Leandra Medine's Blog, page 362

Miley Cyrus is Coming Back, Mark My Words

Last night, when I saw that Miley Cyrus was on the cover of Billboard with an accompanying article, titled (in part) “Miley Cyrus Breaks Silence,” I did that thing people do in movies where they run their arm across a desk in anger, knocking everything off. Except I did it to my mind, metaphorically and out of sheer joy. “EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP THIS IS IMPORTANT,” I screamed at my brain cells as I pulled the article up on my phone and brought it close to my face.

“She looks just like her mom Tish here,” I thought creepily, appraising the feature photo of her riding a rocking horse in a field. She really does.

A post shared by Miley Cyrus (@mileycyrus) on May 4, 2017 at 9:11am PDT

After the first paragraph, which described a tangly haired Miley padding around Rainbow Land, her kitschy recording studio, in a vintage T-shirt, eager to end her self-imposed media blackout, I texted my editor. “Should I write about Miley?” I shot off, linking the article. “Fine,” she responded. I recalled a Miley story I’d pitched a month ago that was shot down because “no one cares about Miley Cyrus” and felt utterly vindicated. Is this what personal fulfillment feels like? 

My fascination with Miley Cyrus is a little inexplicable. Disney’s Hannah Montana was after my time, so it’s not rooted in some sort of way-back loyalty. When “Can’t Be Tamed” came out and everyone was up in arms about her anti-Disney rebrand (remember the risqué shoot with Annie Leibovitz?), I was neither disturbed nor particularly interested. But when she started wearing that ballerina bun around LA? And when she chopped her hair and dyed it blond and started wearing black onesies and chunky gold Chanel jewelry? She reeled me in like a fucking magnet. I fell fast.

It’s hard to say how many times I watched the “We Can’t Stop” music video, but an estimation north of 100 wouldn’t offend me.

I didn’t go to her tour (I’m too old for stadium concerts; they make me feel weird), but I laughed at the tongue slide on Twitter. I listened to the album a ton. Her twangy version of pop just kind of did it for me, even though I also found it a little terrible. It’s good-terrible. In the years following, as she transitioned into her Dead Petz-Flaming Lips phase, she did lose me a little, I’ll admit. I thought that time she hosted the VMAs in 2015 was just as bad as everyone else did (WE GET IT, YOU SMOKE WEED) and I was put off by the whole face-dripping-in-sparkly-milk aesthetic she seemed so keen on through 2016. At least she stayed unabashed?

All said, I still cared about her and her 17 literal pets. I respected her work with the homeless and her musical talent and I defended her like I was in fucking court for YEARS, even when I secretly agreed with my opponents. I even stuck with her through her beading period. I mean, how could I not come out of the other side of that with some kind of Stockholm Syndrome?

A post shared by Miley Cyrus (@mileycyrus) on Mar 31, 2015 at 12:59am PDT

I’ve been waiting for a Miley comeback for years. A REAL comeback. Her most recent album “Miley Cyrus and Her Dead Petz” just didn’t do it for me. Per Billboard, it’s coming. She’s going through another transition. She hasn’t smoked weed in three weeks! “I like to surround myself with people that make me want to get better, more evolved, open. And I was noticing, it’s not the people that are stoned,” she said. “I want to be super clear and sharp, because I know exactly where I want to be.”

By the looks of it, that means more time making music and less time sexualizing baby corn, which honestly I appreciate. I just don’t know how many more plastic beads and phallic references I can handle on my feed. Apparently her new song drops next Thursday, May 11th, and then a whole album — which she wrote entirely herself and which Billboard describes as “gimmick-free pop rock” — is set to be released later this year.

She says she’s tired of alienating people. That she’s moving past using shock as a political statement. “All the ­nipple pastie shit, that’s what I did because I felt it was part of my political movement, and that got me to where I am now,” she says. “I’m evolving, and I surround myself with smart people that are evolved.”

I’m just ready. It’s time. She is EVOLVING. She is!

A post shared by Miley Cyrus (@mileycyrus) on May 3, 2017 at 7:21pm PDT

Photo by James Devaney/GC Images via Getty Images.

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Moving Advice From Someone Who Moves Too Much

I’ve moved so, so many times. I moved to New York City in 2003. The city-wide blackout happened my very first week. While climbing 16 floors to the apartment I was crashing in with a friend, it hit me: This city could really grind you up and spit you out. But that’s another story entirely.

I eventually signed a lease with a roommate, but found myself on the hunt not a year later, after realizing he was the absolute worst and that, despite New York being “the city that never sleeps,” the Upper East Side actually did sleep. It went to bed super early, matter of fact. So I moved downtown, to a 200-square-foot, sixth-floor studio in a walkup building that I left after another year when I couldn’t deal with the cockroach/rat situation any longer. I moved again, and again, and again — a string of rent hikes, boyfriend breakups and, once, to flee from a building-wide bedbug infestation.

I’ve lived in 10 apartments in New York City — subdivided Bushwick lofts and Boerum Hill basements and LES cubbyholes and one horrifyingly blah Battery Park City unit — and have moved across the United States THREE TIMES; a triangle whose points are NYC, Los Angeles and Miami. In all of this moving, I have learned a great deal. Here, I will impart my hard-earned wisdom. Share your own in the comments please.

