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.

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.

FADE IN:

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…

STAR WARS

 Episode MCMVMNOPRW

Lost in Star Space Trek Wars

Source: 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.

Tree Kardashian-West

Altoid Kardashian-West

Toothpick Kardashian-West

Splenda Kardashian-West

Lint Kardashian-West

Read more at Esquire.

Source: 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?

I searched my memory, and was mortified to discover that over the years, I’d never sent my one Native American friend a note or a card or even a small box of Ferrero Rocher, the fine hazelnut chocolates, to express my thanks! There was that one time I tried to give you those Mardi Gras beads in exchange for your apartment on St. Paul Street, but, judging from your reaction, my gift/legally-binding-estoppel-necklaces didn’t go over too well. (I count myself lucky that I didn’t end up on Ms. Ricci’s Spitroast-of-Cultural-Awareness!) But can you really blame me? The necklaces were so shiny, Rachel. Shiny! I thought you’d learn to love them as much as I loved that apartment of yours. It had such wonderful dormer windows! One hardly ever found apartments in Baltimore with such wonderful dormer windows – and two full bathrooms, and a kitchen with a dishwasher to boot!

But I digress. With Thanksgiving round the corner, I wanted to send you a small token of gratitude. Thus, I went to the fanciest store I could think of named CVS with the sole purpose of finding the most expensive gift under $14.99 that would show you exactly how I feel.  The Hallmark aisle wasn’t all that helpful. “We couldn’t have done it without you!” seemed a bit too obvious (we couldn’t have!) whereas the Quinciniera cards looked really, really cultural, but didn’t have any wigwams or tomahawks or feathers or your beloved Spitroasts-of-Cultural-Awareness, so I thought the message might get lost. Needless to say, I came out empty handed (save for the Diet Cherry 7-Up and pack of Twizzler’s I bought for my own consumption, but they have nothing to do with the letter at hand, so I’ll leave it at that).

So, instead of buying you an actual present, I thought I’d take some time, on this Thanksgiving, to show how much I love you/all of your land. I figured I’d do this by sending a beautiful picture of you (into which I’ve photoshopped some added Cultural Relevance) accompanied by a nice little heartfelt “Thank you!” I’ll try not to be too gushy. Here goes:

Thank you so, so, so, so, so, so much! This land, it’s… well… simply amazing! I can’t even begin to express how much it means to us! And there’s so very, very much of it! Look! I’m running, jumping, spinnnnnning, that’s how much of it there is! And please know that we really wish we could give some of it back. Turns out that we sold most of the excess to Ted Turner…. But don’t worry! If there’s one thing to say about lonely eccentric white billionaires of questionable sanity who have too much time on their hands, oodles of land, and the resources – both scientific and financial – of cloning Mastodons, it’s that we’ve got nothing to worry about! (Though I’ve taken the added precaution of inserting a prayer into our Thanksgiving liturgy for Jane Fonda’s speedy return.)

In the meantime, have a Happy Thanksgiving!! Oooh, and almost forgot the Culturally Relevant photo:

+

=

Achi gachi goo, and many, many thanks,

Martin.

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.

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.