This picture of a very young Angelina Jolie fills my heart with joy. Keep looking at it until you feel the joy, too.
Here, the young Daphne Guinness looks forward to adopting the role of Eccentric Style Icon.
See? Life is good.
Look at these stunning over-the-knee boots made of patchwork fur by the always sexy and repellent Tom Ford.
“Purple tone-on-tone dyed astrakhan (Afghan origin) and dyed calf hair (New Zealand origin.)” Here’s a close up:
If you’re wondering what astrakhan is, designer Dennis Basso says you’re not.
“Women who want something beautiful are only interested in the final product,” he said. “She’s buying fashion. She’s not going into Prada and asking, ‘Where did this come from?’ It’s like when somebody goes and buys a diamond. They’re not asking what mine it came from either.”
But I’ll tell you anyway. Most astrakhan lambs, according to the fur industry, are killed within days or weeks of their birth because as they age, the quality of their wool quickly changes from tightly curled rows to a more coarse and wiry pelt. Oh well, too bad for those lambs, they should be honored to serve Tom Ford’s vision.
I wish Neiman Marcus offered styling advice like Net-a-Porter does, but you’ll have to wing it on your own.
Once in a while, I see a film that is so transformative, I wish I could make everyone watch it. The Crash Reel is exactly that. It is a fucking gem in every way and I want you to make every effort to see it.
The Crash Reel is a documentary about a fearless young snowboarder, Kevin Pearce, who has a terrible wipe-out just before the winter Olympics in 2010. The accident leaves Kevin with a traumatic brain injury and limitations that he refuses to accept, but ultimately lead him to advocate for people with brain injuries and other disabilities.
It’s a riveting, emotional and thought-provoking film, beautiful to watch, and filled with heart-wrenching moments that compel you to think about your own family and your own reactions to adversity.
I watched The Crash Reel twice: alone the first time, and then with my husband. The first time, I was overwhelmed by all the emotion but uplifted by all the palpable love on display. The next time, I found too many parallels in my own situation as the mother of both a dare-devil and a child with special needs. I wished that my own story was more positive. I wished that our love could have triumphed over everything.
But still, seeing that there is satisfaction in helping others is inspiring. Seeing a family pull together like this one is beautiful beyond words.
Finally, apart from all its artistry, this documentary is an effective discourse on head injuries. Be careful, and #loveyourbrain!
If it looks like Anthony Weiner is about to show you his dick in this picture, it’s because he probably is. Or, he would if he could.
People are all excited that Weiner announced his run for mayor of New York City even though he was lying about his ‘redemption’ and must have known that the truth would come out. What the fuck is wrong with this guy, the pundits are wondering, and so am I.
Clearly, it’s some sort of pathology. He needs to send pictures of his dick to all takers, and he needs to talk dirty to strangers. He needs to do this despite a lust for political power, and the fact that these drives are not compatible seems to elude him.
Because I’m me, I am driven to look for the meaning of Weiner’s pathology. I am certain that his name has something to do with it. Having the name Weiner and looking like a giant nose with some incidental features surrounding it must have shaped his childhood and adolescence. Think how mean people were in school even when your name isn’t Weiner.
So there’s the childhood insecurity and humiliation, and maybe a resulting obsession with outsmarting his tormentors. He’s a small man physically, so he pushes himself in the gym. He rises to an elected office and marries an attractive power-junkie with strong ties to the Clintons. He’s got it made, but then there’s his dick and the fact that it requires acknowledgment and/or admiration from strangers.
Couldn’t his wife admire his dick enough? Did her familiarity ruin the fun for him? Does he have an unconscious need to humiliate his wife, to transfer his own humiliation onto her? Or does he thrive on the risk of doing something that could topple his whole set-up? Something so stupid and distasteful that no one could excuse it?
His own inclination is to blame twitter: “If it wasn’t 2011 and it didn’t exist, it’s not like I would have gone out cruising bars or something like that. It was just something that technology made possible and it became possible for me to do stupid things. I mean, the thing I did, and the damage that I did, not only hadn’t it been done before, but it wasn’t possible to do it before.”
Got that? If only that damn technology didn’t exist, he wouldn’t be tempted to use it!
His wife looked pretty crazy at their joint announcement today and who can blame her. If she would just smack him in the face, we would all feel better.
Help me figure out why Weiner is nuts. What’s your analysis?
It has been a heartbreaking weekend. God bless Amanda Palmer for cheering us up.
** If you don’t see a picture, go here.
Who can stop me from buying this leather jacket? I have at least five leather jackets but not this one.
Step Two: “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”
I’m skipping Step One.
Last night, I stayed up until dawn after taking in too much suffering. I am trying to learn tonglen, a method of breathing in suffering and breathing out compassion, but I forgot. I forgot, and found myself dwelling on my own misery.
Earlier in the day, I wrote a letter to someone whose partner killed himself. Later in the day, I answered an email from a man whose depressed wife has taken to her bed, leaving him with two jobs and the care of their children. Then I read about the mother who killed her 14 year old autistic son, incurring the understandable wrath of the disability community and beyond.