1. Stop relying on your friends and/or parents to help you move.

I spent so many of my formative NYC years extremely broke. Instead of hiring movers, friends and sometimes even family members would physically help me load and unload my U-Haul. This sort of thing might fly when you’re fresh out of college, but unless you always return the favor, it starts to take a toll on your relationships. Spare the people close to you and pony up some money for either professionals (ideal scenario) or a few strong people off Craigslist or Taskrabbit or whatever the kids are using these days.

2. PURGE. But don’t wait ‘til you’re packing or moving to do so.

I don’t associate a lot of silver linings with moving, but Kondo-like purging is one of them. That is, if you do it correctly. Purging is a step in and of itself. Do not — DO NOT — attempt to organize and purge whilst moving. You need to be completely packed up and ready to go by moving day, soldier. All paper shredding and Beacon’s Closet donating needs to be done well in advance.

3. Assume you have more stuff than you think you do.

I’ll pack up the kitchen morning-of. We don’t have a lot of kitchen stuff. Untrue. You have so much kitchen stuff. It’s multiplying in your drawers and oven (where I store pots) as I type this. Also, and this speaks to both this point and the above purge point, if you feel the need to put some of your excess stuff in storage, know that by virtue of that very decision, you’re deeming it unnecessary. Purge it.

4. Make sure your utilities (hot water, electricity, etc.) are set up before you arrive.

This one bit me in the rear when I moved to LA. Who knew that in LA, hot water wasn’t just available, that you had to make sure it was set up beforehand? After a long, hot cross-country moving-truck drive, dog mostly on my lap stress-shedding and panting, there was nothing I wanted more than a hot shower. Instead, I took a bracingly cold one and slept on a mattress on the floor. Don’t end up like me; do your utilities homework beforehand.

5. Unpack and decorate immediately or live among boxes forever.

Admittedly, this is not something I’ve excelled at in the past. I have been in my current apartment for over seven months now and I still have a few bags of random things squirreled away in closets and drawers. It is, however, a truism of life. This is a time to be aggressive. Push yourself like you’re on American Ninja Warrior. It’ll suck and then it’ll be over and you’ll enjoy the fruits of your labor for a year — maybe even longer, if you are lucky and completely unlike me.

6. Moving does not wipe away your problems.

New destinations can seem so romantic. Your current situation can seem so tragic. And though a move can improve some aspects of your life — career, access to natural light, few-to-zero termites (the scourge of Miami) — it does not, in my experience, fix the hard stuff. That boyfriend will not be less annoying just because you now have an eat-in kitchen, for example. Sunset views cannot cure your anxiety.

Some other odds and ends I’ve learned the hard way: Don’t bring plants into California. Get insurance on the U-Haul in case someone sideswipes you. Don’t cart trash bags or boxes full of old papers and pens from one city to another — you’ll hate yourself for it. Lift with your legs. Mark the contents of each box on three sides or so with Sharpie. Know that if you live above a restaurant, you will smell that restaurant morning and night. The person who was the life of the party in college is likely a terrible choice of roommate. If you can avoid it, don’t drive your belongings cross-country, especially with a romantic partner. It’s probably equally affordable or even cheaper to have someone move them for you, and much less terrible for your relationship.

And finally — most importantly — if you see one bug, there are many, many other bugs.

What are your moving commandments? Believe it or not, I’m on the brink of another move and could use all the additional help I can get.

Illustration by Juliana Vido; follow her on Instagram @julianavido.

The post Moving Advice From Someone Who Moves Too Much appeared first on Man Repeller.

I Like My Skirts Maxi, Not Mini

I vividly remember the first and last miniskirt of my life. It was a cropped denim number found at Urban Outfitters, worn with a basketball tee and cheerleading socks. Shortly before this, I had watched a movie starring a girl in a denim miniskirt which instantly made me believe I had to own one, too. Movie characters often put me in a makeover mood: After watching Juno, I tried a disturbing combination of ill-fitting jeans, band tee and a yellow Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie. The Juno mood lasted a day, then I went back to my nice jeans and pretty blouses. The miniskirt awaited a similar fate.

I started hating it only a few weeks after the purchase. It didn’t help that my mother defended it in front of my father. My father thought it was too short. “Let her wear a short skirt,” my mother exclaimed. “She’s young!” I was young indeed, but for some reason, looking young didn’t speak to me. When someone asks me about the style sins of my youth (which is a weird thing to ask me because I’m technically still in the middle of my youth and have plenty occasions to commit sins ahead of me), I never know how to respond. Yes, I did wear a lot of very wrong clothes in my adolescence (I still do! Sometimes). But I never felt obliged to look young because I was.

MSGM striped shirt, Andrew GN skirt, Sophia Webster sandals, artificial poppy from the flower shop

Do I have to look young just because I am? And what does “looking young” mean, anyway? Miniskirts, mini dresses and hot pants have always been associated with youth because they were invented at a time when fashion was meant to liberate women. Youth equals freedom (of rules, duties, office hours, tax declarations), which, again, is what the miniskirt has always promised. If you want to jump over a fence, it is not going to obstruct you. If you like to feel a breeze around your privates, it allows for that. If you like to show your legs, it won’t hide them, and if you wear it on the first day of your internship at a stiff law firm, your boss will send you home, which means you’ll get the day off. The miniskirt has always had a don’t-care attitude: don’t care if my legs are unshaved, don’t care if you can see my lower butt cheeks peeking out. That’s what kept it young.

