Monthly Archives: April 2012
If you want to stay abreast of the latest farcical trends in higher education and have a giggle or two in the process, checkout my latest satirical plonk at The Cronk. If you like it, feel free to let ‘em know.
Dateline New York
Trust me, folks, the ironic old man hat is over, finit, passé. Stick a fork in it, it’s done. If you persist in wearing one, rest assured you will most certainly and immediately join the ranks of the tragic and the lame. After all, the only thing worse than a hipster is a hipster wannabe. I say this not to injure, but to enlighten.
Not convinced? Think that raffish topper from Target is just what you need to catapault your bad self to nerd elite status while walking the mall or sipping your latte? Consider this then. Justin Beiber wears one.
So please, now that spring is officially here, and you can put away that ridiculous Rocket J. Squirrel and its pal the Commissar, give the sighted public a break and try going hatless for the season. The vitamin D will do you good.
And by the way, since we’re on the subject of summer fashion — Ladies, wearing dirty, ratty old boots with a summer dress in stinking hot weather is gross and nasty. It telegraphs one thing and one thing only: “Mah feet smell.” This never looked good, but now it looks bad AND out of date. And don’t even consider UGGS unless you’re under twelve.
For the love of God, just get some flip flops. Please?
Meet my new best friend, the roasted almond. This has replaced my old best friend, Mr. Chocolate Croissant, as well as his often-present bestie, Mr. Eggs Benedict, at the breakfast table, and while I cannot say I don’t miss the dynamic duo, I am at least getting by with the replacement.
Having recently sent the bathroom scale into hyperdrive, I am, as you may recall, walking a straighter path dietically speaking. It’s either that or replace an entire, carefully-curated summer wardrobe with items from the tactfully-named “Women’s” department at Bloomingdales, a prospect so horrifying that giving cinnamon toast a pass pales in comparison.
There are perfectly good reasons why I subscribe to virtually everything Martha Stewart puts out — for free that is. As I have chronicled, the woman makes my ass ache; however, I have found tremendous inspiration in her works. For the snark-minded, she is the gift that keeps on giving.
So the latest epistle from Martha suggests making a button necklace. I’ll spare you the details, but it looks like this. According to Martha, you’ll need 60 buttons to replicate the dazzling item in the photo. So I checked out Chichester, her suggested source for the buttons, and my suspicions were correct.
Abalone buttons range from $1.75 to $6.70 apiece depending on size. Now I’m assuming you wouldn’t opt for the saucer-size three inch buttons, but let’s say you go for the half inch ones. At $2 a pop, you’re in for $120 bucks before shipping, handling and tax. Then you have to buy the string, and after that you’ll need about three days to put the goddamned thing together (it requires approximately 125 knots by my count), plus a large vat of Bag Balm to treat the open sores on your fingers. (About $8 for the 10 ounce tub, and if you don’t keep it around the house, you should. It’s miraculous.)
All in then, I’m guesstimating this little DIY extravaganza will run you about $150. That’s three bottles of Veuve Cliquot or an entire case of Ten High with a few bucks left over to throw at your bail for those of you who prefer the liquid measure. And all so that you can proudly sport a necklace that looks like a mentally-challenged, eight-fingered six year-old made it at Y camp, and which you will then have to fess up to having created yourself. Believe me folks, you’re better off with the whiskey.
All of which begs the question, Is it ME?
Yesterday, flush with excitement at the prospect of the return of glorious golden summer, I went exploring in the remotest reaches of my closet for something that would decently cover me while allowing adequate ventilation in the unseasonably warm, July-esque weather of the metropolis. A skirt, a dress, even, Lord forgive me, a pair of shorts. Anything but jeans and boots.
The quest for footwear went quite well. After all, sandals always fit and it would be disingenuous of me to say my shoe collection is in any way lacking. My efforts to locate suitable daywear, however, were not crowned with similar success, and as I do every year, I wondered at the remarkable shrinkage that results when off-season garments sit around in the dark for several months. I’m inclined to blame the moths, but in truth, it’s those bastards Ben and Jerry and their asshole buddies at the Cupcake Cafe whose filthy chocolate fingerprints are all over this disaster, or more correctly, my ass and thighs. And so, once again, it’s back to the nutritional purgatory of the summer diet. This year, however, I’m dragging you along with me.