This is one of my favorite memories of my life, and it happened in Austin in late 2008. I had met a new group of friends, and with those friends completely found identity. I was no longer Dustin Is-He-Gay or Dustin Is-He-Smart: I was smart, friendly, gay Dustin. And that was nice. I'm often nostalgic about this one night in particular. You just can't recreate some things.
Is it just me or did Shakira lose a few pounds between video shoots? Oh, wait, that's impossible; it's the SAME SHOOT. So, what, we American's can't handle a beautiful woman? She has to be photoshopped ANOREXIC to be objectified? NOT FAIR.
This is the kind of art that makes me jealous.
“There are nights when I can’t sleep. I go into a fantasyland and tableau sort of thinking, like, Tonight would be the perfect night to say, ‘Honey, I’m really tired and worried about work. And tell me about your day. Do you think someone will read this and try to get in touch with me?” He looks hopeful. “If I read that about someone, I’d drop him a note.”
Well, my day was fine, Marc, what about you?
Christian, an African-American maid, was convicted for the murder of her white employer Mrs. Ida Virginia Belote, a white woman, aged 72 years, in her home at Hampton on March 18. It is said she confessed shortly after she was arrested.
Belote frequently mistreated Christian, and in mid-March 1912, a violent argument ensued between the two in which Belote accused Christian of stealing a locket and a skirt. Belote hit Christian with a cuspidor—commonly called a “spittoon”—which sent Christian into a violent frenzy. The altercation escalated when Christian and Belote ran for two broom handles Belote used to prop up her bedroom windows. Christian grabbed one of the broom handles and struck Belote on the forehead. In an attempt to stifle Belote’s screams, Christian stuffed a towel down Belote’s throat, and the woman died by suffocation. When Christian left the house, she stole Belote’s purse with some money and a ring. One newspaper reported that police found Belote’s body “laying face down in a pool of blood, and her head was horribly mutilated and a towel was stuffed into her mouth and throat” (Streib & Sametz, 1989, p. 25; see also Moten, 1997). The police soon arrested Christian, and during questioning she admitted to hitting Belote but was shocked that Belote was dead. Christian claimed she had no intent to kill Belote. With a lynch mob looming in the background, an Elizabeth City County Court tried and convicted Christian for murder and the trial judge sentenced her to death in the state’s electric chair. One day after her 17th birthday in August 1912, a short 5 months after the crime, Virginia authorities executed Christian at the state penitentiary in Richmond.
My dear Mr. Governor: Please forgive me for bothering you ... I have been paralyzed for more than three years and I could not look after Gennie as I wants to. I know she done an awful wicked thing when she killed Miss Belote and I hear that people at the penitentiary wants to kill her. But I am praying night and day on my knees to God that he will soften your heart. If you only save my child who is so little, God will bless you forever.
Christian was electrocuted in the state prison in Richmond. She was 17 years old. The paper reported that her body was to be turned over to the state medical school, because her parents did not have the money to transport the body from Richmond."
The preview for the video is below. This is major.
Sunset for the eurovacationers in Cascais.
Even the dogs feel saudade. (Alfama)
In Lagos. Local red wine, three courses and a thick tuna steak in a tomato broth. One of the best meals I've ever eaten.
Sunset in the Algarve.
The Pradas and Bo's leg at sunset at Cos(h)ta de Caparica.
All night long (all night)!
Posing at the Torré de Belém.
"Quick, let's sit on these tables!" Sin, sin. (That's Portuguese, not holy-speak.)
Leaving for Lisbon tomorrow, and I'm super excited about my suitcase this time around. I mean, the picture doesn't do it any justice--my favorite pieces aren't even in the shot--but I'm going international for Lisbon. All-American Sperry's hi-top sneakers, a Tiger of Sweden pant, Havaianas flip-flops, Ralph Lauren blazer and Prada swim shorts and sunglasses. I am also bringing a Mexican skull scarf and an African necklace, as well as a pair of tan trunks I bought in Stockholm last year. The general theme is striped, loose, and short. Lots of denim, too.
This photo is of Mischa Barton, someone I have never actually seen act or sing or dance in any capacity whatsoever. I don't care about her. The photo, however, is stunning. It's actually a paparazzi shot I gave a quickie edit to reveal the composition. Mischa is now kind of a fatso, which makes this even more interesting; her golden moments are gone.
Gaga's new video has been on the air for less than an hour and "LADY GAGA OFFENSIVE VIDEO" headlines are already flowing like the freshly spilt tears of Pope Benedict XVI.
I haven't posted anything about music in months. Or, like, years.
Example: Calling up six different high-end stores in a search for Givenchy's studded men's sandals.
First, Maxfield in LA: "Call Bonnies!"
"I'm sorry, Bonnies?"
She hangs up.
Hm. Guess she meant Barney's?
I am a casual high-end shopper. As in, I don't shop too often, but the second I see a "spare" (i.e. existing) few hundred dollars in my bank account, there's a new Marc sweater in my closet, or Ferragamos, or my most recent purchase, a Ralph Lauren sportscoat.
