Outages, shortages, peanut butter, and duct tape: The trials and tribulations of life in a small jungle town on the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica.
Sometime in mid-April, at around 5 p.m., take off your clothes and grab a towel and head to the bathroom, step into the shower and turn the knob, and you’ll be met all at once with an odd spluttering of water, followed by an ominous hiss of air. This is because there has been no rain here since November, and the water cisterns have been running lower and lower for the past several weeks, and whoever’s in charge is now rationing the precious liquid resources that supply the jungle town that, for these past several months, I have called home.
Logic might dictate that a round-the-clock system-wide reduction in pressure would allow would-be showerers to avoid the daytime hoarding of water into six-liter jugs, placed in refrigerators and by bathrooms to drink, to bathe, to flush the toilet. Alas, this logic does not seem to work here. They (whoever “they” may be) have decided that from an hour before sunset until an hour after sunrise, certain houses, in certain neighborhoods of Nosara, will be without water during the most terrifically, apocalyptically hot time of year, a situation speculated upon in juice bars and at markets, among talk of dengue outbreaks and home burglaries, with sentences whose grammatical structures always seem to involve some combination of I heard and they, including but not limited to: “I’ve heard that they’ve only been rationing water to homes in the K-Section,” or, “I hear they’re working on the tanks at night, which is why they’re doing system-wide shutdowns,” or, “I’m hearing that they cut the water because so-and-so didn’t pay his water donation.” Read more at Travel + Leisure.
Source: Travel + Leisure
I’m not sure where to begin with any of this, so I may as well begin with the opening line of an email that I sent to my friends.
For reasons that I could not explain in 10,000 words or less, on January 4 (i.e., if all goes according to plan, later today), I am moving down to the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica for three months or less, spending the first month earning my yoga certification.
I have now spent more than three months down here and feel that if I were forced to point to any one reason for remaining in this place, and to describe that reason in 10,000 words or less, it may as well begin with the pain coming from my neck. Read more at The Huffington Post.
Like many a city-dweller engaged in the journey from one place to the next, it seems as though I’m in a constant state of motion. If you were to see me heading west on 23rd Street, and then dashing across the park, and then jumping down the stairs — two, sometimes three at a time — of the N/R Station outside the Flatiron, you might think I was just another harried citizen, running typically (read: insanely) late for an appointment, annoyed by any impediments or hindrances he might encounter along the way — specifically, the tourists outside of Eataly.
The thing is, I’m not late. I walk fast. Very fast. Even for a New Yorker. And so, to this day, I continue on — my eyes to the ground, my head bobbing from side to side, a pair of 1987-chic, grey Sony headphones plugged into my iPhone, a perpetually overstuffed tote bag slung over one shoulder — at velocities just short of a run.
Such would be the end of my story if it weren’t for one small detail: I’m no longer in New York. Read more at The Huffington Post.
If too many cooks spoil a broth, then how many fashion designers does it take to cause a meltdown? Just one, and her name is Sp*rkle.
This past Saturday, at the opulently spledorifically magnificentesimal Villa di Waterloo Station du Palais-Royal de Lincoln Center d’Oyster Bay Expressway, the who’s who of the crème de la crème de la crème (de la crème) of the crème de menthe of the écureuil dans un chapeau particulièrement adorable of the fashion world gathered to bask in the certain radiant glow of magic and delight and whimsy that is Sp*rkle.
People not of the fashion world (kindergarteners, botanists, Jacobins) certainly might remember Sp*rkle from her tweenage heartthrob days, that former Mouseketeer turned singer-songwriter, turned songwriter-actress-director-producer, turned producer-stunt-coordinator-caterer-DJ-taxidermist-ping-pong-champion (non-sexual), turned several dozen other hyphenated things, too. For those living in a cave — especially caves that don’t receive Women’s Wear Daily – her name had been buzzing around the runways and editorial offices, and certainly not just because of the asterisk in the middle of it. No, this was because Sp*rkle had recently decided to take a stab at fashion. Read more at The Huffington Post.
SCROLLING ACROSS THE SCREEN:
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, these are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise, her continuing mission, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped to find out when people stop being polite and start getting real, so join us here each week, my friends, you’re sure to get a smile, from seven stranded castaways, here on…
Lost in Star Space Trek Wars
EXT. STARSHIP – NIGHT
ESTABLISHING SHOT of some sort of futuristic-looking, very-large starship — not to be confused in any way, shape, or form with any other futuristic-looking, very-large starships, because this is the long ago and far, far away, and the entire enterprise (in lowercase, and thus not trademarked) is being produced by Disney, not Paramount. Read more at Esquire.
In light of the much-talked-about news of Kanye West and Kim Kardashian’s impending baby — and the delicate act of famous people naming their babies — here is a suggested list of fifty names the couple would be wise to avoid.
Read more at Esquire.
My dear one Native American friend (Charly),
I was watching Addams Family Values the other night, and got to the part – I’m certain you remember it – where a young Christina Ricci acts in Christine Baranski and Peter McNicol’s mid-July Thanksgiving play (apparently, Camp Chippewa follows the Greek Orthodox calendar), and, as the scene progressed, I began to think how amazing it must be to have a young Ms. Ricci perform, on your peoples’ behalf, an improvisation within a play within a movie, where she so adeptly captures your socio-cultural history as it pertains to the spitroasting of Pilgrims – “Pilgrim,” as you’re well aware, being ancient Cherokee for “the other other white meat” – on an open flame! Not since the Village People pranced around on stage has there been such a Culturally Relevant moment for the Native Americans! What memories you must have had! How proud you must have been!
