Leandra Medine's Blog, page 598

The Year 2000 is Here.

It happened.

On the one hand I want to blame myself, either for jinxing it or creating some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy that leaked by osmosis into the creative minds of various runway geniuses. (The life of a muse is not without its pressures.) It’s possible that Netflix and BuzzFeed are to blame, these prolific content machines of nostalgic pop-culture pumping fumes — no one’s immune to this, you know. Not even the most otherworldly of creators can withstand the power of a Remember When slideshow nor a marathon of their favorite teenage TV show.

Besides, based upon the trajectory we’ve been following: 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s — 92, 93, 94… this was almost inevitable. Naming blame never helped anyone except for lawyers during court cases, so let’s just move on and accept it: the year 2000 is here.

There it is. The wide-armed welcome we all needed. To begin with, per our girl Carmen Electra, above, pants were worn dangerously low. Need I remind you of a collage from our NYFW Spring 16 trend recap? Oh, why not:

That’s the year 2000 in more ways than one: the slouch of a cargo, pants that could theoretically pair with flip flops…arbitrary belts! See that belt on the green Rosie Assoulin look to our right, looped through and hanging low? It had its day on more than one runway this season. Super two-triple-zero. Very Lizzie McGuire.

Let’s hit some more pressure points of the year we keep trying to ignore:

Off-the-shoulder tops: present.

Camouflage: yes.

Corset-fastened “going out tops,” shiny fabrics, baggy-pants with sporty crops?

Yes, yes, yes.

Bucket hats, distressed denim, armpit bags, baby tees, logos and ribbing (her pleasure!) *deep breath*

Bootcut bottoms, pants with random zips, stretched-sleeved sweaters, athletic jackets with toggle ties that cinch the fabric to show off your hips…

All accounted for.

Stop pouting.

It’s going to be okay.

The year 2000 wasn’t bad. It was just confused. The 90s had a strong sartorial run and closed with a cinematic bang: 1998 offered up Can’t Hardly Wait, then 1999 alone gave us such great teen movie hits as She’s All That, 10 Things I Hate About You, Jawbreaker, American Pie, Drive Me Crazy, Cruel Intentions AND Never Been Kissed. 

Trying to follow that lineup would be like poor Mandy Moore coming on stage to perform after Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera already shut down the whole house.

The difference now is that the designers know what they’re doing. They’re exercising poetic irony and lessons in restraint. The vulgarity is gone. Style, experience and a bit of humor stands in its wake.

Here’s the good news: no sight of velour!!!

Yet.

Feature Collage by @rstheory. Collage in Post by Elizabeth Tamkin

The post The Year 2000 is Here. appeared first on Man Repeller.

International Day of the Girl

Today is the day, young bucks!

Two years ago, the United Nations marked October 11 the International Day of the Girl to raise awareness about “the neglect and devaluation of girls around the world.” In an act of unflinching support for the “worldwide revolution” — a movement that most easily and best manifests as a public, digital conversation that concerns itself not with making more noise about the condition of inequality but, similarly to the issue of cultural appropriation within fashion (and beyond), demands actionable changes and solutions, we submit the following:

We’re going to talk about how we can actually make a difference. No, I don’t just mean say we’ll do something to make a difference, I mean we sit here and we about the achievable ways in which we could actually positively affect the rampant inequality that plagues so many of the girls-becoming-women globally and do something about it. No one person can do everything (except like, Beyoncé), but together, we can do a bunch of small things, that amount to big things, that result in sincere change.

So let’s talk about it, right? What can we do to help? What can we do to be better? It doesn’t have to be big — it can be as simple as launching a podcast hosted by a kind and very talented male filmmaker who is interested in changing the way in which male interviewers approach women in an intimate and comfortable setting — it just has to be honest.

So let’s get thinking.

The post International Day of the Girl appeared first on Man Repeller.

SNEEZUS: The Hottest Restaurant in Town

Kanye West’s latest venture, concept-restaurant SNEEZUS, opened last Thursday evening in LA to great fanfare. The producer/rapper/fashion designer has already proven he has a nose for popular taste; now his new restaurant offers a taste of his nose.