Wales Bonner denim jacket, Marques’ Almeida dress, Seymoure sunglasses, Converse sneakers

I stopped wearing mine because I started to feel old long before I actually will be. And as much as youth is celebrated, I’m okay with that. I barely go out (okay, never); I love to clean my apartment; I fall asleep at midnight, even on Saturdays; and I once told people in my building to turn the music down. I would not enjoy being sent home by my boss, and I don’t think any guy — apart from my boyfriend — deserves to see my butt cheeks. Apart from that, I don’t like my legs. It’s not that I hate them, but I’m not a fan, either. I worry about them, which is probably the opposite of what young people are supposed to do. My legs are rather sturdy, thanks to both predisposition and my career as a middle-distance runner (which picked up around the same time I started hating the aforementioned denim miniskirt). But you know how they say there’s no bad weather, just wrong clothing? I say there are no sturdy legs, just too-short skirts. And so I discovered maxi skirts and dresses.

Diane von Furstenberg blouse, La Double J skirt, Rebecca de Ravenel earrings, Castañer espadrilles

I wore them all last summer, and can’t wait to do so again. I feel good in them, not because I have something to hide, but because wearing what suits my body and personality best simply gives me confidence – which is probably a really adult and boring thing to say about style, but what do I care? One can combine them with heeled sandals or Converse sneakers, a crisp white blouse or a glamorous jacket. They look both elegant and flamboyant. Also, think about all the great things you can hide under them! If you’ve always wanted to sneak your dog into your grand aunt’s white-carpeted living room, maxi skirts and dresses are your thing. I even figured out a way to wear them without looking like I was on my way to Coachella: just add a buttoned-up shirt and dramatic earrings. But no one believes I go to Coachella anyway. I hate festivals! See how old I am? 23 on the outside, 72 on the inside. As I said, that’s okay. My legs and I don’t regret anything.

Follow Berlin-babe Claire on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Go check out her website C’est Clairette, too. Photos by Marlen Mueller, follow her on Instagram @marle_mue.

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5 Ways I’m Changing How I Think About My Body

Last year I put on a little weight. It was a modest gain — about one small cat’s worth of pounds, hardly enough for anyone to notice. If I told you how much I’ve worried about it, I’d have to kill you. It’s embarrassing. More frustratingly, it’s often in spite of my best efforts. The thing about body changes though, and I’ve talked about this before, is they put you in touch with your value system. They’re the proverbial action to your talk. Because body acceptance, as a principle fully employed, should extend to your own, right? As with most things, it’s easier to preach than to practice. In that sense, the inevitable ebb and flow of these flesh suits we call home presents an interesting opportunity to observe toxic thought patterns. Ideally, it also presents an opportunity to address them.

For me, that meant admitting to the, at times, grim inner-workings of my self-worth. Giving my relationship with my body – and the body — a good, hard look. It also meant learning and practicing behaviors that more honestly reinforced my belief system, which is that all bodies are worthy of reverence. Below are some of the things I’ve started doing in an effort to live out that endeavor. It’s still a work in progress, as am I, but each has proven helpful in chipping away at harmful thoughts.

Building a closet that fits me

It took me a long time to realize that squeezing into jeans that left an imprint on my skin was like walking around wearing a reminder that I didn’t fit. I didn’t fit; not the pants. As soon as I bought a pair of pants I could pull on with ease and wear comfortably, I felt better than I had in months. I remember thinking, What have I been so worried about? I’m totally fine! It was the most obvious of light-bulb moments. Having a few pairs of pants that fit my body at the bottom and top of its natural range has helped me come to terms with that fact that a range is, in fact, natural. I’ll be up, I’ll be down. I’m building a closet that supports, rather than laments, that.

Wearing forgiving silhouettes

Beyond size, I’ve been investing in shapes, silhouettes and fabrics that see my body through changes that happen over the course of the day (or over the course of my cycle). Buying clothes that only fit a very specific version of my body sets me up to feel consistently uncomfortable in my own skin. That means less high-waist skinny jeans (and vintage Levi’s that body shame me), and more high-waist, wide-leg pants. I like them more anyway.

Not judging other women’s bodies

Per my point about practicing what I preach, a critical mechanism of body shame is the idea that bodies are objects to be judged. It’s so built in that it’s startlingly difficult to stop. As long as I appraise other women’s bodies at all, I’ll continue appraising myself. By fending off criticism, I don’t mean loving a body in spite of its “flaws,” I mean dismantling the paradigm that even assigns such a value judgment. I’ve been practicing looking at a pair of legs and thinking: Those are legs, and ending the thought there. No comparisons. No nothing.

Feeding my body good stuff

This one may seem obvious, but I’ve noticed that when I feed my body nutritious food and get off the couch, I feel much more accepting of whatever state it’s in – even if it looks the exact same as it did when I was eating poorly or being sluggish. That’s because a huge part of accepting my body is respecting it as an instrument instead of an object. We’ve discussed the value of self-compassion over self-esteem plenty, and it’s rooted in this same idea. Treating my body with care in mind is an expression of that.