But then, I started thinking. Christina Ricci’s done her part for Native American culture…. What have I ever done to show my Pocahontas, Rachel, just how much she, as a representative of her people, means to me? Continue reading
Are you a family searching for an escape from the hustle and bustle (or current lack of electricity and running water) of city living? A young novelist, seeking the isolation and inspiration of the rural countryside? Or perhaps a group of spring breakers and/or recent high school graduates and/or documentary filmmakers, young and nubile and in no way expecting anything out of the ordinary, out for a weekend of beer and sex and fun?
Then look no further than this fabulous, one of a kind Victorian mansion, located on several prime acres of remote fog-shrouded swamp-forest that, for some peculiar reason, doesn’t exist on modern maps. With its soaring ceilings, mahogany finishes and original fixtures (666 of them in all), you could positively, inescapably get lost in this 13 BR, 13 BA gem! Perfect for children, pets, living entities of just about any kind, it’s the luxury of peace and quiet (which in no way arrests or obstructs the laws of nature as you know them despite any anecdotal evidence to the contrary) that you truly deserve! Read more at The Huffington Post.
This past July, designer Ralph Lauren came under fire for outsourcing his Team U.S.A. uniforms for the Olympics opening ceremony. In the wake of the sartorial slip-up, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid went so far as to suggest that the uniforms be burned. A little over a month later, President Obama made a call to action at the Democratic National Convention for the country “to create a million new manufacturing jobs in the next four years.” It seems the desire to make the goods we buy on our shores has never been greater. Read more at The Wall Street Journal.
Source: The Wall Street Journal.
Source: Harper’s Bazaar.
Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow Americans. Remember me? That’s right, it’s President Bill Clinton. No spooky holograms, no wooden chairs. But enough about Paul Ryan.
What an honor it is to be back here tonight, in front of you, as plain old Bill, president before that other guy who nobody — and I mean nobody — wants to talk about, especially the Republicans. And remember the ’90s? That wonderful time when I was president, when everybody was watching The Real World, doing the “Macarena,” earning heaping gobs of cash, when our biggest worry was whether or not we’d be spending our budget surplus on tax breaks or NATO Allied Command Operations air strikes against Ken Starr and the old Office of the Independent Council. Back then, we didn’t even have cell phones to call those things in. Now we have cell phones and iPhones and GPS and TiVo and all sorts of other newfangled devices. It boggles the mind. Read more at The Huffington Post.
We can see the sartorial light. After a 20-year absence of significant, televised men’s fashion, we’re experiencing a wardrobe renaissance. You can thank “Mad Men.” For several decades before the show graced TV screens, the pop culture landscape was a wasteland of dressed-down dudes. The 1980s were the pinnacle of men’s style arbiters. The fashion-forward detectives of “Miami Vice” rocked pastel deconstructed suits (mostly paired with T-shirts), courtesy of designers such as Versace, Vittorio Ricci and Hugo Boss. Read more at the New York Post.
Source: The New York Post.
With the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up and the top buttons undone, his pewter hair parted at the front, and his stubble beard, Michael Bastian gives off the air of a corporate executive who’s shunned the business world for the tanned island life. His comportment and designs are welcome departures from the tight-laced seriousness in men’s fashion. The designer is the king of next-generation prep. Read more at the New York Post.
Source: The New York Post.
Back in 2003, California Representative Linda Sanchez decried the fact that voters drew so much attention to what the female candidates were wearing, telling the Los Angeles Times that many of her male counterparts in Washington wore “awful suits” and “look like they combed their hair with a fork and nobody says anything about their appearance.” For the most part, she’s right, but not entirely: Across the country, as men fight for seats in Congress and for other posts in our fine government, some among them (like New Mexico’s Martin Heinrich, above) have actually exhibited some level of personal style beyond a dark suit and red or blue tie. Read more at Esquire.
The United Kingdom of England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and Denmark (long story) is most honoured, indeed, to be hosting the 2012 Olympic Games. From the same people who brought you William Shakespeare, Winston Churchill, Magna Charta (Google it), an assortment of castles, palaces and royal cousins, Westminster Abbey, Downton Abbey and One Direction comes the grand and glorious spectacle that is the 2012 Opening Ceremonies, all in celebration of the sweeping cultural contributions and peaceful international presence of the British peoples, paying no particular attention to our military history from, say, 1604 to 1948.
For those of our foreign guests, dignitaries, officials and athletes arriving from over 150 foreign countries (i.e., anywhere east of Bexley) who were able to avoid any ongoing airport, bus, catamaran, plane, train or automobile strikes by choosing an alternate means of transportation (e.g., dirigible, catapult, British Airways) and thereby managed to make it inside the United Kingdom despite the best efforts by the agents of Her Majesty’s Immigration Services (all six of them) to keep each and every one of you out, welcome! For those of you stuck at some point along the way, please be patient. With time, the problem will surely resolve itself. Read more at The Huffington Post.