The head chef at SNEEZUS serves up three course meals inspired by the flavor, color and consistency of the star’s nostril mucous: gooey, yellow-green and subtly salty.

West explains the idea came to him while watching his daughter, North, idly explore her own nasal passageways one afternoon. “I thought, that’s pure exploration and creativity right there,” said West in an interview with the New York Times food critic. “Snot is so primal. I’m pushing boundaries here. I’m doing something no chef has done before!”

The restaurant — what with its stark, modern furnishing, central LA location and numerous celebrity patrons (chef Bobby Flay is reportedly a fan) — demands to be taken seriously. The restaurant’s decor is of-the-moment and echoes the menu quite aptly in shades of nude, yellow and pale green. Wait staff, dressed in what can only be described as giant handkerchief-like tunics, don’t so much take orders as they do give them. Don’t bother asking for a menu — the chef tells you what you want to order, and by god, he’s right every time! West knows what you want, and incredibly enough, it turns out that what you want is mainly booger-flavored comfort food.

The courses are simple and familiar, but the attention to detail in the presentation is masterfully executed, executing entrees like the truffle-stuffed croissants a la mucous and booger-battered fresh fish fillet to the same level as fine Parisian cuisine. The macaroni & cheese — a standout hit for the restaurant — is served melty, gooey, and faintly yellow-green in hue: it’s a classic American favorite reinvented for the Instagram generation with 24 karat gold dinnerware, wedges of avocado and a fine sprinkling of saffron and black salt.

Each dish comes expertly paired with a vintage French wine and entitles the diner to a free download of West’s latest album. You’ll find a pair of headphones and curated track list specifically designed to complement your booger-flavored dining experience at each table.

The restaurant is truly designed to be an experience for all of the senses, and it seems that once again, Kanye West has proven he knows our tastes better than we know ourselves. The restaurant was so successful in its first few weeks that talks of a second offshoot location in New York (rumored to be named 808s & Nosebleeds) is in the pipeline. Reservations for SNEEZUS must be booked months in advance, and entrees start at roughly $450.

Photograph via GQ.

The post SNEEZUS: The Hottest Restaurant in Town appeared first on Man Repeller.

The Street Style Debate: Are We Robots (or Are We Dancer)?

If you are interested in looking like you are fresh off the heels of fashion month, there are three easy and distinct ways to achieve that facade.

1) You can wear a pair of Chanel slingbacks, the only shoes that were shown at the Fall 2015 collection presentation.

2) You can wear a pair of Gucci fur slides.

Or 3) You can wear Vetements’ floral dress, also from Fall 2015.

It’s weird, you know, that you can look so precisely one way by simple virtue of a pair of shoes. Even weirder, though, is that we willingly elect to look like each other.

I’m guilty of proprietorship over both pairs of the enlisted shoes (the slingbacks are elegant, the slippers are comfortable, I love both with zero regrets). But I have to admit that by the end of Paris Fashion Week, I felt uncomfortable wearing either — like I was showing up at the club in a bandage skirt and spikey, red-sole pumps. Because back then, when we did that, we weren’t trying to make a style statement, right? We were trying to fit in. And nothing smells quite as pungent as that stench of desperation.

I was sitting at a show last Tuesday in a skirt and a blouse and a yellow sweater. And the Gucci loafers. I watched a flurry of well-dressed publicists ushering people to their seats. They were not wearing the typical black but were all wearing a different kind of uniform — clunky shoes and a-line, mid-length skirts. Instead of getting the sense that these women were conveying individuality, they looked hyper-homogenous. I looked down at myself and thought: where have all the weirdos gone? Where is the personal style?

When I’m in Paris, I often try to wear things I’m not normally inclined to wear. I don’t know if that’s because I’m away and therefore feel like I should be assuming an identity removed from my own, but what invariably happens is that I try on the new thing, don’t feel like myself and then revert back to jeans and a button down. It occurred to me on this trip that there’s a reason that happens.

You can’t co-opt jeans and a shirt.

You can’t impose your own rhetoric on the sentence that’s already been written. Constructed with choice, plain-as-toast garments. And by the fell addition of a couple rings here, a choker there, ridiculous shoes down south, boom! You’re exclamating, too.