Forcing myself to think nice thoughts

This one isn’t rocket science, but for me, accepting myself can be practiced minute-to-minute. When I feel myself being critical about myself, some other part of my brain will cut in and think: Nope! Not happening. It works. Sometimes I follow it with the thoughts outlined here. Sometimes I have to be the angel on my own shoulder and stop the toxic thoughts before they bloom.

These are just little things; none particularly groundbreaking or novel. You’ve probably heard them before. My point is less about a radical new way of thinking and more about an equal and opposite message of acceptance to counteract the narrow standards we’re inundated with every day. I’ve had to learn these same lessons over and over for the last decade, and I’m learning to see that not as a failure, but as proof that my mind, and all of our minds, need constant nurturing.

Is body acceptance something you practice? Give me your tips!

Illustrations by Cynthia Merhej.

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Chanel’s Version of Ancient Greece: Toga Meets Tweed

The greatest thing about Chanel has everything and nothing to do with the clothes. I think I’ve always known this but it hit me over the head last night at the Greek-themed resort 2018 show, which was held at the Grand Palais in Paris. This venue is almost always the brand;s choice when they present in Paris, but it is a bit surprising given Chanel’s ambitious geographic track record (Cuba last year, Seoul the one before) for this particular season.

Of course, it was nothing like any show before it — not even the one where a rocket was launched. We were escorted up a set of stairs into a room, quite small relative to the sheer magnitude of the space, that was decorated to look like Ancient Greece. For a minute, I could have sworn I was actually there. The collection was called “La Modernité de l’Antiquité” (The Modernity of Antiquity) and the garments were a very literal representation of archetypical Grecian relics: most of the shoes (rendered in neon and patent leather) laced up the models’ legs, platform sandals with columns for heels.

Totally same page ladies. Pants are lame @chanelofficial resort serving an ode on a Grecian urn.

A post shared by Leandra (Medine) Cohen (@leandramcohen) on May 3, 2017 at 10:09am PDT

There were tie-waist belts and slinky, toga-style (originally Roman) dresses and the most literal braided headbands. It was a collection that was so on the nose, it left nothing to the imagination. No one had to think too hard to get it. As for the “modern,” per the collection’s title, I think the real point is that modernity is almost always still antiquity. That the old things we try to make new never actually become new. Is that so bad, though?

They say if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. I like that saying because we’re living inside an era of hyper-innovation, but sometimes I just want to sit back and let things be what they are. You don’t have to go in and reinvent the wheel just to make sure it still works, or to make it “fresh.” On the contrary, you can use tweed, a fabric non-endemic to ancient Greece, to tell your story. There could be acrylic cuffs and layers of chain necklaces. Chanel-branded backpacks and sacks that certainly had no place then but look great now. Doesn’t it make you feel like taking a deep breath? Don’t kill yourself to make something so new! Just do what you want and do it well.

Chanel after party = Sephardic wedding

A post shared by Leandra (Medine) Cohen (@leandramcohen) on May 3, 2017 at 10:42am PDT

Following the show was an afterparty downstairs featuring a generous display of raw vegetables, feta cheese, Kalamata olives, dried fruits, manifold dips (hummus, tahini, taramasalata, babaganoush and so forth) and very attractive male waiters carrying trays full of fruit smoothies and very French rose wine. Neck pecking, I scanned the room and noticed ecstatic women dressed in head-to-toe runway from the previous three seasons. They were taking pictures and drinking champagne and perhaps plotting what their following season purchase strategies would look like. Here’s where I want to get back to the initial point that I made — that Chanel’s success has everything and nothing to do with the clothes. Everything because the clothes make you feel so damn expensive. Respected. Like you have made it. The accessories are like a gateway drug that promise access and the clothes are it — your stamp of approval or confirmation.

But then they’re nothing, too, because even if fiscal constraints prevent you from buying the clothes, or wearing the clothes, or simply being among the clothes — as long as you care, you’re in.

We talk a lot about the energy of brands. Some deliberately exclude, others want to let you in but aren’t sure how. For all of them, though, it’s the wistful air around their labels that catch you. To have an air that your consumer can read is a state most designers aspire to but only the very focused can sustain. And the focus of Chanel? Of Karl Lagerfeld? Modern, antique, whatever you want to call it — mind-boggling.

Photo by Stephane Cardinale – Corbis and Pascal Le Segretain via Getty Images.

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The Thought Process of Drinking Iced Coffee

I hate this day. I can already tell. Why does the sun even bother showing itself for 25 minutes when it’s just going to disappear into the clouds as if a child at a party?

Is it just me, or are the clouds hanging super low? It’s almost like there is a ceiling on the sky. A ceiling! How many minutes do you think I’ll have wasted by the end of my lifetime making this bed? Fluffing Abie’s pillows, pulling at our fitted sheet…and now I have to brush my teeth? Has anyone taken a moment to recognize how many ERRANDS are baked into the first 20 minutes that you’re awake? I need to change this routine. Start my day doing something I like! Like getting dressed, for example.

Who do I want to be today?

