsley Mortimer Report), but also because they are characterized by black markings around their ankles. I can relate to that."
What does your lucky underwear look like?
"It's a lace and vinyl teddy with a matching garter belt and thong. I usually pair it with fishnets."
"A well-made greenery wreath with a cranberry garland."
Anna Nicole, 38, Shapeshifter, Professional Plaintiff
When you go to a bar, what's the first drink you'll order?
"Ideally I'd order moonshine or malt liquor, or maybe some Bartles & Jaymes. I like to mix them all up sometimes and dissolve some TrimSpa in it, or if I don't have any, a little Xanax or Lithium or whatever I have on me. It's my own specialty cocktail! Or I might just order some PBR and pork rinds."
How would you describe yourself?
"Well, depending on which segment of the diet roller coaster I happen to be riding, obese, minimally clothed, surgically enhanced, speech-slurring, pill-popping, and mentally incompetent, or alternately, thin, minimally clothed, surgically enhanced, speech-slurring, pill-popping and mentally incompetent."
What things can you not live without?
"Prescriptions, silicone, bleach, lipstick, cubic zirconium, Bobby Trendy's tasteful decor, my rightful portion of J. Howard Marshall II's estate."
What's attractive, what's sexy?
"Necrophilia, nursing homes...there is nothing sexier than sharing an Ensure nightcap with a man in Depends, especially if he's wheelchair-bound or hooked up to some kind of life support device. I'm also incredibly attracted to lawsuits."
Clay, 27, Heartthrob
What's attractive, sexy?
"Speedos, leather, gladiators, chatrooms, anal plugs- I love a masculine man, big muscles, someone who can slap me around a bit...Wait! Erase that. Lingerie is sexy. Curves are sexy. She should be feminine and FEMALE and I love football, and beer, and Penthouse, and strip clubs, and figure skating...no, HOCKEY! I love HOCKEY!"
What would be your ideal date?
"We could read Seventeen, maybe give each other pedicures, try out some mud masks and eat a few pints of Ben & Jerry's while watching Lifetime movies."
How would you describe yourself?
"SWM looking 2 PnP, U come 2 my place, b discreet. 6'1, 150lbs, hot redhead bottom, b ready 4 some dirrrty fun! I am ready 2 go, R U out there, cowboy? "
Stay tuned to find out who Pete chose, and to see how their date went!
Wednesday "Meet Market"
The New York Post's Sunday "Meet Market" feature is truly God's gift to the singles pool. It's so inspiring, in fact, that I've decided to start my own version here. This is how it works: there is one "Dater" and three dating possibilities. I will introduce all four "contestants"and their very insightful comments about themselves. The Dater will select one of the three possibilities, and I will send the lucky pair on a date. Then, they will both have a chance to report back on the results and rate each other. Got it? Good. Let's meet our dater:
Meet Pete, an engaging 26-year-old musician who describes himself
as "what the f*ck did you just ask me?" Clearly a born romantic, he enjoys plea bargains, open sores and other people's possessions. When he's not playing connect-the-dots with his track marks, Pete enjoys "What?? Leave me the f*ck alone" and "F*ck off, sod." Other hobbies include tooth decay, posing for mug shots and activating dopamine receptors.What are three things he can't live without?
"Opiates, amphetamines and hallucinogens."
Pete says that bulging veins are sexy, as are sickly pallors and a pronounced lack of verbal coherency.What's not sexy?
Hepatitis C and visible withdrawal symptoms.
"I once dated this girl who had advanced chronic Hepatitis C from sharing her needles with some bloke. I was the bloke, actually, but the point is, she turned all yellow and had these weird indigestion issues, and her doc told her to stop with the junk. But when she did, it was all tremors, crazy insomnia, panic, a total mess. I thought, 'I don't need to see the f*cking Basketball Diaries re-enacted in my f*cking flat,' you know? It was unbelievable. I don't think quitters are sexy, either, and that's exactly what she was."
Pete's ideal date would be a visibly malnourished woman with a flare for romance. "She would bring her own alcohol swabs/needles, a scented candle for spoon-heating, and a silky scarf for tying off my upper arm. I could read William Blake excerpts while she steals a handle of gin from the convenience store downstairs. A criminal record isn't a must, but it would certainly help."
STAY TUNED TO MEET PETE'S POTENTIAL DATES...
