Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Scorched Earth




Naomi Campbell always gets the juicy gigs. Photos from the Interview spread remind me of why I loved editorial fashion in the first place: fantastical, perverted, dark fantasies from dark corners of the brain, 2 dimensional theatre and most importantly...Naomi. The "Eastern Promises" reference is titillating.
Photos by Marcus Piggott and Mert Alas for Interview Magazine.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Aigo Buido


It has been said that the greatest food has come out of poverty's kitchen, and I believe I continued the tradition tonight. Last weekend I read the most glorious, inspiring book: "My Life in France" by Julia Child. Mdm. Cheeld is very en vogue right now, but her actual autobiography was so charming, it wiped away even memories of Meryl Streep. She described violent winds coming off the waters of Marseille, and making a particular garlic soup to warm their battered bodies. Reading her description of this garlic soup prompted me to go online and purchase the great volumes of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking".
As we are in the middle of a brutal fashion week, I didn't leave the office until 8pm tonight...and came home to look at a truly depressed refrigerator. Cottage cheese? Crackers? Jalapenos? YES, those could make a decent dinner, its true! But a few cloves of garlic hiding in a forgotten corner called my name, hollered "Corrie, we are about to sprout! Throw us in a pot, and voila! BOOOOON APPETIT!" So I whipped out my beautiful brand new cookbook and put together a rather low-brow version of Mdm. Cheeld's aigo buido. It was quite good, but I suspect if I had some really grown up accoutrement such as a soup tureen or proper strainer...or food products that weren't on the very cusp of undesirable....I could really whip up a gorgeous soup. Either way, I washed the soup down with a glass of Villa Antinori, in honor of my big girl effort in the kitchen.

I Don't Understand Why No One Likes Hedge Funders


A couple years ago, I briefly dated a hedge funder. This seemed like a coup for me at the time, as I was an unhappy waitress and he was a prerecession Master of the Universe. As with so many Masters and Conquerors and Napoleon Shih Tzus, he was lacking in many aspects. He wasn't particularly warm or kind, he was appropriately intelligent but obnoxiously wont to name-drop, and was just...off. I felt as though I met him when he was flying a bit too high, and I was cruising too low. I finally stopped returning his calls when I fell desperately in love with a man who adored me, and didn't feel the need to constantly brag about meetings on private jets with beseeching CEOs. Almost 2 years after our initial relationship, I reconnected with Hedge Fund for drinks, perhaps to see if I could handle him more adeptly at this new stage in life. Within 10 minutes of meeting ("God, you look great. So basically I got laid off but you wouldn't believe the size of my severance package.") I was immediately reminded that my first impression of him as a creep was correct. The recession hadn't been kind to him, and I privately reveled in his miseries. The night ended with him drunk and begging me to take him to my apartment; instead I kicked him out of the cab at a Path train station to go back to his Trump Tower abode in...Jersey City.
So another nine months after this meeting, imagine my surprise last night, as the hour neared midnight, when I received a text message from him:

"I hate fashion week."
I took the bait, out of champagne-infused curiosity.
"Why, Jimmy, why?"
"These bitches...there (sic) not even close to being as hot as you. What are the odds of me taking you out on Friday or Saturday night?"

I mean, honestly.
This morning I woke to a flurry of messages apologizing and explaining. Obviously I never returned his messages, because I was right from the beginning, but I love being right. A jerk is a jerk is a jerk. Even when his suits are tailored in Hong Kong and his sweaters are cashmere and his hair is handsomely peppered. That just don't make him right.