Ugh, I have nothing to wear. Lately, I never have anything to wear. I hate myself for thinking that. Look at this closet! There is so much stuff in it. If you showed these garment racks to me and I didn’t own them, there is no doubt that I would chastise the woman who does, make a case for getting better use out of their contents and roll my eyes at her lament. But it’s that time of year, I guess. I don’t want to wear a single coat. I’m sick of pants. Practically allergic to sweaters. Should I just — I know! I need a coffee.

I’ll put on leggings and a T-shirt, suck it up and wear a trench coat, then go get a coffee. But where should I get coffee from? And is this really the thing I want to do? I haven’t had coffee in three weeks. Three weeks!

Yes, it’s time. I deserve it.

I can’t just have any coffee, I have to have the best coffee. It’s been three weeks! Obviously I’ll get iced. Should I go for the junky deli kind? Hazelnut or vanilla-brewed, or try an artisanal roaster — Gimme Coffee or Gasoline Alley? Intelligentsia? La Colombe? You know what, cold brew makes my heart pound out of my body. It’s too soon. Let’s get a vanilla brew from The Cupcake Shop.

La di da di da, I’m getting coffee. Do di do di do, coffee, coffee, coffee.

These leggings aren’t so bad. Maybe I can get away with just wearing them until it’s legit summer and call it an outfi — OH MY GOD, I AM A MASOCHIST. WHY DID I EVER STOP DRINKING COFFEE? TALKING ALL, “OH, MATCHA IS FUN TOO, THIS IS GOOD FOR YOU.” WHAT WAS I THINKING? IS THAT THE SUN SHINING? DID IT JUST COME OUT? OH NO, IT’S JUST THAT A BIG-ASS CLOUD HAS BEEN LIFTED FROM OVER MY HEAD. I CAN’T SIT HERE, I HAVE TO GET UP, I HAVE TO WALK.

MAN THIS TASTES GOOD.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning! Beautiful day to be alive, eh?”

“Hi, I’m Leandra!”

I CAN’T STOP TALKING TO PEOPLE. THEY NEED TO KNOW I’M ALIVE. THIS IS THE BEST LIFE EVER! I’M SOOOOOO HAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPY! I THINK I HAVE AN IDEA FOR A STORY. ARE YOU READY FOR THIS ONE: THREE HOME APPLIANCES EVERYONE SHOULD OWN. OMG, IT WOULD DO WELL, SO UTILITARIAN. I GOTTA GO HOME AND WRITE THAT! THEN CHANGE!

SO MANY CLOTHES! SO MANY CHOICES! WHAT SHOULD I PUT ON FIRST?! CHECKERED PANTS? JEANS? METALLIC SKIRT? ALL THREE? HOW ABOUT THIS DRESS?! AND LOOK AT THIS ONE! I WISH I HAD MORE FEET. TWO SHOES AREN’T ENOUGH. CELINE IS GENIUS. NO WONDER THEY PAIRED SEPARATE COLORS ON THE RUNWAY. I WANNA DO THAT, TOO. WHAT ELSE CAN I DO WHO ELSE CAN I CALL I BETTER WRITE DOWN ALL THESE IDEAS BEFORE THEY ESCAPE ME I THINK I AM SERIOUSLY HAVING A STROKE OF GENIUS.

MY COMPUTER IS ROSE GOLD. I WANT SCRAMBLED EGGS. WHAT YOUR BREAKFAST SAYS ABOUT YOU — YEAH YEAH, THAT’S A GOOD STORY, TOO. OH DENIM MINI SKIRT — THAT’S WHAT I’LL WEAR. WITH AN ORANGE SWEATER AND SATIN SHOES. SATIN SHOES, YEAH YEAH. EMAILS EMAILS I GOTTA GO TO THE BATHROOM. INSTAGRAM INSTAGRAM INSTA…

Woah, why am I lightheaded?

And foggy?

Home appliances? Seriously?

Ugh, fuck this day.

Photos by Edith Young.

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Scrunchies are BACK (Sorry, Carrie Bradshaw)

Here is a true statement completely deserving of your likely scorn: Until recently, I thought Carrie Bradshaw and I saw eye-to-eye in the fashion department. Sure, she pushes the envelope further than the average mailman and I’ve always been a little unsure of her cropped, white button-down plus belt look, but on the whole, I pretty much always see her and think, “Would wear! Correction: will wear.” But before I crack another self-deprecating joke about how I’m the first person to ever admire Carrie Bradshaw’s style and oh my goodness I am the! most! original!, let me stop myself right there and get to the meat of this story which is that LATELY I have found myself hankering to wear…a scrunchie.

(Requisite pause for dramatic effect).

Are you familiar with Carrie Bradshaw’s anti-scrunchie tirade, essentially the beginning of the end of her relationship with one Jack Berger? If not, please direct your attention to season six and thank me later.

At first I wasn’t sure where this hankering originated, so I started investigating. I Googled recent news hits for “scrunchies on the runway” and “scrunchies street style,” thinking maybe they made an appearance at fashion week this past February, thus freshly infiltrating my subconscious. Nope. The only somewhat relevant thing that came up was a New York Times article from 2014 entitled “The Scrunchie Grows Up,” which provides a smattering of proof that the scrunchie might be staging a comeback. But that was three years ago, and I’m pretty sure the scrunchie hasn’t come back. Yet.

