Category Archives: The Huffington Post.

HUFFINGTON POST: Fridays, No More.

Sometimes, there is news too cruel to accept, too confusing for our fragile minds to comprehend, too painful for our psyches to accommodate. We see reports of blood on the streets. Europe is bankrupt. The stock market goes up. The stock market goes down. Congressmen flash their hoo-hah all over the internet. And yet, through it all, there was Friday.

For those who are unaware of Rebecca Black (a doubtful prospect, indeed!) or her magnificent corpus of sheer Euterpean delight (i.e., her one and only song, “Friday”), she is a 13-year-old native of Anaheim, California, a middle-school student, who, on a shoestring budget, recorded a music video that quickly went viral, though deeming the whole phenomenon “viral” would understate the gravity and reach of viruses — with 167,000,000 YouTube views (at least 4,000 of them being mine), more people have watched Ms. Black’s video than died in the 1918 flu pandemic. Read more at The Huffington Post.

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An Open Letter from Colonel Gaddafi to the American People.

Text Martin Marks  Illustration Brian Fee


To the Good Citizens of the United States of America,

Over the past several days, I’ve taken time out of what has proven to be an increasingly hectic, NATO-warplane-filled schedule to address my people as to the geo-political benefits of serving as human shields, and to write your Congress a heartfelt little thank-you note for their continued support. But, over the weekend, I realized something quite shocking.  It has been a long time since you and I last spoke! An inexcusably long time! For this, I must apologize. You must trust me when I say that it is quite a challenge to run a modern democracy—there are so many elaborate costumes!

Now, you might be a teeny-tiny, eensy-weensy bit angry at me. A lot of things have happened over the years, things that might be termed by some as being—how to put this?—“explosive” in nature, and perhaps—though nothing can be proven—originating from our country, kept happening. Please know that the people responsible for these deeds—certainly not anyone that we know—will most assuredly and decisively be punished, if they haven’t been already, which, undoubtedly, they already have. Read more at The Huffington Post.

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Back when I lived in Baltimore, there was a man named Mike, a nice enough guy save that when he went off his meds, he’d turn into Crazy Mike, an alter ego that liked to wander around Charles Village screaming at the top of his lungs about how flying monkeys were stealing his every thought. I begin with Crazy Mike’s cautionary tale because even though I’ve moved to a bigger city, with arguably even crazier people, I’ve felt a special kinship to him over this past year. While some might be up in arms over the New York City outdoor smoking ban that took effect today, I, rather, choose to focus my attention on a set of problems that seem to have been plaguing our city for the better part of a year, and that may prove just as imaginary as Crazy Mike’s airborne, thought- stealing simians. Read more at The Huffington Post.

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HUFFINGTON POST: The Eloquence of Peasants.

Several days ago, as the Twittersphere burgeoned with news of the situation in Egypt, an apocryphal piece of trivia from my undergraduate years — that I had double majored in Near Eastern Studies with a focus on Egyptology — came into play. For those expecting any tweets pertinent to these events, the protests come about 3,500 years too late, as my area of expertise pretty much ended with the reign of Ramses XI. Still, I tweeted my insight by way of a hieroglyphic excerpt from the “The Shipwrecked Sailor,” an Egyptian tale of a mariner lost at sea. Read more at The Huffington Post.

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HUFFINGTON POST: Lauren Conrad Interviews Joan of Arc.

AFTER A SIX SEASON RUN, MTV’s The Hills sadly came to a close last night. We can’t believe it’s only been two short years since the star – perhaps you’ve heard of her? – Lauren Conrad stepped off that plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport, wearing a chic oversized beige trench coat loosely hanging from her shoulders and casually knotted round the front – for whom does this not evoke the image of a young Coco Chanel in sailor’s pea coat? – her silken blonde hair capped with a heavy knit cream beret – Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde, or the Prince song, had he the foresight not to sing about a garish color like raspberry – Lauren Conrad’s strikingly well-shaped legs hugged by tan and white striped stockings – Wizard of Oz, when the farbissiner gets the house dropped on her – but offsetting these neutrals – to remind: trench coat, stockings, beret – with a pair of purple boots – Nancy Sinatra, but ankle length. Read More at The Huffington Post.

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HUFFINGTON POST: Bushenschadenfreude.

On Friday, the Wall Street Journal’s Anthony Paletta, in his article “George W. Bush Is Out of the Picture,” made note of the fact that very few critics had latched onto the newly released film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road for any references to the policies of the previous presidential administration.

“For eight [very, very long] years,” wrote Mr. Paletta (with just a smattering of my own words added), “reviewers could be relied upon to construe almost any mildly dark artistic output as a sure comment on the Bush-era cruelty, greed, or amorality.”

To a large extent, my esteemed colleague is right. For the better part of eight years, blue-staters did make it their job to litter conversations at hoity-toity cocktail parties (and then, fancy-shmancy unemployment lines) with jokes, references, and, yes, peculiarly extended film metaphors at the expense of our former president. Read more at The Huffington Post.

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Fashion Week, Spring/Summer 2010.


The Original Fashion Week Thesaurus.

Though blogging-about-blogging has been my default “lazy blogger” category, the Fictionarium was transformed into a Fashionarium for this past week, and it’s been nothing short of a madhouse. Thus, I thought it might be a fine idea to provide a wrap-up of the flurry of tweets that I twaught, shows that I covered, and articles that I wrote, with the added nugget of  the original hand-written Fashion Thesaurus (pictured above). And so, for those of you didn’t catch my very, very annoying link updates on Facebook, I’ve included everything below. Click, comment, enjoy.

“Under the Big Top”

Last year, a friend referred me to a freelance gig covering most of the shows at Bryant Park. I’ve found nothing quite so fascinating as the eight days I spent picking Empire waists out of a line-up. Read more at The Huffington Post.

Antonio Azzuolo’s a.a. Collection.

It was all about shorts and suits chic at Antonio Azzuolo’s a.a. Spring/Summer presentation. Read more at Paper Magazine.

Rag & Bone.

On or about March 1910, the apocalypse came during a horseback ride through Wiltshire. Read more at HintMag.


If muted, khaki colored simplicity is the marching order of the day, then what of a brand known for their thermochromic, hypercolor T-shirts of the early 1990s? Such is the question for Swaim Hutson. Read more at Paper Magazine.

Loden Dager.

It seems that this season, the boys of Loden Dager have abandoned the clambakes and beach breaks of the coast for the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, if not Marrakesh. Read more at Paper Magazine.

Band of Outsiders.

The Band of Outsiders show was a welcome escape from the perpetual drizzle that has been plaguing New York as of late, and not just for the beach and sunshine themed presentation. Read more at Paper Magazine.

Michael Bastian.

With del Potro’s machine gun forehand leading him to victory at last night’s US Open, how very appropriate it was that yesterday’s Michael Bastian show proved to be a three act match, and a great one at that. Read more at Paper Magazine.

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HUFFINGTON POST: Under the Big Top.

For me, New York Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week used to be that magical time of year when I’d remind my more modish friends that invitation was the nominal form of the verb to invite (as in: “I received the invitation,” not: “I got your invite“). Back then, all my grammatically hyper-attuned self knew about those eight days were the cluster-drunk parties that seemed to pervade every square inch of Manhattan — and some of the yachts moored nearby. I watched as waifish editrixes stood with their champagne flutes at half mast, their eyes glazed over with a look that suggested one part dismay, one part blasé, in what I assumed was a contest to see who could strike a more “over it all” pose. How wrong I was. Read more at The Huffington Post.

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