The Tinsley Mortimer Report: A Head Of The Game
Tinsley had an extraordinary week, going where no socialite has gone before and pulling it off with the panache that only an ex-event-planner-turned-camera-bait could. While planning for the American Museum of Natural History's annual Winter Dance, she realized not only that the "Desert Hues" dress code would limit her own color palette, but also that it would limit everyone else's, thus potentially homogenizing the crowd and creating significantly fewer opportunities to stand out as a true Fashion Icon (for example, note that sister-in-law Minnie Mortimer, below right, also sports a light green ensemble). This thought, and the obvious pressures that accompany it, might have caused less resilient social fixtures to crumble, or at the very least, to accept the possibility of slinking about unnoticed amongst the masses. Not our Tinsley, however. Once she had selected her "hue," a delectably minty green, and a satiny, low-cut design that screams "Gobi" or "Sahara" to all whose ears are tuned to the key of T Major, she marched straight to the door of her botoxer/general aesthetic consultant and announced her predicament. After discussing at length the setting (Natural History Museum, African Mammals wing) , her natural body type (svelte), her dietary preferences (vegetable matter) and a fashion trend worth exploring that might provide an appropriately witty fashion statement (androgyny), they finally selected her spiritual "creature" counterpart and decided on a fairly radical procedure: Tinsley would have the first ever (at least the first ever documented) antelope horn implant. Within two days, a male specimen was shipped from Namibia and stripped of its impressive "headpiece," which was then grafted onto Tinsley's head using a cutting-edge procedure first developed by NASA for the welding of space station parts. Of course, being the discreet and tasteful Benefit Chairwoman that she is, Tinsley refused to say whether it was an impala, a puku, a lichtenstein's hartebeest, or some other even-toed ungulate entirely that sacrificed its life so that Tinsley's fashion legacy may live, but as you can see below, the results of her surgical enhancement were stunning.
Horny for Natural History
(photo from New York Social Diary)
The crowd simply couldn't get enough of Tinsley's "sharp" fashion observation, and needless to say, she may not have been the only attendee in the African Mammal Wing, but she was certainly the only attendee in African Mammal. Notice how the soft, draping curves of her gown brilliantly juxtapose the angular lines of the horns. Notice how feminine meets masculine in a bold new statement about the implications of gender identity, and man meets animal in a dramatic observation about the essence of humanity. Tinsley has truly outdone herself this week, and as her four-legged horn donor frolicks about the savannahs of Heaven, he undoubtedly rejoices in the knowledge that his contribution was not in vain. We all wait with bated breath to see what Tinsley brings to the Limoges and excellent silver-appointed table in March.
The Tinsley Mortimer Report: Spring Outlook
It's looking to be an exciting spring indeed for Tinsley Mortimer. She's been out and about in full force; in fact, this week brought a very exciting DOUBLE New York Social Diary shout-out for her. Let's have a look...
Here we see Tinsley making copious amounts of mirth at Peter Som's post-runway show at the offices of the 485 Fifth Avenue residences. Sharing the floor with fellow critically-acclaimed socialites Corralie Charriol, Amanda Hearst, Bettina Zilkha, and Dylan Lauren, Tinsley stands out in a gauzy, pink little piece of fabric heaven. Especially intriguing about her ensemble on this occasion is the midsection, which was clearly inspired by the Padaung tribes of northern Thailand. Long necks connote both beauty and refinement for the Padaung, almost as much as anorexia and Restylane do among New York's finest, so Padaung women accumulate neck rings and eventually attain giraffe-like proportions. With this dress, Tinsley is apparently attempting to stretch out her abdominal cavity in a similar fashion. And since anyone who's anyone takes her sartorial clues from Ms. Tinsley Mortimer, I think it's safe to make the following statement: elongated torsos are going to be the rage this spring, so keep those midriffs toned, ladies! It is also worth noting that in the first photograph, Tinsley's expression falls into the extraordinarily rare "open-mouthed smile" category. This divergence from the more typical "full deck of teeth" or "intense squint" is something to keep an eye on. Is this just an aberration, a moment of insuppressible delight precipitated by Peter Som's bitchy witticisms? Or does it signify something much more serious, perhaps even a tactical change in Tinsley's mad dash for the attentions of David Patrick Columbia's camera lens? Whatever the case, she's back in traditional squinting form again by the second photograph, demonstrating both the subtle-yet-slimming sideways pose and the ideal weight distribution so characteristic of this extraordinarily gifted social phenom. We'll see how things progress as the season unfolds...
Here we see Tinsley reveling at the Versace Flagship Store event with the likes of Claire Danes and Halle Berry. Not to be outdone, Tinsley traded her "casual, cascading ringlet" coif for a straightening iron and a healthy dose of 1985. The side ponytail is an interesting choice, emulating the clean lines of her simple, strapless number and black wrap, yet still providing a bit of contrast by pairing Darien Housewife with Rainbow Brite. And while her fully-frontal stance indicates a slight lapse in her typically flawless execution (perhaps she was caught unawares?), she still makes a heroic save with both the sultry gaze and the picture perfect, designer-revealing handbag placement. All in all, I think we can expect great things from Tinsley in the coming weeks. She's at the top of her game, and she's going to give the competition a run for its substantial amounts of money.