Vogue US March 2017, taken by my baby in Japan

Rihanna Confirms She Won the Met Gala

If there was any question as to who won the Met Gala red carpet on Monday (or whether such a designation was needed), it was answered 15 times on Rihanna’s instagram account this morning. There was a winner and that winner was Rihanna.

The first sign that Rihanna would win appeared Monday afternoon, when she posted a slow-motion video of herself entering the 2015 Met Gala in a yellow Guo Pei dress with a voiceover of Andre Leon Talley calling her the queen of the night. “UGH I love a girl from humble beginnings who becomes a big star. It’s like the American dream! That’s how you do it…just keep GOING, I want MORE train and MORE train!”

mood via the black frozen

A post shared by badgalriri (@badgalriri) on Apr 30, 2017 at 3:06pm PDT

This was foreshadowing. I like to imagine Rihanna seeing this video, nodding in agreement, tapping “share” on her IG and then throwing her phone off a boat and picking out a fresh one from a napsack of iPhones to her left.

Then came the following, captioned simply “sqwod.”

sqwod.

A post shared by badgalriri (@badgalriri) on Apr 30, 2017 at 4:54pm PDT

This photo of her looking like royalty surrounded by plebeian men in suits was an all-but-literal hint of what was to come. By the time she arrived that evening at the Met Gala resembling a sentient flower arrangement slash paper mache sea anenome/rainbow fish, the redemptive tail to a parade of safe red carpet l

What a 66-Year-Old Poet Can Teach Us About Activism

Young people are increasingly identifying as activists, but to call this a new trend would not only be naive — it would also be a missed opportunity. Older generations offer an interesting perspective on what it means to be politically and socially active. In an effort to soak up their knowledge, we’re speaking to activists who have been doing this work for decades. First up was 74-year-old Sally Roesch Wagner; today is 66-year-old poet and playwright Jackie Warren-Moore.

 

Jackie Warren-Moore’s honest, raw poetry has earned her devoted fans and a book deal — Where I Come From was published in October. For Warren-Moore, born and currently living in Syracuse, NY, writing is about activism. In addition to expressing her views through words, Warren-Moore, now 66, has been on the picket lines fighting for her rights and beliefs for decades.

Her first civil rights march was in Washington, D.C. in the late ‘60s; she recalls naively wearing high heels and having to finish it barefoot. She has since participated in dozens of pickets, marches and protests for Planned Parenthood, anti-poverty programs, school board representation and other causes. Below, a Q&A with the poet, playwright, newspaper columnist, mother and activist:

What sparked your interest in activism?

My mother was an activist. She was a great influence in my life and a very powerful woman. She instilled in all of us a belief that if you see something that’s right, you celebrate it. If you see something that’s wrong, you work to fix it. That’s it. That’s something I passed down to my four daughters and to my grandchildren.

There are many forms of activism. What I say is that everyone has a role. My role is to talk about all this stuff and to give voice to it through my writing and my presence, to walk in the picket line, to visit congressmen and talk to the mayor. Because I’m a citizen and a community member.

You juggle multiple projects; what are you involved in right now, and what is your day-to-day life like?

I just co-wrote a play about the activist Paul Robeson. He is an icon. I’m working on another play about a historical figure; I also have freelance theater gigs, and I’ll do theater workshops.

I’m currently teaching an adult poetry workshop once a week. In February and March, I typically do a lot of poetry readings. February is Black History Month; March is Women’s History Month. I tell people, “Look, hire me in July. I’m a woman and I’m black all year long.”

I also travel upstate and do workshops in prisons. I’ll go up there for three or four days and do prison after prison after prison teaching poetry. I know how good it is for them to do it. It is so emotional and therapeutic. You may think you’re going to write about roses, but if you have some angst in your heart, it’ll come out in the poem. You’d be surprised. If I showed you some of the poems that the inmates wrote and some of the poems that my college students wrote, you wouldn’t be able to tell who was who. There are a lot of fine poets in prison.

How does your poetry and writing reflect your activism?

I talk about what needs to be spoken. There are a lot of things in our “polite society” that people don’t like to talk about. They don’t like to talk about domestic violence or sexual abuse or racism or all the –isms, and particularly about what is going on in today’s world. A lot of people would rather just turn their heads and pretend that what’s happening is not happening. Activism is not just something you do on Tuesdays or on Thursdays — it’s a lifestyle.

Poetry is a very personal form of expression. What is it like for you to constantly share your own stories, emotions and opinions?

It’s really self-affirming. One of my poems is about sexual abuse. It’s very graphic. It’s published nationally and internationally, and is one of the poems I read most. People will ask me, “How can you stand up in front of a thousand people and talk about being sexually violated as a ten year old?” Every time I do it, I look out in the audience and think, “That person knows what I’ve been through, and that person knows, and that person knows.” What that says to those people is that it was a horrible thing, but you can get past it. You can thrive and survive, and you are still whole. I’ve had all kinds of experiences, whether I was reading it in a high school or a college or a prison, where I’ve had people come up to me afterwards and say how touching it was.