But I wonder, what do we try to get at by looking like each other? By falling in love with the things that we see in excess (example: I never thought I needed a pair of patent leather boots with a lucite heel until the Dior show in Paris, when they were worn by nearly every single female foot in the venue by the Louvre) and then attempt to own ourselves? Do we want to show the world that we, too, “get it”? That we’re quick on the uptake, aware of what’s in? Is it a matter of self-actualization? Or are we simply getting lazy — cultivating identity using the references before us instead of the ones within us?

I don’t know, but I’m back in my slingbacks.

Photos by Diego Zuko via Harper’s Bazaar, WhoWhatWear, and Phil Oh via Vogue; Feature collage by Elizabeth Tamkin

The post The Street Style Debate: Are We Robots (or Are We Dancer)? appeared first on Man Repeller.

An Open Letter to the Couple Making Out on the F Train

I’m happy for you two.

I am.

That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? My approval? My A-OK?

Just tell me, what is it about the underbelly of Manhattan that turns you on? Honestly, I’d love to know! It would improve my morning commute elevenfold.

Let me guess — it’s the chirring effect of metal on metal, a sound comparable only to one trillion squealing girls at a One Direction concert. (Or even more accurate: if you replaced those trillion girls with a trillion feral cats.)

Is it the smell of my 2% skim cottage cheese cup or my seat mate’s Egg McMuffin? No, no – it’s definitely the wheatgrass and cod liver oil smoothie that got on at Smith/9th Street. I hear that shit could turn a good man Trump.

At this point, you have the full car’s attention. You’re lizarding up against the same pole that moonlit as a municipal urinal six hours prior and, well, we’re all really enjoying watching you guys.

Your hand. Her thigh. Your lips. Her tongue. I enforce a strict “No mouth-breathing before 10 a.m. especially on Sundays” policy in my own bedroom and well, I may just have to reconsider!

Do I sound bitter? Usually, when I interrupt a kiss, it’s because I’ve suddenly recalled the name of that wise cat on Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and I need to snap my best friend A-S-A-P before–

SALEM SABERHAGEN!

…Escapes me.

But you guys? Kisses are only interrupted by even more kisses! And those kisses? They’re stopped for none other than a good, hard look into each other’s lovesick eyes, which – if they could speak – would say:

“How’d we get so damn lucky?”

And then:

“I want to eat Chipotle in bed with you while marathon-watching Narcos all afternoon and how many times do I have to tell you babe, I don’t care that the gauc is extra. Because you’re worth it.”

It’s such a tender moment. I almost feel voyeuristic in my witnessing of it, like watching Ronald McDonald get prepped in hair and makeup: the ensuing show has a little less magic.

I do have to say one thing – and I hate to be MOM – but next time, would you kindly not lean against the sliding doors? It’s silly and it’s dangerous and despite your best efforts, underground is still very much a perilous place to play.

Your act II almost turned into a threesome when I thought I’d have to save you both from falling out.

14th Street waits for nobody and there you were, pushing and pressing up against the door. McMuffin and I stole furtive glances but evidently you were too caught up in each other’s faces to notice. So then I got caught up in you two being caught up and guess what, friends! I missed my 14th street stop.

Won’t you consider an intermission for next time? The 12-piece Mariachi band was visibly distressed over the distracted audience.

Photograph via AllPosters.com and from The New York Times via LiveJournal.

The post An Open Letter to the Couple Making Out on the F Train appeared first on Man Repeller.

The Sex and the City Diet, Round 1: Miranda Hobbes

Leandra had the brilliant idea to turn October into Sex and the City month for no real reason other than what the hell else is there to do once fashion month is done?

Nothing, and what an awkward opening statement that was. You know who would not have liked it? Miranda Hobbes. She is a grammatical force to be reckoned with; a lawyer with no time for poetic license. Prose for the sake of humor, I am afraid, does not hold up in the court of law.

And neither do I! The only time I have ever attempted to fulfill my civic duties, I cried before the jury committee and got promptly kicked off for acting unstable. Perhaps you can already foreshadow that my week spent as one Miranda Hobbes was a challenge (addendum: the other three women will be attempted by both Leandra and myself in the weeks that follow) but Miranda Hobbes and her ovaries are not quitters. Therefore, I’m not either.