It's hard to fake creativity. It's hard to fake European heritage. It's hard to fake intelligence. But it's unfairly easy to fake wealth and style.
So how did my search end? With a flirty sales assistant at Barney's on Madison who "snuck in a reservation" for size 11 Givenchy sandals. I don't know the price. So let's hope I have a spare few hundred dollars once my phone vibrates to "212."
2. A camel coat for fall.
3. Light, tight denim jeans. (Getting these tomorrow, actually.)
Time has passed, though, and I've surrendered Love and am allowing It to do what It wants.
I've been dating someone for about six weeks now, and there isn't any spark. There's comfort, and we get along well. I see it as a shared journey in search of Love, which we will not find in each other but are sharpening our senses and preparing our minds for when It does come.
Today, Valleywag posted a series of accidentally-published Facebook messages obtained during a recent security goof on the website. No matter how "public" our culture seems to be--reality shows, webcams, blogs like the one you're reading--the truth is rarely told. These messages touched me, even through their grammatical errors, enough that I cried. I've included a few below.
Below: I feel like I've been through this exact scenario, but was never honest enough with myself to express it.
Below: They're the lyrics from Blink182's "Down," and end with a wrenching addendum in Spanish.
Below: Fairly certain this is from a young boy in England. Don't we all want to be told this?
Below: This one made me cry. Not a single period in the entire letter, which makes me wonder if the lack of grammar adds to the emotional effect. This is clearly a man in love.
How many of us experience this kind of love? Maybe I'm naive to even consider this Love, but I know I want to have this. And, likely, not everyone finds It in their lifetime.
Now is the time for change, and I'm going to fight through the oppression of observed brilliance to make my own.
And if you're in the mood to be destroyed, just take a peak at Kate Loves Me.
Of course, Tom Ford throws in his own delusional group of youngsters, all doe-eyed and strikingly similar to those in Ford's fashion campaigns, as potential distractions for our Man, but it doesn't matter one bit, ultimately: Jim's death signified the end of all importance on Earth for George, as his love was the most intense and sincere feeling he's ever experienced. The world of George is muted and lonely.
Love is so rare. And love is the greatest thing in human life, but also the most painful. And sometimes, a life without love is no life at all.
10. Kings of Leon, Only by the Night (2008)
It's rumored Caleb Followill wrote Only in a single night, beginning with the haunting, desperate "Closer," about a vampire looking to feed. This is not their Happiest record of the decade, but the general tone and musicality of the album wins with major style points.
Happiest Track: "Revelry"
9. Sam Sparro, Sam Sparro (2008)
Sparro's debut is unabashed 80's-style pop, but occasionally-deep lyrical content appears when least expected.
Happiest Track: "Too Many Questions"
8. Robyn, Robyn (2008)
Simple, perfect pop.
Happiest Track: "Handle Me"
7. Feist, Let It Die (2004)
Happiest Track: "Inside and Out"
6. Lady Gaga, The Fame Monster (2009)
I was tempted to rank this higher on the list--no other female pop record was quite as fun in the 2000s--but the album is still fresh.
Happiest Track: "Bad Romance"
5. The Postal Service, Give Up (2003)
Possibly also the Happiest Album Art Award?
Happiest Track: "Nothing Better"
4. Lily Allen, Alright, Still (2006)
Lily Allen was and still is the most believable pop music brat. And her brand of humor has been copied again and again...(Katy Perry, Ke$ha, Kate Nash...lot's of K's, for some reason)
Happiest Track: "Knock 'Em Out"
3. Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine (2005)
Happiest Track: "Better Version of Me"
2. The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)
There are a lot of faux-Brit rockers in the music world, but none as slick, sexual or pared down as Brandon Flowers and his less-relevant band members.
Happiest Track: "Smile Like You Mean It"
1. Amy Winehouse, Back to Black (2006)
Cutting selections from this list--which began much larger than the ten you see here--took a lot of careful consideration and research. I wanted to include a Madonna album, simply for the impact she's had on my life in the past decade, but no single album is better than the above ten (2000's Music came close). I also wanted to throw in Rihanna's Rated R (2009), which is altogether a better record than The Fame Monster but, let's all be honest, the Lady deserves a spot here. There were a hundred others--Shakira (for She Wolf, 2009) and John Mayer (Continuum, 2006), M.I.A. (Kala, 2007) and even electro-pop goddess Annie for the dazzling, whirling disco of Anniemal (2004). But when I had to make a choice for Happiest album, there was no doubt in my mind. Amy Winehouse is a legend in the making. She has a voice without peer and an ability to write lyrics as sharp as shattered glass--and as heartbreaking as the worst breakup you've ever been through. Paired with Mark Ronson's addictive beats and as-of-yet-unmatched talent at mimicking the rasp of vintage recordings, one can only hope her heart is broken again. And that's black.
Happiest Track (of the Decade): "Back to Black"