I did a poetry reading with a class at Syracuse University, and I read that poem. When I finished, this guy who was on the football team, a big linebacker, comes up to me and says, “Miss Jackie, how do you begin?” I knew exactly what he was talking about. I talked to him, and I gave him my card. I saw him two years later; we happened to be walking towards one another on the sidewalk. He reached in his pocket and pulled my card out from his wallet, and he said, “See, Miss Jackie, I still have your card. I haven’t called you yet, but I’ve been thinking about what you said.” About two months later, I opened the Sunday paper and there was a two-page spread of this young man talking about being abused as a young boy. For a young person who is struggling with the issue to open up and say, “This happened to me, and I’m still struggling, but I survived it” — that empowers me.

You shared a story in your newspaper column about having an abortion. Why did you make the decision to share that story publicly?

A lot of times, I’ll read my column to my daughter or my husband before I submit it. I shared it with my daughter, and she said, “Mommy, that’s too personal. Don’t do it.” I shared it with my husband, and he said, “No, don’t do it.” I thought some more — right now there are young women struggling the way I struggled with making that decision. There are a bunch of men, primarily, making that decision harder for them. I had two friends who died in backyard abortions, one of whom was given an abortion by her mother. It is a difficult enough decision without having somebody lay a guilt trip, and then having laws against it on top of that…I said, “Bullshit.” I said, “I have to. I have this platform, and if I don’t use it and don’t speak out and don’t tell the truth, then shame on me.”

What has been your proudest moment in your career?

My proudest moments are my four daughters. My oldest just turned 48. I had her young when I was an unwed mother. I met my husband and married and then had three more daughters, each about a year apart. My obligation is to make a better world for my daughters and grandkids than what I grew up in.

I’ve been fortunate to have a lot of proud moments. Once when I was a therapy aid at a psychiatric center, I was in a meeting with the head of the team, the psychologists and the social workers. We had just taken over a new area, and the head psychiatrist was describing the people in the area to us. He said, “We’re going to be working with pretty much the scum of the earth.” Those were his words. I’m sitting there thinking, “Okay, the team leader, the head psychiatrist, just said that, and nobody’s saying anything.” I was privileged to be in that group. I thought I may lose my job because I was on the bottom rung, but I had to say something. I said, “Doctor, I really feel that if we are here, our job is to psychologically treat people in this neighborhood. If we walk into that thinking of them as the scum of the earth, that’s a disservice right from the beginning.” He jumped up from the table, banged on it and yelled, “How dare you say that to me?” He stormed out, and nobody would look at me or defend me. Two days later, he came back to where I was working and said I was right and apologized. Ironically, after that, I was promoted.

There are also proud times on picket lines when I’m standing with people shoulder-to-shoulder saying that this is something important. Here we are, one group of human beings trying to make a difference.

What do you hope readers take away from your recently published book, Where I Come From?

A part of my humanity. When you are open to other people’s humanity, I believe you make connections. And those connections can save the world. When you connect with people, especially across racial, cultural and sexual-identity lines, you are doing something powerful for the world. I hope that somebody would read my work and say, “I’ve had that experience. I’ve shared that with this person.”

How do you think young people should get involved in activism today?

Take a look at your world. There’s a lot of stuff that’s really wonderful about the world. A lot of wonderful, good things going on. Get involved in that. Help promote the good. But if you see something that’s not right, then you have to stand up. It’s for everyone here and everyone to come. Stand up and speak your truth.

Illustration by Juliana Vido; follow her on Instagram @julianavido.

The post What a 66-Year-Old Poet Can Teach Us About Activism appeared first on Man Repeller.

A Man Reviews 6 Face Masks You’ve Wanted to Try

I don’t suffer from problematic skin, but sometimes, when I stay out late being an idiot with my friends, I forget to wash my face. The next morning, I can always measure my intoxication levels by how much contact lens solution I squirted into the case. (If I were ever foolish enough to drive drunk, I recommend the officer skip the breathalyzer and ask me to fill a contact-lens holder instead). My skin has a delayed reaction. If I forget to wash my face before going to sleep, two days later I’ll have a little colony of pimples.

In my hometown is a river with clay banks. Once while young, I sank into the clay up to my chest. I feared my time was up, but my brothers managed to yank me free. After washing off in the river, I couldn’t help but notice how invigorated my skin was. The point of this story: The seeds for my facial-mask enthusiasm were planted long ago.

But I want a good one. I don’t want to waste my time — and I don’t want you to waste your time either. So I took the liberty of trying out some of the Internet’s most sought-after face masks, from Amazon top sellers to the Gwyneth Paltrow-approved. I’ve never been more radiant.

Aztec Secret Indian Healing Clay

A classic. I thought it best to get this one out of the way first. Within the jar is a bunch of powder that will leap out when you take off the lid, so be careful. I mixed it with water (the instructions called for raw apple cider vinegar, but I only had fresh-baked apple pie vinegar; I used water instead). Despite my masterful wooden spoonsmanship, I couldn’t quite blend it into a “smooth paste.”

I decided to move forward once I achieved “baby diaper contents” consistency. Then I smeared those contents on my face.

The instructions said to avoid the eye area but made no mention of the mouth. Très Neo from The Matrix when the agents plant the bug in his navel. Then, I waited for the “tightening and pulling sensation” to kick in. It didn’t take long. I left this stuff caked on my face for about fifteen minutes and then it was fun to do this:

Five minutes later, the tightening and pulling became excessive and I felt increasing anxiety. I panicked about my skin coming off in chunks, North Korean missile tests, and finding out that Stannis Baratheon is my father and plans to sacrifice me to the Lord of Light.