More than anything, I want to make little Brady proud.

I began my week in a pantsuit. It felt appropriate to pair with the blunt statements and quick judgements that I was quick to work into my vocabulary. There is no picture of me in said suit because Miranda would never cave to suck vain and frivolous whims. No Snapchat for Miranda! No Instagram. There was no sympathy to those who texted, “I think he likes me, but,” either. “He does not,” I typed back. Then, even though I did so via text, I slammed my home phone back into the receiver — just like Hobbes — for good measure.

Total friends lost after two days of the above actions: 50, which is excellent. According to the book of Miranda, I only need 3.

Wednesday, I decided, was going to be my Casual Errands Miranda day. I had a choice between two iconic Miranda looks, both of which make one wonder if Patricia Field had a vendetta against Cynthia Nixon. I present to the court Exhibit A:

And exhibit B:

I went with Exhibit B for a few reasons: 1) Though this episode pre-dates it, this look is very Jil Sander Fall 2011. 2) You just don’t get enough excuses to look like Dana Carvey impersonating a turtle in the real world — gotta take every shot you can get. And 3) Even though I hate bucket hats, I love an indoor mug outside. It feels rebellious. Hence Hobbes’ smirk.

On Thursday I left work early to adopt a cat. Miranda’s cat is named Fatty, so I named my cat Beautiful — partially because my apartment is a body-positive one, but also because a cat named “Beautiful” is less likely to eat my face out of malice should I die suddenly.

If you aren’t recalling the episodes I’m referencing you must have literally zero idea as to what I’ve been going on about thus far.

On Friday, after a day spent kicking ass at my law office and subsequently getting kicked out because I do not work at a law office, I put on my fanciest dress and earrings and heels and strutted down a street in Manhattan to the soundtrack that’s never not playing in my mind.

Obviously I was going to meet the only three best friends I had left for a drink. Cosmos — what else? Just kidding. Miranda Hobbes 100% drinks scotch.

The post The Sex and the City Diet, Round 1: Miranda Hobbes appeared first on Man Repeller.

MR Writers Club Prompt: Your Secret Boy or Girlfriend

Mercury goes out of retrograde today. I’ll allow a pause here to celebrate (…..) and then ask this: for those of you who experienced its effects by way of a cracked screen, a malfunctioning laptop or smartphone that drowned in the toilet, are you or are you not now in a serious relationship with someone at the Apple Genius Bar?

Or maybe you have better celestial luck. It’s possible that you haven’t thought once about the mortality of your phone. But you have thought about how dreamy your delivery guy’s eyes are. Did he just flirt with you when you opened the door?

What about the woman who routinely saves your life in HR because she lets you turn in your time sheets late, then still sees to it that you get paid?

There’s the man who gives you extra guacamole — no charge — at Chipotle, the pharmacist at your local CVS, the barista at Starbucks who knows your order by heart, she who steams your dry cleaning or the dude in the hat who you pass by every single day, have yet to say hello to and despite all that, you’re pretty sure is your soulmate.

Who says you’re single? Sounds like you’re pretty cuffed up for the romantic season. In less than 500 words, tell us about that boyfriend or girlfriend with whom you’re in a very serious relationship even though he or she doesn’t know it. (Yet!) Send your entry all scribbled with your secret lover’s name to write@manrepeller.com by Thursday, October 15 at 12 P.M.

If nothing else, consider this your backup answer to the inevitable, looming Thanksgiving table question, “So, are you seeing anyone?”

**

Also! To our writers-in-training with a bit of writer’s block: MR contributor Esther Levy has a suggestion for you: check out the October 15 issue of biannual literary anthology, Freeman’s. The debut issue is centered on the theme of arrival and features contributions from such literary luminaries as Hakuri Murakami, Anne Carson and Lydia Davis (you’ll read emerging talent, too). It will un-stick your brain better than peanut butter to a wad of gum in the hair.

Feature collage by Krista Anna Lewis

The post MR Writers Club Prompt: Your Secret Boy or Girlfriend appeared first on Man Repeller.

What Your Drink Order Says About You

Note: the following drinks pertain to a bar scenario. Who you are in regards to what drink you order at dinner is a whole other therapy session, though Louis at the front desk will be happy to set that up for you.