So many problems and so many tragic circumstances with no easy solutions. It’s overwhelming. You have to do something, though, right?
I have a bunch of Facebook “friends” who I don’t know in real life. I acquire them for the usual reasons. One of them, Jon, had an accident a few weeks ago that left him paralyzed in a wheelchair and unable to keep his apartment. His story triggered memories of Max’s despair over his injuries.
I was determined to help Jon. I noticed that he had more than 1,000 Facebook friends. He is a political activist and provokes lively discussion on his Facebook page. So I posted my idea on his page: I exhorted Jon’s friends to each make a $5 donation to his Paypal account. What a great idea, I thought proudly! I felt deeply satisfied by my plan to rescue this person in need.
Jon received four donations, including mine.
He was okay with it, but I was horrified. I couldn’t get over it. Five dollars?? Wouldn’t anybody give five dollars to a human being in such difficult circumstances? What the fuck is wrong with people?
I’m upset by indifference, even though I’m guilty of it all the time. I would like to see more compassion. Coincidentally, I just came across this study in how compassion and kindness can be taught and developed, literally changing the brain in the process.
More kindness would be great. The messages I’ve received from strangers who read my blog have often brought me to tears, just because kindness seems like such a meaningful gift. When we breathe in each other’s suffering and breathe out compassion, we are all that much closer to healing the unbearable pain of being human.
*photo (c) Nandini Valli Muthiah
J Lo is sorry about going to Turkmenistan to sing for its dictator, President Gurbanguly Berdymukhamedov. Her “people” had “vetted” the event, but they missed the part about its human rights record.
All you have to do is google ‘Turkmenistan human rights” to learn that it is one of the world’s most repressive countries. Media and religious freedoms are subject to draconian restrictions. Authorities use imprisonment and torture for political retaliation and to suppress dissent.
You can see why J Lo might want to sing happy birthday to President Berdymukhamedov; he looks so nice! She’s not a mind-reader, you know. And neither is her choreographer, who tweeted during the event: “I wonder where all my Turkmenistan followers are!? Hit me up!” How could he possibly have known that twitter is blocked in Turkmenistan??
Anyway, please accept Jennifer’s apology, especially as she has pointed out that she was hired for the gig by the China National Petroleum Corporation. They’re nice, right? Because China is nice and so are gas, oil and chemicals.
‘Lopez obviously has the right to earn a living performing for the dictator of her choice,” says Human Rights Foundation president Thor Halvorssen. You can’t argue with that. Even though she’s so obviously a moron and a fucking cunt.
I’m making it official. After twenty years of devotion to Johnny Depp as my go-to romantic fantasy, I’m breaking up with him.
The silly hats and the hobo outfits have been trying. The prayer-hands in response to applause have been embarrassing. The unceasing bromances with every male cultural icon from Hunter Thompson to Marlon Brando, ick.
Through it all, I excused his pretentious bullshit because he was Johnny Depp. He was just quirky.
But according to a new interview in Rolling Stone, Johnny Depp “always carries around a copy of Finnegan’s Wake, which he’s been puzzling through for years.”
Jesus, no.
There are limits to what is forgivable, and this is mine. Just last week, I defended Johnny Depp when my friend denounced him for dating a 27 year old model. I told her that he deserved a 27 year old model. His taste in women has always run to perfect doll-like beauties. Who could blame him, I lectured, he’s Johnny Depp.
But now I’m sorry I took his side. ‘Finnegan’s Wake?? ‘Ulysses‘ wouldn’t be poseur enough for him? Nobody can understand Finnegan’s Wake except my brother-in-law, and the rest of us know to stop trying after two pages. Johnny Depp is like a college girl carrying around Anais Nin. People who try to seem intellectual are just sad. I’ll always remember a pop singer who said in an interview that her idols were Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina. Every time I hear her voice, I feel sad for her. That’s how nice I am.
Goodbye, Johnny. You were so cute, so sexy, so fucking adorable in ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.’ But it’s over.
Everyone is freaking out about Michelle Kobke, who managed to create a tiny waist by wearing tight corsets.
Personally, I find it disturbing to look at, but if her body is her temple, she is free to desecrate it.
Our eyes may not be accustomed to this distorted hourglass figure, but I don’t think it’s any stupider than getting obviously fake breasts.
Women are doing horrible things to their bodies all the time and as we have discussed, men are up to no good too. I don’t know why people aren’t commenting on Angelina Jolie‘s choice of over-sized implants that are so disproportionate to her small frame. Is it because she’s supposed to be an icon of courage and righteousness?
Huge lips, tiny noses, enormous implants, hair extensions, fake cheekbones, it’s all bad. Michelle Kobke’s waist shouldn’t come as a shock at this point. Our bodies have ceased to be our temples and have become our enemies. My own body is generously providing me with hot flashes and a nice roll of flab where once there was muscle. I’m not going to make my temple a battleground! I’m not going to do ONE SINGLE sit-up.
Because all my energy goes to my hair.