Also that it would ruin my hairline, which is my most valuable asset. Fortunately, the mud came off after intensive splashing and rubbing with warm water. Unfortunately, I wound up looking like Eric Trump.

I was suddenly consumed by a strong feeling that the world is mine by right.

I give it:

1 thumb up for arts-and-crafts fun

1 thumb up for the emotional roller-coaster

1 thumb up for clean pores

1 thumb back down for how uncertain I was that flushing the excess paste down the toilet was the best disposal method

Total: 2 thumbs up (convenient, as that’s all I’ve got)

Suction Black Mask

This one is for blackhead removal. I usually just use my fingers, but in the interest of science…

So cathartic to clean up my “old waste horny skin.”

The horniest. There was a warning to avoid eyebrows, but no comment on beards. On a hunch, I avoided mine. This was a good move. After twenty minutes it didn’t look any different, but upon poking it I realized that it had solidified into a sort of latex mask, which gave me a great idea for a side gig. I peeled it off, which would have been more satisfying if I had, in fact, applied the “proper amount” (I’d been a bit shy). The parts that I managed to peel off like dead skin after a severe sunburn were covered in miniature blackhead stalagmites.

I give it:

1 thumb up for the superhero disguise vibes

1 thumb up for grade-school nostalgia

1 thumb down for the messiness

1 thumb up for blackhead satisfaction

1 thumb down for unclear instructions

For a total of: 1 thumb up

Carbonated Bubble Clay Mask

This one was quite cute and seemed less frightening than the Suction Black Mask oil spill. I resisted the temptation to eat it.

I know they put in the warning to cover themselves legally, but I think a class-action lawsuit could be thrown together based on the resemblance to those miniature ice cream cartons you get for $1.69 at the supermarket. You know what I’m talking about.

I was again instructed to use the “proper amount,” which is like opening IKEA instructions and reading, “Put it together the right way.” I smeared it liberally on my face, this time getting the beard area involved. And yes, I’m calling it a beard, though I am well aware of its patchiness. No one is more aware of its patchiness than me.

Almost immediately after I rubbed it on, it began to tickle and foam like delayed-action shaving cream. It was a pleasant sensation, like being lightly nibbled upon by a school of tiny, benevolent fish.

But then, their appetites whetted by my delicious skin cells, the fish became increasingly ravenous. My face was consumed by rapidly expanding bubbles. I reeled in terror.

I had once again failed to use the “proper amount.” It was like I had children and took them to the beach before falling asleep under the afternoon sun, later awakening to find them standing over me, making drip castles on my face. Before I drowned in a bubble mask and starred in a most peculiar obituary, I stuck my face in the shower and exorcised the bubble demons from my face.

My skin afterward was springy and fresh.

I give:

1 thumb up for packaging appeal

1 thumb down for the taste of the first spoonful

1 thumb up for the carnival of sensation

1 thumb down for the alarming escalation of bubbular multiplication

1 thumb up for the pleasant aroma I just couldn’t shake

For a total of: 1 thumb up

Charlotte Tilbury Goddess Skin Clay Mask

Let the record show that I am a man, and not a baby. Though perhaps the two are not so mutually exclusive. This one is a higher-end product, so I was eager to see if there was any noticeable difference between this and the relatively cheaper options I had tried before. There certainly was less of a mess, and no gimmicks or wooden spoon required.

Spackled and ready for the first layer of paint!

I don’t know what else to say, really. It was stress free, I left it on for 15 minutes and washed it off. I felt so virginal and bouncy afterward that I went out to explore the world, and filled it with all of the sunshine bouncing off my baby goddess face.

I give CT three thumbs up for overall ease of use and effect. I had to borrow a friend’s thumb but hey, that’s what friends are for.

Goop Exfoliating Instant Facial

You can’t spell Gwyneth Paltrow without “Pal,” and that’s just what she is. A true pal isn’t afraid to drop some harsh truths on you in order to foster growth and self-improvement. And that’s exactly what Gwyn’s Goop does.

This mask is not for the faint of heart. I wasn’t even trying to give a Blue Steel look here; my mouth is puckered in pain. It has natural alpha and beta hydroxy acids. I don’t really know what they are, but they burn like an mf-er.

I washed it off after eight minutes of agony and was alarmed at how red my skin was (the instructions, which I read after the fact, say you should wash it off after three minutes. I support this). It felt like three layers had been burned away. But they say that fire is a purifying element, and when a fire rages through a forest, it inevitably clears the way for fresh, healthy growth.

Two thumbs up for product efficacy, and two more for the reserves of strength I had to find within myself to endure my own stupidity.

For the pain, I applied one of these

Dermal Korea Collagen Essence Full Facial Mask Sheets (they come in packs of 16!)

One thumb up for convenience

One thumb up for variety

One last thumb up for Hannibal Lecter (but don’t get it too close to his mouth).

Brandon is a comedian and writer living large in New York City. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram. Accepts Venmo donations, ignores requests.  Collage by Maria Jia Ling Pitt; photos via Brandon Borror-Chappell.

The post A Man Reviews 6 Face Masks You’ve Wanted to Try appeared first on Man Repeller.