Ordering a vodka soda says you’re unfussy. If you order anything-soda water, really, you’re unfussy. (But you’re a Tito’s girl.) You’re also possibly watching calories while trying to get a bit of a buzz on, wine gives you headaches and you don’t want to be the bar’s version of Long Ass Order Girl at Starbucks.

It’s when the “splash-of” gets added in that you lose a bit of low key. Splash of cran, splash of pineapple — it’s understandable when the vodka tastes like gratuitous movie violence (well-drinks, man), but you, me and the YMCA lifeguard all know that splashes escalate quickly: fun at first, then tears.

You’re Ron Burgundy? Or, scotch drinker, you long ago learned the art of sipping alcohol as opposed to chugging it (and you think Anchorman almost ruined it.) This writer still thinks Scotch tastes like bandaids and has a long, embarrassing way to go.

Shotgun Gladyss, you’re beloved for your generosity (shots are a group activity!) but you’re quickly bemoaned when the crew declares itself unable to taste any more tequila. What about Fireball? Fine. The team will do a shot of Fireball — but just one!

It’s never just one.

Like a well-intentioned but reckless sailor, you’ve been known to kill the crew more than once. You keep going, especially because rarely does anyone ever actually blame you: it’s your party persona who did all the ordering. Everyone knows her nickname, and everyone should know better when she’s out on the town. Frickin’ Gladyss.

You weren’t going to drink tonight, and wine doesn’t really count as “drinking.”

One Piña Col-all-of-the-above-a, coming right up. And look at you! You’re having a night. You’re doing you. You’re a Mom on a Cruise being bad before 9 and you do not care who knows it. You’ve been known to: command the dance floor, the jukebox, call it a jukebox, steal maraschino cherries when the bartender isn’t looking and swear on your life that you’ll never have anything with sugar in it ever again once you wake up in the AM.

Ah, the margarita. A true crowd pleaser with one of two things to say. Either you order…

The classic: Frozen or mixed so long as there’s syrup and triple sec, you too are a little bit of a mom on a cruise — especially if ordered on weeknights with coworkers to celebrate the day ending with a big team W.

or

Tequila on rocks with lime: You’re just celebrating the day ending with a Y.

If it’s past 12 a.m. and you’ve just switched to beer, you’re drunk, about to ghost and are likely considering pizza. If you’re sober, you’re wing-manning.  If you’re genuinely in it for the cold one, you’re Spicoli.

Actually, all “beer” says about you is you’re not gluten-free.

However, a fancy beer order is the above rule’s sole exception. Your friends call you the beerded lady — not because of your facial hair curation but because of your tendency toward flannel, the general possibility of a monocle in your periphery and a deep, intense penchant for food trucks. Your friends marvel at your ability to distinguish hops from Bushwick and barley from this year’s “new Portland,” but you have a secret: you basically just ask the bartender, “What’s good?”

You panic-ordered.

Whiskey sours are for the sugar-high-tolerant who can stomach liquid gummy worms but not the taste of alcohol. I literally only know one person over the age of college who orders these and she copied her grandma, so feel free to holler at an all-of-the-above-except-this drinker in the comments.

You’ve got an old soul, a meeting, or you drink this in your grandpa’s honor. Either way, once you got used to the taste of camping in a glass you realized you just found the perfect date drink: classic, classy (points if you have a go-to gin brand), fresh breath-enabling, and it communicates the goal of unwinding without saying, “Hold my bag; I’m a going to blackout in a sec.”

If you order a Cosmo at a bar then you were underage when Sex & the City was your favorite show.

Or!

It’s about the glass, because you love a challenge. Literally no cup is more ill-designed for drinking nor better suited for spilling all over your blouse than the martini glass in which a Cosmo is served. It’s why martinis are clear in the first place. So, for the sake of your blouse alone, maybe ditch the pink drink; consider the martini.

And if you already have, well done, you’re an adult. Want a shot?

Now which one are you?

Illustrated by THE AMAZING Alessandra Olanow.

The post What Your Drink Order Says About You appeared first on Man Repeller.

