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P.S. Despite its misleading name, Young Choice welcomes men and women of all ages.
P.S.S. Ask for the nibbly fish.
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Impish, shrimpish model, Audrey Marnay got much less/more than she bargained for when she signed on to shoot the Spring '11 Longchamp campaign with Patrick Demarchelier. Allegedly, fellow shrimp model and former face of the brand, Kate Moss, became so enraged at the idea of being replaced by Marnay, she contracted famously foul tempered thug and hitwoman Naomi Campbell to "get rid of 'er". After negotiating payent in "big, shiny diamonds; not those fucking dirty ones that South African bloke gave me", Campbell put her evil plan into action. Following a hearty breakfast of cigarettes, crunchy cellphone-parts and a recently employed Latina maid, Campbell boarded "Uncle Phil's" jet for the 5 day flight to deepest, darkest Papua New Guinea - location of the Longchamp shoot. Upon landing, Campbell went right to work - burning villages, throwing flat screen televisions at the local tribespeople and bribing and berating cannibals to do her evil bidding. The cannibals leapt at the work, delighted to be paid in "extremely rare and valuable dirty stones". In rapid succession, Campbell's cannibals snatched Marnay from the hair and makeup trailer, gnawed off both her feet, stuck her upright in a dug out canoe and set her adrift with nothing but a Longchamp handbag (stuffed with tissue paper) and a thoroughly pissed off look on her face. But every cloud has a silver lining. On the way to the New Guinea airport, Naomi's armored tank was forced off the road by a rival cannibal gang and she was roasted on a spit and eaten.
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Like many of my creative brethren, I’ve never had much of a knack with money. My past is littered with foolish investments, including an Alpha Romeo Spider that looked great but seldom ran, an apartment on west 22nd street (purchased because I loved the faux marble cardboard pillar in the living room) and a $2,000 Claude Montana leather jacket with gigantic shoulder pads and a cinched waist. Try getting your money back on that “investment” after the great shoulder pad crash of 1999.
But now it seems my luck has turned. It all began last week when my stockbroker called with congratulations – needless to say, his first ever. The J.Crew stock I’d asked him to purchase years ago had finally paid off. J.Crew and Mickey Drexler had officially sold the company to a buyout firm for $2.8 billion dollars, a happy event that increased my personal wealth by tens of hundreds of dollars!
With Mickey Drexler personally gaining a reported $300 million from this deal, it’s inevitable that other companies have begun to look eerily similar to J.Crew of late. Ironically however, the very originators of the look are doing the best imitation of all.
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This refreshing dose of irreverence is brought to you by the genius marketers at 42 Below.
]]>After a six year absence from the field, Mr. Ford catapulted himself back to the top by employing one of the oldest marketing tricks in the book. In a week of instant, constant, unremitting access he did the unthinkable and the brilliant. He withheld all photos, relying instead on descriptions (i.e. words) alone to give each outfit magic. God love him. By denying entrance to all but house photographer, Terry Richardson, Mr Ford not only created the most talked about, least seen show of the week (only 130 guests were invited), he also taught every marketer and his Mother (that’d be me) a deft lesson in how to create desire. No doubt every outfit he showed is already spoken for sight unseen.
Annoyingly the pant suit doesn't come in a 40 long.
NYT's Cathy Horyn's contraband picture of Beyonce, fresh from the Tom Ford runway.
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The drinkers on Mad Men are novice boozers compared to the professional alcoholics I worked with at Ogilvy and Mather, Sydney during the early 80's. In fact I've long suspected the reason I was offered a transfer from Sydney to New York is that I was the only one left standing after lunch. Getting wasted at lunch was de rigeur in 1981 Sydney -- extra de riguer on Fridays. I recall a particular lengthy session at the local Italian joint, Bepe's, with fellow creatives Jenny and Christine. Those girls drank. After a bottle of wine and a pack of Camel lights each, they moved onto a few rounds of flaming sambucca - a lethal concoction that sears kidneys and singes eyebrows. As we wobbled, tottered, swayed and guffawed our way back to the office, Christine suddenly stumbled and fell. I reached out to help her, and instead managed to pull her sweater over her head, thereby exposing her breasts for all North Sydney to see. Good hearted drunken lass that she was, Christine laughed even harder, pulled her shoes off and wobbled barefoot and topless back to the office. Now, that's what I call drinking at lunch.
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The picture of Rihanna on the cover of this month’s Elle must make women feel really despondent. It pretty much says it’s no longer enough to just be beautiful, talented and lusciously curvy. Now you’ve also got to be a shape-shifting contortionist with a waist the same width as your head. The poor girl’s right shoulder appears dislocated (don’t try that at home, ladies). Her ravishing figure has been reduced to an indeterminate series of flat planes and awkward angles (again, don’t try this at home). And her hips…well, what woman in her right mind needs those? Which brings me to the villain of the piece - Photoshop.
While fashion editors, designers, advertisers and advertising standards organizations huddle in far flung places to debate what constitutes Photoshop abuse, many in the retouching community seem to be merrily abusing it in whole new ways. We're talking missing limbs and navels, and folds of fabric masquerading in plain daylight as a penis. Yes, you can see it all (and more!) on the holy grail of Photoshop disaster blogs, the aptly named photoshopdisasters.com. (Thanks for the tip, J.P.)
Here’s a little something to tide you over ‘til you get there.