SexyBack on the Spring 16 Runway

“Sexy” is a state of mind. It’s objective. How many billboards and ads have used the same mad-lib, “I feel sexiest when I _______.”  That blank is open for positive interpretation: when I work out, when when I learn something new, when I get a promotion. It very well could have been the fodder Drake needed for his famous lyrics, “Sweatpants, hair tied, chilling with no makeup on” (that’s when we’re the prettiest and no, we don’t take it wrong).

Of course, sometimes sexy is a lot more obvious. Blatant. Overt and unapologetic in the first three letters of that word. It’s skin and shape and lust and power, laid out on the table (bed?) as opposed to implied.

Best case scenario: you feel comfortable on either side. But if you’ve long-immersed yourself in the world of fashion — whether it be as a happy voyeur, a dedicated consumer or by way of your chosen career, there’s a chance that what’s considered sexy and what’s perceived as fashionable have long felt mutually exclusive.

We can ruminate on the “whys” forever: a post-Sex & the City world taught us that fashion should be avant-garde, or ugly on purpose; ironic or odd-shaped or confusing to the untrained eye. Like regular clothes to the untrained eye. No more Samantha Jones. It should repel straight men or act as a filter for “the good ones.” There’s a nipple loophole and abs had a moment, but overall, fashion should be kind of weird. It’s what separates civilians from the members of this elite club. Right?

Wrong. That word “elite” no longer flies when it comes to fashion. If it’s cool to be nice then you can’t exclude someone for not being weird (reverse high school hierarchy psychology here), and in this swirling world of trends-versus-no-trends-meets-personal-style-equals-anything-goes, what’s fashionable can no longer be relegated to a one-or-the-other box. The naked dress can still be cool. Carrie Bradshaw always knew this.

It’s in that equalized playing field that Justin Timberlake got his way. Sexy’s back. But he didn’t bring it to the runways — designers did. Big ones, like Joseph Altuzarra who has long celebrated the female form. New ones, like Dion Lee who loves a lady in red. Contemporary ones, like Amy Smilovic, who as of late leans toward the boxy and slouchy at Tibi but every once in a while hits the crowd with a slip dress. These designers are taking back what nightclub culture took: body-con, skin bearing dresses and slinky, hide-nothing sheaths that make no apologies in their seduction.

One could argue that sexy never really left, of course. Especially not if it’s a state of mind. But where’s the slideshow in that?

Images via Vogue Runway; Feature collage by Elizabeth Tamkin

The post SexyBack on the Spring 16 Runway appeared first on Man Repeller.

What’s Your Favorite Meal of the Day?

McDonald’s is making breakfast a 24-hour opportunity. It’s a reported attempt at bringing the burger chain’s numbers back up, but I’d argue that it’s because their new CEO, Steve Easterbrook, is one of us: Breakfast People.

We Breakfast People will eat eggs all day, every day, and every night. Menus with griddle deadlines kill us. Don’t tap your watch at us — we damn well know “what time it is,” and if the diner around the corner can handle my toast-centric order, then so can you. Give us pancakes and bagels and waffles and bacon, oatmeal and cereal and home fries and smoothies…

Although, it suddenly occurred to me that this may be the first time I’m not speaking to 120% of you: Everyone loves a hash brown, but there’s a very real chance you consider yourself a Lunch Person.

Lunch People enjoy hour long breaks midday to enjoy the kind of meal that actually requires two utensils instead of one. Or conversely, none: sandwiches pair best with two hands. Lunch people pack picnics on the weekend, refuse to call a salad after noon on a Sunday “brunch” and they can handle a glass of wine at 1 PM without getting weird.

If we’re going to keep dividing up this club house (it’s too late, we’ve gone too far) that means some of you will identify as Dinner People. You love restaurants. Multiple courses. Cooking. Trying new spots. You would never show up to an evening event and be one of those who “didn’t have time to eat” prior, because to you, eating dinner is just as important as dressing up.

There are Dessert People, Appetizer People, and Bread Basket Exclusive People, too. You know what’s coming next right? Which meal person are you? (And of that category, what’s your favorite food?)

Be bold in your assertions but try not to fight about this, either. We literally just had this cafeteria cleaned.

Photography by Krista Anna Lewis

The post What’s Your Favorite Meal of the Day? appeared first on Man Repeller.